


Lie a Little Better

by HollyKasakabe



Series: Lie a Little Better [1]
Category: White Collar
Genre: AU, Canon-Typical Violence, Complete, Crime, Drama, F/M, FBI, Family, Fanfic, Friends to Lovers, Friends-with-benefits, Friendship, HollyKasakabe, Lie a Little Better, OC-driven, Procedural, Romance, Sexual Content, Swearing, White Collar - Freeform, criminal, fan fiction, mention of prison violence, slow-burn, soulmark, soulmate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-30
Updated: 2017-06-17
Packaged: 2018-09-20 22:31:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 30
Words: 820,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9518801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HollyKasakabe/pseuds/HollyKasakabe
Summary: McKenna Anderson is a leading agent in the New York branch's WCCD, doing her best to move on from her past and be someone her sister can be proud of. This ambitious drive leads her to make a deal with convicted con artist Neal Caffrey: in exchange for his assistance on her cases, she keeps him out of prison. Neal brings his own problems, however, and they quickly evolve to become hers, as well. Corruption, conspiracy, and soulmark drama forces McKenna to make an impossible choice between being a cop and being a criminal.





	1. I'm Legit, I'm No Counterfeit

**A/N: This is probably the only time an A/N will be at the beginning of the chapter.**

**1) This is a soulmate!AU in which everyone has a soulmark somewhere on their body. Some people go out of their way to cover it, some don't. It's a personal preference.**

**2) Soulmates aren't always romantic - they can come in a variety of relationships.**

**3) This is rated M for: mature language, potentially violent content, and sexual content. There is a clean version of the same story on my Quotev page.**

* * *

_**Chapter One - I'm Legit, I'm No Counterfeit** _

Back, forth. Back, forth. Four long strides in one direction, a short, acute turn, four strides in the opposite. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Try not to dwell on the tiny clicking sounds I can hear in my earpiece. Repeat. Repeat.

I didn't like not being inside the bank vault, instead being told to sit outside and listen in with an earpiece, even though they were audible from just outside, where our equipment was set up. But I'm not on the bomb squad and have no official experience with explosives, so _no_ , it's all, "Anderson, hang out out here until our boys are done, got it? No need to put you in danger."

Which, okay, was nice; but when we know there's an explosives device wired into the security deposit box that we were trying to break into, who the hell thought I'd be down for sending people in to deal with it while I paced around just past the foyer, twiddling my thumbs?

The agents standing at the foldable tables dealing with the equipment may be content to wait, but not me.

"Drop three," Jacksen reported from inside, wearing equipment, a special vest, and a mic. I heard an odd echoing of his voice because I heard the call both in my right ear on the earpiece and in both ears just from being several yards away.

Well, that was one pin fixed, and so far no fiery explosions yet. Although it wasn't in my luck, I had my fingers metaphorically crossed that no one would be hurt and we would get our evidence.

"Drop two," the technician said, spinning the dial slowly and listening through the metal with a stethoscope for the click of the dropping locks.

Supposedly, the Dutchman had been here less than a week ago, storing something away for safekeeping. With probable cause, we obtained a warrant to pursue the lead. Initial x-rays, a safety precaution, had revealed the explosives wired in. It was impossible to tell how strong they were from the way they were built, but in the spirit of being safe, we had evacuated everyone from the bank, bureau agents exempt.

The Dutchman: counterfeiter extraordinaire. We didn't even know the bastard's real name, we just called him "the Dutchman" so we'd have something to refer to him by. Counterfeiting is a big deal, but it's not really my thing. According to my boss, anything I put my head to is "my thing." My specialty is violent crimes. To my intense chagrin, I wasn't given the option of continuing in my specialty, instead being forced into the White-Collar Crime Division. I was displeased with my assignment, but then something that the Dutchman had tried to do had gone wrong, and several people ended up dead for it. Since then, even I had been putting attention towards this case, intent on solving it sooner rather than later. A white-collar crime had turned into a blue-collar one; my whining didn't have a place when people were being killed.

"Drop four," Jacksen called, followed by a soft, miniscule click through the earpiece and, "All pins down, preparing to open."

"Two, three, four," I repeated to myself to make sure I knew it in case it came up later. Then I paused and frowned. "Two, three, four." Years when I'd had an older phone where the keypad wasn't a touch-screen keyboard came back to me, and swallowing, because that couldn't be a coincidence, I lunged past the table and through the foyer into the vault, shouting, _"Wait!"_

I wasn't listened to. Jacksen tried to pull open the deposit box, and he set off the explosives inside. It could have been a much larger bomb, but it was still big enough to make my ears ring. There was no fire, and thanks to the strong steel safe, most of the explosion was contained in the wall. Despite that lucky aspect, there was still damage and risk to my agents. I shut my eyes from the light flash and coughed the next time I inhaled, breathing in plaster and dust.

"Are you okay?!" I shouted, daring to open my eyes to squint and see. My voice sounded off, but sounds were coming back into focus and volume. I heard alarms - a fire alarm from the inside of the bank - and voices from outside. The interior of the vault was cloudy with unsettled dust and fumes. My voice even sounded harsh, rough from breathing it in. "Are you hurt?!"

I kept moving to the left, arms out, reaching for Jacksen, whom I could hear loudly coughing. He hacked into his elbow. "What happened?" He asked, throat raw, doubling over. I patted my hand on his back when I found him and then grabbed his arm, turning to drag him out of the vault and into the open with the clearer air.

I didn't answer right away, too annoyed. Wasn't it pretty fucking obvious what had happened? He was told to wait, he didn't wait, and the bomb went off because it was a set-up. We were supposed to set off the bomb, and it wasn't meant to kill us; it was meant to destroy the evidence locked inside, leaving us _without_ another lead and _with_ a ton of paperwork and different explanations. Hughes was _not_ going to be happy.

I pulled him out into the open. Smoke was drifting up towards the ceiling. Other agents were already there and a couple of them took the stunned technician out of my grip, helping him across the room. Although my throat and eyes stung, by now my ears had adjusted again, and physically I felt acceptable enough. I'd had it worse.

I threw my left arm up when someone again asked what had just happened. _All of the pins had dropped, why had the bombs gone off anyway?_ I knew they had to have brains to get into the bureau; the least they could do was use them. After wiping my brow with my sleeve, I slammed the side of my fist into the wall loudly.

"I said 'wait,' and no one thought to listen to me! Argh!" I slammed my fist to the wall again, this time with a little less force. I was more conscious of the aching in my hand when I did it the second time.

"Hey, babe, take a pill," the voice of a new arrival to the scene called out, growing louder marginally as its owner approached me from the front of the bank.

My shoulders relaxed slightly but my back remained rigid. That was the voice of my second-favorite person in the world, and the first-favorite person I'd like to see at a crime scene. I would like my first-favorite person in the world to stay away from crime scenes and explosives, thank you.

Supervisory Special Agent Derek Johnson appeared in front of me right as he was needed, gently laying an open hand on my shoulder. Warmth radiated through my jacket where he touched, heat from his skin traveling through.

Okay, so, my first-favorite person in the world? Katherine Anderson, my younger sister in all but blood. I share a house with her. I'm closer with Kate than I ever was with my biological family before New York. Second-favorite person in the world? Derek Johnson, my older brother in the same way. The difference is that Derek is far more used to these situations and actually works in the bureau with me, so of course I'd rather have him at a crime scene than Kate.

Calling me 'babe' wasn't him hitting on me; he called Kate and I both 'babe,' although he had more cutesy nicknames for Kate along the same lines. For me, it was usually either 'babe,' 'Mick,' a sarcastic 'Princess,' or something far less endearing. Although people used to look twice when they saw us interacting at a far more familiar level than most partners in the FBI, they got used to it, in large because when Derek and I took a case, we went right for its throat. We had one of the highest success rates, no matter which division we were working in.

I could not just take a pill. He didn't quite understand the extent of my frustration, and I fully intended to remedy that. "That is _thousands_ of hours of overtime and frustration and coffee and pain to get another solid lead on the Dutchman, and the evidence is blown up!" I shouted. I am typically very vocal about my displeasure. Most people who know me in the bureau, again, have gotten used to it. I'm extremely good at my job, so they'll deal with it for the edge.

"How did you know it was going to blow?" Derek asked, needing to be informed. I knew I'd have to explain it at some point, and I was inclined to tell him while I was venting anyway.

"Half of my life is spent on my phone," I said through clenched teeth. My devices stored a large portion of my entertainment, work, and socialization factors. "I text and type on my keypad too much, and on a keypad, three-two-four can spell out 'FBI.' This is a high-profile, incredibly intelligent criminal. It wasn't a coincidence."

"He knew we were coming," Derek said aloud with a soft sigh.

I looked down when I nodded and bent my neck, intending to look at Derek's shoes while I gave myself the few seconds' time to calm before I started to yell at people who really weren't at fault for what had just happened. Instead, I saw a small flicker of light reflecting on a piece of debris caught on my blazer, and I huffed.

"You think? Oh, look, there's debris on my jacket." I raised my voice to be heard by everyone. "There is _debris,_ from the _explosion,_ on my _jacket."_ I turned around from the wall and from Derek and held my arms out in invitation. "You wanna tell me what this is? Anybody?" Because whatever it was, it was a tiny, tiny piece of the evidence we'd been _trying_ to retrieve. Irate, I continued, "How many of you went to Ivy Leagues? Stanford? Harvard?"

Most of the agents started to tentatively raise their hands like middle school students. I rolled my eyes. For a team of elite agents, they sure didn't know how to keep their heads down and their supervisors calm - oh, wait, that wasn't their job.

Oh, well.

"No, no, no, don't raise your hands." With my own hands, I gestured for them emphatically to put their arms down. They complied far faster than they had been willing to put their hands up in the air to begin with. "I am _pissed,_ do not draw my attention." It was like knowingly poking a bear.

I looked around. Jacksen was still shocked, being handed a paper cup of water to soothe his throat. One of the recording techs was wincing as she heard the replay of the bomb in her ears. None of this was supposed to pan out this way. I felt defeated now that the Dutchman had managed to pull another one over on my people.

I hated that I had to feel some measure of gratitude towards him for not arranging a blast large enough to kill.

I turned my attention back to my brother. "Okay, you're not even supposed to be here right now." Not that I wasn't glad he was - I mean, praise the Lord that he was here as I needed him, but he was supposed to be working on papers today. While I ran the operation, Derek was supposed to be taking care of everything related to the bank as it was temporarily put out of service. It was originally just going to be out of commission for the morning, but now it looked like it would be a bit longer. "What's going on?"

Derek looked at me carefully, seriously. I got the impression he was trying to decide for himself if I was in an okay enough mind to handle anything else.

Exasperated, I sighed. He should know full well that now that I knew something was up, I absolutely wanted in. I would not rest until I knew why he was here.

"What?"

Derek shifted and looked out away from us to make sure we were out of earshot. Whatever it was, he didn't want anyone else around to find out, making me anticipate his explanation even more.

When he looked back down to me in all solemnity, the creep of apprehension had set in. What if it was bad? What if something was wrong? What if something had happened to Kate? My what-if game began to drive me nuts before it had even been more than five seconds, so by the time he _finally_ answered me, what he said was one of the things I least expected.

"Neal Caffrey escaped."

* * *

Derek caught up to me in the hall while I was on my way to my office, intent on getting to my computer before someone else decided to drag me aside and test my ever-waning patience. I could only communicate the events that made me want to scratch someone's eyes out so many times before someone would end up dead. Derek, however, knew that if I was going to kill someone, I wouldn't kill _him_ , and therefore never felt particularly bothered about talking to me when I was prepared to falcon-punch someone through a building.

No. Of course, my temper wouldn't be permitted to assuage through time and coffee. Instead, Derek fell into step beside me, with ease from his slight height advantage and years of practice doing so. He handed a paper file over to me, level with my chest. It wasn't a very big file.

I took it, because I hadn't done anything rude to him that wasn't understandable lately, so he would probably fence away anything I didn't actually need to see. I trusted his judgment when we weren't in prank wars. While I was still turning it upside-up in my hands to open and read, I asked, "What's this?"

Derek sighed, put-upon and bereaved. He had a bad habit of pretending that helping me was such hard work. "The file that the US Marshals sent to formally request your help."

 _"_ _My_ help?" I flipped the page open and was confronted with a photograph in one of the quadrants of the top sheet. … It was a mug shot of a prisoner in orange, a slight shadow of stubble on his face, almost unrealistically blue eyes, and wavy, dark brown hair that curled and cut off at the back of his neck.

He was handsome, except for the whole mug-shot, wearing-prison-clothes thing. A lot of criminals are aesthetically appealing, but it turns out that a lot of law enforcement agents _don't_ appreciate certain jokes being made about it. Suffice to say I've learned not to grin and say to anyone but Derek or Diana that I'd like to climb a killer like a tree. That joke went over badly once, and one time was all it took to teach me that lesson.

"Specifically?" I added when I saw his general information. _Neal Caffrey_ was on the photocopy in what looked like a scanned signature, along with his sex, race, date of birth, emergency contacts (none listed), circumstances of arrest, sentencing, and arresting officer. Finally, there was his conviction, charges, and unconfirmed allegations.

None of them suggested they were at my preferred pay grade, so while the name _definitely_ rang a choir of bells, what with him having been an FBI's Most Wanted and all, it didn't seem like his escape from prison should have been passed to me as soon as anyone was aware that it had happened.

"The director of the New York branch has asked for you to handle it specifically," Derek confirmed, looking to see how I was taking it. He glanced at the file but then looked away and waved halfheartedly to a passing agent, but neither his heart nor his head were in it.

"But why?" I asked aloud, making a face. "I was never on the case. Caffrey was caught by someone else." I skimmed my eyes back down to find his case information. "Someone named Peter Burke in the Boston office's White-Collar Crime Unit," I clarified. I hadn't heard of the name, but I'd corresponded with the various white-collar divisions of the bureau before. White-collar crime was going back to the argument over what I specialized in, the kinds of cases I should have been taking. Being sent after Caffrey was like getting an unofficial promotion, but after the huge step down I'd been forced into taking, that meant very little to me. "And for that matter, why am I wanted for this? Caffrey's nonviolent and I have no history with him."

"You're also experienced with profiling," Derek reminded me. I could see how that was relevant, but firstly, I didn't need to be reminded of something I obviously knew, and secondly, I was far from the only psychological profiler around. I've been trying not to profile people quite as much unless they're across from me in an interrogation room. When I start doing it to family and friends, it changes how I interact with them. Kate always knows when I'm looking at her too closely.

"So are you," I countered, because before coming to New York, that had been the entire reason he worked for the bureau. He and I had both landed blue-collar jobs until the year previous, but unlike me, Derek had _requested_ the transfer to the WCCD.

"With an iron will…"

"Have you seen yourself around criminals?" We were both stubborn to a fault, and we liked to have control and intimidation on our side.

"... Who knows New York almost too well…"

"We both know big cities."

Big cities, to me, were ideal. I loved them, went to them every chance I got, except for the times I traveled for cases. Derek grew up with his family in Chicago, joining the Chicago police department before he was employed by the bureau, and then he'd been based in DC until we met.

Derek had one more point to make, and by now he seemed sheepish, so I figured that this was the real one I'd been waiting for. "... And if you catch Caffrey again, then he doesn't have to contact Burke."

My mouth formed an 'oh.' "Who isn't in-state," I finished so that he didn't have to spell it out. "Got it. Paperwork and administration for a temporary transfer for what may only be a manhunt." Well, that was it, I supposed. I appreciated being used for my intellect, but everyone knows I'm great firepower.

It would be a lie to say that I just wanted to focus on the Dutchman case. After our evidence exploded, finding new material and writing reports was going to be a pain in the ass, and catching Caffrey, even if it wasn't my usual job, would at least be a victory that I could feel good about before I went back to slowly driving myself into the ground.

I looked over his picture again. I didn't think it was possible for me not to recognize him; pretty, yes, but also someone I'd seen before, again from his status as one of the most wanted men in America. The general public wasn't a fraction as familiar with him as the bureau was, because he wasn't as much of a public threat as blue-collar criminals. No, Caffrey was much smarter, much more subtle, and much more elusive… until a little over four years ago, when he was caught by Burke and eventually sentenced.

"Neal Caffrey," I said aloud, trying his name on my tongue. I liked it, the easy way it passed my lips and the smooth sound to it. "Sentenced to prison for four years on charges of bond forgery. Suspected for…" I did a double-take when I realized that the list continued, and I turned the page to see the end of it. My mistake was that there was more than one page of said list. Without continuing through to find the end, I looked at Derek. "Okay, how many pages of accused charges are there?"

Derek chuckled, his laugh low and even and pleasurable to hear, smooth like honey and familiar like family. "This guy may not be your preferred paygrade, but you can't tell me your interest isn't caught."

Damn Derek Johnson for knowing me so well.

* * *

I wasn't comfortable with how comfortable I was in prisons the majority of the time. Being surrounded by convicts should probably put me on edge, but instead it was nice to be around the cons who were trapped behind metal bars, not allowed out of their cells without supervision and schedule.

It was nice to think that there were probably a few in here because of me.

A security guard by the surname Thompson, who was responsible for this block of the prison cells and whom had discovered Caffrey was missing, led me down the line towards the escapee's prison cell. I stayed in the center of the walk with Thompson just behind me. One of the first things I learned was to stay out of reach of the bars when in jail.

"Caffrey walked out of the E-block staff room dressed as a guard, and no one stopped him on his way out." The forger had broken out of Sing Sing, a super-max security facility, and by far the most secure prison in the state, and to walk out in plain sight made me both impressed and curious to know more about the man who had managed to pull it off. "Where did he get the guard uniform?"

The key to understanding how to catch him would be to understand him, period. How he operated, why he escaped, what his plan had been. I didn't need to know his shoe size or his IQ, but putting myself in his shoes (not literally, he was still wearing his shoes, probably) would give me a better insight.

"We order our uniforms from a supply company on the internet," Thompson answered.

Ah. Ordering the uniform would be pretty helpful. Caffrey was permitted internet access, so he could have gotten online to order it under his name. If it was just fabrics, then it would have passed the security tests and been delivered straight to him.

"He paid with card?" The question then became how he kept access to his credit card. He could have memorized the account and card numbers, but his assets were supposed to have been frozen while he served his term in jail.

Thompson didn't reply immediately. When a few seconds had passed, I stopped and turned around, bent my elbows, and put my hands on my hips, glaring. Thompson scratched at the back of his neck. "He, uh, used my wife's American Express." I sighed and glowered. For one, it was irresponsible to let an inmate get the opportunity to nick something from your person; for two, why the hell did he have his wife's credit card in a penitentiary, anyway? I bet he thought something like _what could possibly go wrong_ when he made that decision. "We're tracking the number in case he uses it again," he said, offering what he hoped would make up for the poor choices made to begin with.

I shook my head, turning back around and finding the number to double-check the cell. The empty one to my right was Caffrey's, and I walked inside confidently to look around.

"He won't," I stated assuredly. Caffrey was far too smart to try something like that twice.

Caffrey's cell was small and mostly empty, but one of the walls was covered in graffiti from tally marks drawn in black. There had to be _hundreds_ \- no, over a _thousand,_ one for every day, counting down his release which was still supposed to be a few months away. The blanket was pulled up on the cot, a small stack of books from a prison library at the end of the bed, a music player and small lamp along the edge of the table.

I used my hand as a comb, separating my fingers and raking my hand through my hair from front to back. My fringe, which I had grown out just as long as the rest of my hair, fell with gravity when it was pushed back, and stayed out of my face.

"How did he get a card for the front gate?" I asked, standing beside an unfinished set of four tallies, lacking the diagonal fifth across.

Gingerly, I pressed my thumb against the side and unwillingly envisioned Caffrey standing where I was, holding his marker, scratching out lines on the wall and counting down to the day he'd be released, the chains removed. I couldn't imagine being trapped in one place so small for so long with so little control. I would have lost it after a couple of months - forget almost four years.

"We… aren't sure."

Thompson's reply seemed to fade into the background while I rubbed the pad of my thumb against the dark markings, letting myself imagine being caged here like a bird. What would I do, aside from being driven insane? Sleep a lot, I imagined, to pass the time. Read; which explained the books. I looked to them when I thought of it, taking my hand away from the wall. _Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy_ , a classic, was nearer to the bottom of the stack.

 _And marking it down with a marker… where's the marker?_ It would be hard to completely obliterate the habit of graffiti, and I was absolutely certain that some cells had graffiti far worse than some lines that only meant anything worthwhile in context. Why not let them have a marker? Besides, it's not like Caffrey just asked a guard if he would draw on the wallpaper pretty please every night.

I moved to the table. On the other side of the lamp there was a Sharpie permanent. I picked up the music player; it was a cassette player with something inserted, but the earbuds were missing. He probably took them with him… and left the cassette player?

I pressed the button on the side and the small tape popped out the front. I smiled, getting it, and picked it up by the side, turning around to show the guard.

"I bet he used this to restripe the magnetic strip on a utility card." Utility cards would be easy enough to pickpocket off of a guard - easier than a credit card, at least, and he'd already managed that. I waved the cassette player. "These shouldn't be allowed in here. CD players instead."

He leaned on the side of the cell door. "How do you figure?"

I smirked. "Because that's what I would do." Television, education, and experience had made a big improvement to my general knowledge. It was always fun to admit that I could think like criminals. It just pointed out to me that I _chose_ to follow the law, to be good.

Thompson swallowed, looking at me like he was now unsure about me. I put down the cassette player by the lamp, more securely on the table. "He walked out the front door, hotwired a maintenance truck in the parking lot. We found it abandoned near the airport." I narrowed my eyes. That didn't seem like something Caffrey would do. It was too careless, too obvious. "The bureau and NYPD are beefing up security, just in case he tries to get out that way."

I hadn't dedicated years to catching Caffrey like Burke had, but I still knew him better than this guard apparently did. That was a disappointment, considering that the guard had been seeing the blue-eyed man every day for a long time.

"You won't catch him with roadblocks and 'Wanted' posters," I warned before he got his hopes up.

Thompson didn't acknowledge that, and instead kept giving me more details of how Caffrey had managed to sneak out. "He shaved his beard just before he escaped."

I frowned and turned to look straight at him again, standing beside the cot in Caffrey's chilled cell. I remembered a shadow on his face, but Caffrey had always been clean-cut and well-groomed.

"He didn't have a beard in his mug shots," I objected calmly, blinking at the man inquisitively.

* * *

Thompson took me to the tape room to see the security videos so that I'd know what Caffrey looked like before he had decided to go clean-cut again. I took the rotating, comfortable chair before he could, because the way I saw it, I was the guest here. Although I knew by now how security systems were operated, I let him pull up his own tapes on record.

Then I realized I'd have been wrong if I had tried to do it myself, because they didn't take videos - they took photographs. For every cell, there was a long, long document of timestamped black and white photographs of the inmate as they were walking away to a scheduled activity. The camera was looking down at them, but not to the point where it was hard to make out their faces.

Caffrey escaped before his photograph had been taken this morning, but the guard didn't need to be reminded of that. He went straight to yesterday's photo and maximized it with the keyboard until it filled the main monitor sitting in front of me.

I canted my head and looked curiously. Although his hair was recognizable, the difference between shaving and not shaving was a marvel in itself - the beard made his face look so different that it would be startling to see a before and after photograph. No wonder other guards didn't see him on his way out - they hadn't expected Caffrey to shave, and since they didn't know every single one of their coworkers, it would be way too easy for him to slip by as just another face.

"He's almost unrecognizable," I muttered, praising him for thinking this through. He blended in where he could - the uniform - and changed his appearance drastically where he wasn't permitted anything radical, like a haircut or color contacts or tattoos.

But if he had thought it through long enough to think to let his beard grow out…

"Yeah, I think that's the point," Thompson complained, disgruntled.

"Don't get smart with me. You're the one who gave him the means to walk out the front door." I leaned my head back far enough to stare evenly at him, knowing that it would put him in his place, before I motioned to the mouse with one hand, the other resting on my thigh. "Run the series back. He's been working on this for a while."

I settled back in the chair to watch while the guard clicked back. Then he decided it would just be faster to hold down an arrow key. As the days clicked by in reverse, Caffrey's beard slowly disappeared over the course of about six weeks. I waited with sharp eyes until I saw a picture that looked like he'd shaved.

"Stop it there," I said suddenly, as the conman looked clean-cut again in the still frame. "That's when he stopped shaving. I want the logs of everything that happened with any relevance to Caffrey that day."

* * *

I took the log book for myself to read and, as I opened it from the back (to see the most recent first), I complained about their lack of progression in technology.

"Don't you have these things digitized yet?" I whined in distaste, wrinkling my nose and pushing pages quickly, going backwards in the thick booklet. I kept scanning my eyes down the column for the inmate's name, searching for "Neal Caffrey."

It was then that I realized he was pretty alone in this place; as Thompson answered that no, they didn't use computers for their logs because those could be hacked and the records tampered with, also they were kind of working on funding issues, I managed to get almost a month back on the dates without seeing anything regarding Caffrey for visits.

I sighed loudly to let Thompson know what I thought of his reply. It's not like paper couldn't be destroyed, so his argument meant pretty little to me. There were companies that worked specifically to protect the integrity of computerized information, much stronger than the key-and-lock combination that protected the paper files and logs. I kept going back.

Finally I found something from forty days ago - Caffrey's name scrawled in hurried and messy print, and then a signature in the same penmanship in the next column.

"He had one visitor," I said, seeing Thompson's shadow on the table as he looked over my shoulder. Surreptitiously, I adjusted the glove on my right hand - the tall, lace-up style wasn't for practical use as much as it was an accessory. Gloves are some of my trademarks, because I am seen without them so extraordinarily rarely. These were black with long laces that dangled halfway down my forearms from my elbows, mostly covered up by the sleeves of my blazer and dress shirt.

* * *

Kate Moreau was a beautiful girl with dark hair past her shoulders, a soft, innocent-looking face, and a shapely, trim body. Other than that she was also probably a bit younger than Caffrey, it was hard to really determine much else about her from the limited angle of the black and white security film procured from the records.

The two sat on opposite sides of a thick glass partition to keep them separate, with a circular hole in the glass like at banks for the tellers so that they could speak. Caffrey was in prison orange which sat loosely across his shoulders, _Department of Corrections_ in bold across his upper back. Kate - and every time I thought her name, I thought of my pink-streaked, pretty-eyed sister - was not too happy with him; judging from what I could see of him, he wasn't that pleased, either.

"You don't have an audio recording?" I asked Thompson thoughtfully. My voice wasn't considering because of my attentiveness to his response - it was due to that I was looking at both Kate and what I could see of Caffrey now, looking for either of their soulmarks. Maybe they were a couple? Then again, they could always just be friends and family. Either way, there were no tattoo-esque designs that I could see on either of them, so theirs were located somewhere underneath their clothes.

"Just the visual," Thompson confirmed, pages rustling dryly as he looked backwards in the log book to see where else Kate Moreau's name turned up. "She came back every week like clockwork."

"Well, she's not very happy with him this time."

On the screen, Kate rose abruptly from her side of the glass, resignation on her face. In dismay, Caffrey reached for the glass and pressed his palm flat against the surface, reaching as far to her as he could. Kate kept talking, and he visibly cringed, but kept his hand up to the partition.

"I'll call to get a lip reader in here." Thompson declared it like it was totally necessary and not arguable.

"Don't bother," I dissuaded flatly, watching the conversation intently. " _Check you later, Neal._ She's saying goodbye, angling herself away, crossing her arms, distancing herself." She looked like she wanted to leave as soon as possible, and it couldn't just be something he'd said then, because she'd been behaving like that since their visitation began. "He's reaching out, wants her to stay. He looks like she hit him because she's leaving."

Caffrey looked like an abandoned puppy. Even without an audio, I guessed with confidence that he was pleading with her. I'd seen him look charming, badass, and cunning in photographs, but I'd never seen his face show any kind of vulnerability. Not only did it feel like I was intruding, but it made something in my stomach flip.

He was pretty adorable when he wasn't busy looking like he was guilty of something.

"She didn't come back after this, did she?" I guessed, almost feeling sympathy for the poor man. He looked like his world was being taken away. I sucked on my lower lip.

Thompson answered behind me. "No. Her name never showed up again."

I tapped two fingers down on the table by the keyboard rapidly, three times in total. "That was the day he decided to break out," I stated, knowing it with the same certainty with which I knew that Kate - my Kate, not Caffrey's Kate - had glasz irises. "Probably to find her." I pointed to Moreau on the computer screen and pushed the chair away from the desk, giving myself the room to unbend at the waist and stand up.

Thompson rolled back in his chair and looked incredulous as I gathered my things - my phone and my credentials, which I had had to show the guard stationed outside the room before I was permitted in.

"What are you doing?" He asked, sounding stunned I was going to leave already.

I pointed haphazardly at the video still playing, but coming close to its end. "He's not the violent type." White-collar, not blue-collar. "I'm betting the first place I need to go is Moreau's last known residence."

"You think he'd be dumb enough to go there?" The guard snorted in disbelief.

I gave him a stern look. "I don't think he escaped for freedom. He escaped for that girl." I explained shortly, wondering why I wasn't more irritated. I suppose he just wasn't worth wasting the energy on. At least it meant I'd keep my cool and be level for talking to Caffrey. I didn't expect him to want to come back to prison, but I didn't think he would make a big raucous about it if he were caught, either. He hadn't when Burke had found the grounds to charge him. "Meanwhile, you should be checking out your security system and seeing about tightening up your game here."

As I pushed my chair back in, I let my sight wander back to Caffrey onscreen. He stood up as Kate walked off, done arguing, and said something to her back while she was leaving him. Again, there was a fluttering in my stomach of empathy.

The both of us having someone important in our lives named Kate was making me draw some parallels and giving me feelings of kindness. Why couldn't her name have been something like Jessica or Jennifer, so I wouldn't be reacting sympathetically? He broke out of prison. He knew it would get him in trouble and he did it anyway.

* * *

I entered Moreau's apartment on my own, a piece in my ear and my gun at the holster. I hadn't felt like it was necessary to suit up with a bulletproof vest, because I didn't think Caffrey would be violent.

The apartment was empty. No furniture, no boxes, no personal effects. It looked like it had never been used. I wandered into what looked like it might have been used as a living room, with the door behind me and a large glass window in the wall in front of me. A kitchen was to my left, and… a convicted felon was sitting docilely to the right of the windowsill.

Caffrey leaned against the wall, his legs in front of him. One was bent at the knee and pulled halfway up while the other lay straight. Dressed in a white tank top and a long black coat over his torso, slacks and trainers on his feet, he looked like a strange mix between a professional and a civilian. His face clean-shaven and his hair intentionally mussed, I would be lying if I said he didn't look attractive. He spun a glass liquor bottle slowly in his hands, twisting it with deft fingers while he leaned his head back against the wall, eyes closed.

My footsteps clicked softly, breaking silence.

"Kate's moved out," I said needlessly. I had the feeling that he had already noticed this. I was just unsure what else I was supposed to say.

Not this, apparently, though. Caffrey opened his eyes and held his head up again. He didn't even seem surprised that I was there, but he did look so frustrated and sad that I felt a little guilty for reminding him. He kept rotating his bottle. As the label turned to face me, I saw it was Bordeaux - a fancy wine. The upset on his face didn't compute with the idea of the criminal that I had developed in my head as a clever, witty, manipulative conman.

I swallowed and moved my hand slightly at my side, indicating his bottle. "Did she leave you a message in the bottle?" It seemed a little poetic.

He stopped spinning the wine. The glass never changed hues, like it was empty. "The bottle _is_ the message," he replied after a beat, his voice soft, pitch a little higher than Derek's, but not by much.

"What's it say?"

His shoulders heaved slowly while he inhaled deeply, then clinked the bottom of the wine bottle down onto the floor beside his leg. "Goodbye."

There was a pause of silence between us. I think he was waiting for me to arrest him. I had the urge to go sit down next to him and keep talking. I knew I shouldn't do that, so instead I tried to figure out what would be appropriate to say.

"I'm sorry," I offered, knowing it was a useless condolence. Moreau was long gone.

He brought his arms up over his chest, crossing over himself protectively, and he leaned his head back again. Keeping his eyes on me with a razor-sharp intensity, he opened his mouth again, voice deceptively lilting and impassive. "Your job's to catch me, not to be my friend."

"Believe me, I know." I reached up and brushed my hair back. At the same time, I turned my head enough for him to see the earpiece I was wearing and the wire connecting it to my radio. "Hard to forget when my partner's in my ear, demanding that I ask if you're carrying." At that, Derek's voice fell silent over the line. Caffrey smiled slightly. I let go of my hair.

"I don't like guns." Caffrey replied to the subtle question.

"Doesn't mean you don't have one."

He smiled, this time more sincerely. His gaze lessened in intensity. He must've decided I was alright, or finished psychoanalyzing me. There was a weariness in his features, but he was calm for someone who had escaped to find their person had already run away and who was about to be arrested again. "I'm unarmed, Agent."

"I had her looked into." I stated. 'Her' didn't need to be specified in this instance; I meant Moreau. "There's nothing indicating where she went."

Caffrey looked forlornly to the Bordeaux bottle. "I missed her by two days."

Well, I couldn't say anything to change that or make him feel any better about the result - and I wasn't going to analyze why I wanted to - so I chose to take a more optimistic view. "But it took you less than six weeks to break out of a maximum-security penitentiary." Giving him my winning, charismatic smile, I added, "I'm impressed." I looked down to my shoulder and picked up my radio, holding it closer to my face like a phone. "Okay, you can send a team in. Identified, unarmed, nonviolent."

 _"_ _Got it,"_ Derek tuned in. _"Coming up."_ Then the noise in my ear was absent again. I knew he was still there, listening to the discussion I had with Caffrey, but he wouldn't bother me unless he thought I needed to be bothered.

"Are we surrounded?" Caffrey asked knowingly. I bobbed my head in an unabashed nod. "How many?"

"Between the police, the bureau, and the US Marshals?" While he looked on in question, I pretended to consider. "Um, I think… approximately… all of them." That made him laugh. My lips quirked while I felt satisfied. "You're a big deal, Caffrey." He nodded proudly. Meanwhile, my smile faded, slowly dropping from my face. "You know they're going to double your sentence, right?" I said quietly with solemnity. "They'll add another four years."

He looked down to his legs again. "I don't care."

Even now, with Caffrey only a few feet away from me, I didn't see a soulmark. It's not something I typically looked for on sight, but I was curious why he would risk so much for someone who had clearly made the decision to leave him. Thinking of his soulmark made me touch my own lightly, pulling at the strings of my laced gloves over the inside of my wrist.

"Is she your mate?" I asked, as polite as was possible to ask.

"Does it matter?" Despondently, he stretched out his bent leg and then crossed both in front of him. "I can't find her."

"I've seen a lot of smart people do stupid things for their soulmates," I answered, both insulting and complimenting him in the implications of the sentence. "I'm curious."

He shifted and accepted the vague, short explanation. "She's not my mate," he said. "She's my sister."

But… Caffrey didn't have a sister, according to everything we knew about him. Then again, the first time the bureau had ever found something about Neal Caffrey was when he was eighteen. He'd probably changed his name to account for his complete nonexistence until his eighteenth year. Who was to say Moreau wasn't family from before? Or even not blood related family, but a sister of sentiment, which I of all people should understand.

"Not legally," I said mildly, prompting an explanation tactfully.

"No… not biologically, either." He leaned forward and pushed on the floor with his hands, standing up gracefully and arching his back as he stretched. The jacket pulled snugly across his frame. After he was on his feet, he left the bottle down on the floor, seemingly forgotten, and he looked at me expectantly, waiting for me to say something.

I shrugged. "I don't know what you want to hear from me. I'm not legally or biologically related to most of my family. Doesn't mean I wouldn't do something stupid for them, though." I admitted. If I was in Caffrey's position, I supposed I might have been tempted to do what he had done to try to find my Katie.

With this parallel sense of relationship, I met his eyes again, sharp and - yes, now a little surprised. "Fess up to how you did it, tell them you were trying to stop your sister from leaving," I advised, "And maybe a jury will take pity on you."

He raised one eyebrow inquisitively. "You think I'm getting another trial for this one?"

"If you push for it, you can," I replied with certainty. He was going to be sentenced based on new charges from his most recent escapades. Since he wasn't being charged on the same grounds, it opened himself up to an entirely new due process. "It's a constitutional right."

While I was talking, his eyes fixated on me. At first I thought he was looking past me, but then I realized he was staring at my shoulder. He put his arms up so his hands were about level with his head and he stepped closer, light and self-assured. Standing up straight, he was a few inches taller than me, but he wasn't close enough yet that I needed to tip my head back to meet his eyes.

When he started reaching for me, I raised my eyebrows warningly. He gave me this look, like _c'mon, you should know better,_ and continued without pause, other hand still up. To my chagrin, he delicately pinched a reflective piece of debris caught on my blazer that I had almost forgotten about.

 _Thanks for reminding me about that,_ I thought sarcastically, but didn't say it.

Lowering his other arm, he held up the debris between his fingers. "Do you know what this is?" He questioned.

I doubted that he did, but I played along, because why not? There were going to be agents here in just a moment to cuff and book him. "A very, very small piece of evidence from an explosion. I was pulled off of my case to find you."

"You think you'll catch him?" He cocked his head.

"I caught you, didn't I?" I retorted swiftly. According to his arresting officer, Caffrey liked to use words to play games. I would be disappointed in myself if he outwitted me. "People are caught by making mistakes. All criminals make mistakes. Some just make them later rather than sooner."

He considered that, but then seemed to dismiss it. "What's it worth if I tell you what this is?" He referred back to the debris again and stepped closer so there was barely a foot of space between us. Never one to back down from what was possibly an intimidation tactic, I held my ground. "Is it worth a meeting?"

Making eye contact with him again was a mistake, because when I saw the hopefulness and the edge of excitement in his eyes, there was no way I could've passed up whatever deal he was trying to make. Was he excited because he knew something I didn't, or was he pretending to be excited to play me? Either way, if he could give me a lead on the Dutchman case… well, I'm not going to belittle his intelligence, because he has proved that he is far from a novice criminal, but as long as he pays for what he did, why couldn't he be treated as a reasonable person? If he were a civilian, I'd be willing to look into his advice without further thought.

But, of all things he wanted to make a deal for, he wanted a prison visit? "You want me to visit?" I asked skeptically. He just met me. Did he even know my name? Probably not.

 _"_ _Hallway clear!"_ The voice of an officer shouted from outside the apartment.

With limited time, Caffrey seemed more urgent, pressing the matter with predatory concentration. "If I tell you what this is, right now, will you agree to meet me back in prison in one week?" What could he want that he thought I could supply him with? Through a visit in prison? Obviously it wasn't for socializing. "Just a meeting," he reiterated, seeing my cynicism across my face. "That's all."

Well, agreeing to visit him wasn't the same as agreeing to whatever he wanted from that point on, so what harm could it do? At worst I'd be irritated next week; at best, I'd have a new lead on the Dutchman, whom I was getting really sick of.

"Okay," I agreed.

Caffrey grinned in success, and he moved his hand back towards me, handing me the evidence. In retrospect, it was probably irresponsible not to hand in my jacket for evidence when I realized there was debris on it. Intending to have it catalogued and identified, I reached for Caffrey's hand, delicately taking the little scrap from him. Our fingers brushed; I felt almost like I'd been shocked by static, but to my mild surprise, Caffrey pulled his hand away even before I did, then looked away like he'd been caught off guard and didn't want me to see.

 _Static electricity,_ I figured. _Leave it to static to make things awkward._ Static electricity had no right to create a literal spark when I touch the guy I'm arresting. My life isn't a fucking fairytale.

Honoring his end of the deal, Caffrey looked back to me. "It's a security fiber for the new Canadian hundred-dollar bill."

Right as he finished speaking the last word, half a dozen men filtered into the room from the doorway, armed but not taking aim. They trusted me to have said if I was in any danger. Caffrey remained passive as one pulled his hands behind his back, yanked on his shoulders, and cuffed his wrists. Another frisked him in a rapid pat-down of his waistband and ankles to check for hidden weapons.

He caught my eyes as they started to turn him, one of them lightly nudging at his heels to encourage him to start moving. "One week," he said back to me in a reminder.

I mock saluted him by holding a hand to my forehead. "See you then," I returned in a promise.

* * *

A week seemed to pass too quickly for it to be real. After arresting Caffrey, I made a note on my phone, a post-it on my desk at work, and informed my sister that I had a meeting with him scheduled in seven days. I may not appreciate people who break the law, but I did intend to honor my word.

I lied when talking to suspects and convicts. That is usually true. But that's also usually for when I'm doing it to protect myself or the situation, or bargaining for information. Caffrey hadn't frightened me at all. Sure, I felt the touch of adrenaline from being alone in the room with him - he _was_ a very much wanted con - but I had appreciated the conversation I'd had with him, and even though I'd have been just as happy to put it out of my mind, I didn't mind seeing him again, at least to know what he wanted before I put him out of sight and out of mind for good. His place was in Sing Sing; not my head.

The Dutchman case didn't take off anywhere, which was a huge disappointment, but not an unforeseen one. With the evidence blown up, there was only so much that we could do in the meantime. While it was a high priority case, we couldn't just devote all of our resources to it every minute and let the other, more solvable, crimes be shoved aside. In the last few days, I'd started out on the trail of a case of identity theft and been led to an isolated shipment of tampered street drugs, retrieved all of the drugs that I found, and sent a team from the drug unit on a search for any others. The CIs of the related unit were spreading the word on the street that some of the shipments may have been tainted. Hopefully that would lessen the number of people who unintentionally overdosed.

Street drugs were dangerous to play with, but it wasn't morally acceptable to just let some fentanyl-enhanced drugs sell rampant throughout the city and kill people.

I scratched at my upper arm through my black blazer with my right hand, looking at Hughes, the director of the New York branch's WCCD (White-Collar Crime Division), as he spoke with another agent that I vaguely recognized from the IA department - the "I" standing for International, in this case, not Internal. Both looked pretty aggravated.

Taking a detour, I didn't go up the mezzanine to my office. Instead, I found Derek where he was working at the bullpen and I pushed myself up to sit on the edge of his desk. He moved his coffee to make room without looking up while he finished typing his sentence on his desktop monitor.

Derek and I have a solid relationship and have known each other in both professional and personal capacities for years now. I met him while I was in the Quantico Academy program for the bureau. He had been working as a supplemental hand-to-hand trainer, and we'd had friend-crushes on each other since I unexpectedly kicked his ass and he called me an "insane bitch" while being thrown over my shoulder. Being larger than me, and me looking small in an FBI trainee sweater, he had _not_ seen my martial arts history until he was being slammed into the mats. When I was transferred into the WCCD, Derek applied for an interim position in the same unit. Since then, the position had become unofficially indefinitely permanent, the interim almost never mentioned anymore. We work well together and know the three most important things for FBI agents to know about their partners: their strengths in fighting, their temperament, and their coffee orders.

Okay, so according to some people, there are more important things to know, but those were paramount to us. I had collected a group of agents that work with (or for) me most times, and Derek is the senior of those, along with my probationary agent, Diana Berrigan. Instead of treating them like my underlings and calling them my colleagues, like a lot of people with my authority might do, I treat them like my colleagues and call them my underlings to be playful.

Personally, Derek is more like my brother than my coworker. I brought him to mine for dinner at some point while we looked over a case, trying desperately to catch a break, when he met Kate. Kate and he hit it off right away, becoming best friends, and since then he's been welcome at ours anytime. We even have keys to each others' houses. Although he watches out for me to make sure I'm not compromising my tasks, he also keeps an eye on what's going on because he likes to look out for our entire group - himself, me, and Diana.

"What's got International Affairs' feathers all ruffled?" I asked when he looked up from his computer. He leaned back, pushing against the back of his rotating chair and settling his forearms down on the armrests.

"Ruffled feathers" is one of my favorite analogies to use. I love birds. I love wings even more. They represent flying and freedom, and their colors can have so many implied meanings. There was another reason for my fondness for that phrase, too.

Derek smirked. "That would be you," he replied, pointing at me with a pen he picked up from his desk. I grinned. That explained his smirk. I don't usually go out of my way to do it, but I do love to be the cause of chaos and discord. Just call me Eris.

"Me?" I didn't have to feign innocence, because this time I really didn't know what I had done. "I may have stirred up trouble with Interpol…" Which was actually supposed to go away, since said trouble was orchestrated by police-sanctioned means… "But if they were going to do something about it, they'd have done it when it happened last year."

"Not that," he denied, shaking his head. News traveled quickly here; even though Hughes and the IA agent were still conversing, half of the department had to know exactly what they were talking about. "Although I'm gonna have to ask you to expand on that later, babe. Sounds like a story for over drinks with Kate."

Kate liked to socialize, and was always up for a bottle of juice or hot chocolate. Unlike me, she usually turned down alcohol, but there were exceptions. The only alcohol we'd found that we absolutely refused to ever, ever buy again was this cheap bottle of Chardonnay that tasted like vinegar, not wine.

Derek continued. "No, Caffrey was right - the stuff from the bank vault blowout?" I perked up, sitting up a little straighter. I needed to be seeing the blue-eyed man in just a few hours. I'd been waiting for those forensic results to get back all week so that I wouldn't have to _just_ visit him again. I wanted to have a reason; questions to ask, productivity to make. "Security fibers for the Canadian hundred."

I shook my head. "Well, damn." I didn't know which I was more surprised by - Caffrey being right, or the Dutchman having said security fibers.

"The chemical formula's still classified. The Canadian Secret Service are very _curious_ to know how you figured it out." The way he emphasized 'curious' let me know it was less of an appraisal than it was of a demanding inquiry. And, right, how would I have known if they didn't even release it yet?

_For that matter, how did Caffrey find out? He went to jail before it was even produced._

I slid off of the desk and checked my phone for the time. "This is going to be fun," I sighed, looking longingly up towards my desk. I could go up there, but I had a sinking feeling that I'd have to have a phone conference very soon. A phone conference that wasn't going to be particularly jovial or patient.

"You may have started an international incident," Derek said, half teasing and half serious, enjoying my reaction.

"Again," I grumbled, glaring at him while I shoved my phone into the pocket of my slacks. "This is going to be fun."

* * *

After my _definitely_ unpleasant phone conference with an agent with the CSS, my meeting with Caffrey was actually much nicer… if I ignored having my gun taken from me and my body patted down by security, that is. I understand why, it's just… gah, it felt so wrong.

I was led to a private room by a different guard than the one I'd been led around by last week, and this one was polite, but not too talkative. When he showed me to the room, I almost made a face. It was so dull and colorless; empty, aside from a grey table, a couple of metal chairs, an overhead light, and a small, barred window on one wall. It was wide, but not very long, and it was almost less comforting than the individual prison cells the inmates slept in. I sat down slowly, shuddered at the cold temperature seeping through my slacks, and then waved goodbye when the guard said that he would go get Caffrey.

I rubbed my hands together, blew into my palms, and then held my hands up by my face, covering my mouth and nose. It was something I did when I was cold, but I also did it when I was tense. It was just one of those small things I did to feel like I had more control.

After a few minutes, the door opened again, the guard holding it open for Caffrey, who was holding a sort of file in one of his cuffed hands. I couldn't say I was too surprised. It was a maximum security prison; unless I said otherwise, as a member of the bureau and his new arresting officer, Caffrey would stay cuffed for the visit. While he didn't have a violent track record, the large majority of the other inmates _really_ did.

"Orange looks good on you," I said with a smirk. The obnoxious color made him easier to see in both light and dark, and it was one color that most people avoid wearing because of how it clashes with lighter colors, like blonde and white. It distinguished prison inmates just as well as white and black stripes.

"Not as good as Klein," he countered, smiling in good nature. Catching the leg of the chair opposite me with his ankle, he pulled it out and sat down, keeping the mysterious file in his lap. I held off on asking. _Interesting…_ most people in prison because of me wouldn't be trading jokes. Maybe he was just inclined to be nice to the only female he got to interact with for the duration of his sentence. The male prisoners were separated from the female prisoners for the obvious reasons.

I leaned back, actively trying to seem comfortable. "You can uncuff him," I said to the guard. I was confident that I was safe with Caffrey physically, at the very least. I didn't know for sure if his grace and agility translated to fighting, but I hoped I wouldn't ever really need to find out. Caffrey seemed pleased, even though he didn't grin, as the guard used the key on his handcuffs to release his wrists. He held his shoulders a little bit straighter and his chin slightly higher.

The guard carried the handcuffs with him as he went to stand by the wall to look on during our conversation, intending to leap in to protect me if need be.

Caffrey rubbed at his wrists absently, though his skin didn't look particularly reddened when the fabric of his sleeves fell up far enough to see. "I'm not even going to ask how you figured it out," I stated plainly, opening the discussion.

He smirked, half charming, half mysterious. "It's what I do," he responded, intentionally vague. Hence why I hadn't asked; I knew there was no point. "How upset were the Canadians?"

I whistled while trying not to giggle. "Suffice to say that whoever started the stereotype that Canadians are nice has never met an angry agent from the CSS." Caffrey laughed. I certainly felt charmed, if that was what he was going for. "So, what, did you want to know if you were right? Or, you know…" I could go for silly or tempting here, and I decided to go for the latter. It was less friendly. "Were you just so awed you had to see me again?"

He raised his eyebrows at the challenge but played along. "I'll admit," he said through a soft sigh. "Your legal talk got me going, and I couldn't stop thinking about the way you held your radio."

He was so sarcastic that it was painful to anyone who understood subtlety, but it still made me bite the inside of my cheek to stop from laughing. His face was straight for a few seconds until I looked down, and Caffrey smiled a second later, and both of us laughed.

 _What am I doing?_ Something in my head went off at me, irritated at my decision to play around with a convict. I couldn't care less what the guard thought of how I conducted my interpersonal relations, but I _did_ care that I was treating Caffrey more like a friend than someone I'd arrested. I sobered.

So did he, when he saw that I was getting serious. He leaned in over the table, keeping his back straight and his head up. Sharp, cunning eyes locked onto mine with a ready smirk on his lips. "I know why you call him the Dutchman," he informed. I started to scoff. "It's because, like the ghost ship, he disappears whenever you get close."

I exhaled. "How have you figured out anything about that case when you've been in prison for the last four years?"

"You know my life, you think I'm not working on figuring out yours?" That _definitely_ sounded like a challenge. I wanted to respond with a quip about the missing eighteen years of his adolescence, but bit my tongue. That wasn't the point, and I didn't think it would do any good as a rapport. "Did you see I sent my arresting officer birthday cards?"

I actually _had_ seen those when I looked at the history of his mail and correspondence; I had laughed so hard that Derek had actually come into my office to make sure I wasn't drugged, because to everyone else, I was reviewing a criminal's file and suddenly got hysterical.

"Yeah," I said, grinning widely. "Those were a nice touch."

"You've been after the Dutchman for months," he continued, just serving to remind me how absolutely hateful I was towards the culprit in question. "He's at the top of the bureau's 'wanted' list." _You would know._ "I'll help you catch him."

I laughed outright, which was probably a little rude, but I couldn't help myself. What, did he think that he, Neal Caffrey, con artist extraordinaire, was going to get a four-year-early release from prison and be hired by the FBI? Did he think we were just going to waive his newest sentencing on the off chance that he had some light to shed on the situation? The only way he could lead us immediately to the bad guy from prison, where he was, would be by admitting he knew who it was, which made him an accessory, if not an accomplice, and bam, his sentence is extended upon.

Caffrey was disgruntled and didn't appreciate being laughed at.

"How do you think that's gonna work, exactly?" I giggled while I tried to talk and I sounded breathless for it. "Skype at crime scenes? Become pen pals?" The whole thing was just so silly.

Rolling his eyes, Caffrey leaned back away from me and he picked his folder up from his lap. Without an extravagant show or dramatic reveal, he flopped it down onto the table. I stopped and stared at it, laughter ceasing when I saw just how serious he was. What exactly had he brought with him?

"You can get me out of here," he stated, eyes burning in intensity. I got the feeling he'd been considering this for a long time; this had probably been his plan from the first time we'd met. "There's a case-law precedent. I can be released into your custody-"

 _Fuck._ I hadn't immediately thought of it because it was fairly rarely done and I had never done it myself, nor met anyone who had, but Caffrey was right. This was a situation where that loophole would apply.

"You get out of here and you take off after Kate Moreau," I interrupted with the first objection that came into my head, buying myself time to think about it. It was my choice if I wanted to let him out for this or not. The bureau would have final call, but if I wanted, I could get him out for a 'trial,' so to speak.

If - _if_ \- I opted to give the opportunity a chance, then that would make me the go-to person for pretty much anything regarding the con artist. I would become the first one contacted if he was hurt or in trouble. I would be responsible - to a reasonable extent - for his safety and whereabouts. It would be my job to both protect him and keep him from breaking the law for as long as he was out of prison, and if he failed to remain on the law-abiding side, then I'd be responsible for arresting him again.

"Kenna," he said, adopting a nickname for me with ease. I hadn't realized we were on a first name basis. Hell, I didn't know he even _knew_ my name, but I supposed it must have come up around his arraignment a few times. He leaned in emphatically again with widened, soulful eyes. "I am _not_ gonna run," he swore.

"Don't call me Kenna," I said back on impulse, flipping open the first page of the file.

Caffrey took over. I pulled my hands away while he shoved the top few papers to the side and pointed out a sheet specifically on a - "GPS-enabled tracking anklet," he announced, although I read the words and recognized the intention of the design on my own. "The newest ones are tamperproof. Never been skipped on."

"Not _yet,"_ I boldly corrected. I wouldn't put it past him to try, and he was smart enough that he might actually be able to manage it.

I chased his hands away when I tried to look at the various pages to see what he'd put together. Terms, conditions, deals - histories of times when the precedent had been used in the last couple of decades. There was some more on the anklet, so he fully expected me to be wary of giving him the opportunity to run. Hell, even an outline of the application that would have to be filled out as a formality before he was released. There was a page on a reformed criminal who had taken advantage of the precedent and become a CI, engaged on several instances by the FBI, handed a pass out of prison and essentially given a probationary period in its place as a trade.

 _That's what he wants,_ I realized, putting it together rapidly. _He wants more freedom and he's willing to work in cooperation with me on my cases for it._

"Wow, you've really thought this through," I said, tone guarded so it wouldn't betray my thoughts. I wasn't sure what I thought about it, to be honest. It seemed like a good idea. He was good at everything the Dutchman was doing. Elites in a community tend to always cross paths sooner or later, or at least know who the others are, because they're at the top of the organizational hierarchy. I could crack cases with his help and advice; white-collar crimes that turned south and became violent, or that were regarded with importance by the bureau. On the other hand, he was a freaking _con artist_. How could I really trust him to keep his word or be truthful regarding evidence? By definition, it would've been dumb to just blindly trust him, of all people.

"I'm allowed internet access," he explicated. "And legal counsel."

I looked up at him from the pages in the files. I'd want to run it by other people first, of course - mostly Derek and Burke, his original officer. I wouldn't take their answers as veto, but Derek was my brother and he could give insight into whether or not I could deal with it, and Burke could tell me his observations about Caffrey's character. There were some ways in which I respected the man highly. I can admire a criminal in some cases, and damn, a stand-up criminal is unspeakably better, to me, than a crooked cop, which I've dealt with on more than one occasion.

"You realize if this happens, you're mine." I stated, searching his face for reactions he may prefer to keep hidden. That could not be up for debate. And it wasn't a two-way street; he did the wrongdoing, I did the supervising and monitoring. I would have every right to look into every aspect of his personal life that he engaged in, from background checks on his dates or hook-ups to close inspection on the stores he shopped at. Contrastingly, the most claim he would have to my personal life would be to know where and how he could get in contact with me if I was needed. "You follow the orders the bureau gives. You don't stray out of your permitted radius without me. You have to follow whatever other rules I choose to pass through the order."

For a liar, he looked incredibly honest as he bluntly told me, "You could lock me in your own house and it would still be more comfortable than this place."

"You want me to be your get-out-of-jail-free card." I wasn't sure yet how I felt about being used that way. Could I really be irritated, though? It was a reasonable plan to attempt, and it wasn't like I was being manipulated into it. He was being rather upfront. "After you knowingly added to your sentence by stealing a credit card, committing grand theft auto, and breaking and entering into an apartment?"

_Maybe he just doesn't understand how this sort of thing typically works…?_

"I wanted to find Kate." Just like that, his voice saying my sister's name made my chest tighten. I imagined going home, like he had, and finding the house empty, devoid of all signs of my little sister, with no idea where she'd gone and no clue where to begin looking. "I missed her. I was too late. Do you think that means I shouldn't have tried?"

 _…_ _God damn it._ I knew myself well enough to know when someone was making an impression with me. Even though he didn't know I had a sister named Kate, he was still putting me in a situation where I couldn't possibly _not_ see it and understand it from his perspective. If I'd been in his place, I'd have done anything to try to stop my Kate from leaving, even if it did get me in trouble.

Caffrey leaned into the table, hands down in his lap unobtrusively. "I might never see her again. She's my _sister,_ " he whispered to me. Although he was using this as a point to enforce his argument, the frustration and sorrow that I saw in his eyes was real – or, at the very least, incredibly difficult to fake. "You said you'd seen smart people do stupid things for their soulmates. Haven't people done equally stupid things for their families?"

How the hell was I supposed to argue with that?

This really did seem like it could be a beneficial situation, but I still didn't trust myself or him enough to agree to anything without doing research. Not when I already got the feeling that looking into his big blue eyes would be enough to sway my emotional stance.

"I'll talk to your arresting officer. Your other one, I mean. And I'll see what the bureau can offer for safeguards." By being noncommittal, I wasn't shutting any doors, but I also wasn't confirming anything. He couldn't hold me to whatever I said at this point. "But I swear to God-" I raised a hand to my face and held up a finger. It was warning, but hadn't quite crossed the line to threatening. "If you knowingly hinder my investigation, or bring _any_ risk to my home, you will find yourself back here so quickly your head will spin."

"Understood, Kenna." He sank back, shoulders falling. Caffrey rubbed at his temple and pulled his fingers through his hair. "Think about it."

I neatly stacked his papers on top of each other in his file folder again before I closed the top, leaving it as it was. "Don't call me that," I repeated my sentiments from earlier with a glare. Nicknames are for friends.

* * *

I was certain that if I went through another whole mug of coffee I was going to throw up and cry from all of the caffeine warring with the exhaustion, but I couldn't go to sleep just yet, even though Kate had retreated to her bedroom… hours ago.

Neal Caffrey covered my kitchen table since before she'd gone to bed. In that time, I had thought myself in circles between goals and morals and values that I had thought were all straight in my head, but turned out to be more corkscrew-shaped in practice. I had had more coffee than any doctor would tolerate. I had had an almost hour-long phone call with Burke, the agent who had first arrested Caffrey. Every time I started to see the words, letters, and numbers blurring on paper, I blinked several times and spent a few seconds observing the picture of him I'd gotten from his bust, back when he was first arrested, which wasn't a mug shot. It was him in tight black pants and a solid blue button-up that matched his eyes, collar loose and sleeve cuffs undone.

This would be another situation where I'd have had to hold my tongue in front of other officers, because hot _damn_ , the man could rock his clothes like an AC/DC concert. And that was probably the exhaustion talking (I hoped), because I'd been up for over twenty-four hours.

Basically, getting feedback from other officers hadn't helped me much. Derek was fed up with the Dutchman and a nonviolent criminal was a huge improvement from the majority of the ones he'd seen, so he was all for letting Caffrey out if I was up for dealing with him. Burke, on the other hand, was far more cautious. He thought that, if we were in that much need for leads, then we should negotiate his prison privileges rather than letting him out, but letting him tag along to crime scenes was an incredible advantage for giving him information to be productive with.

That wasn't all. I got opinions from almost a dozen people who happened to hear it through the grape vine. I'd printed some forms to look at and the agents who had been near the printer had checked out what the forms were about. My visit with Caffrey had never really been a secret, so it was through a quick process of logic that the agents figured out I was considering collaborating with someone who used to be on the Most Wanted webpage, and I could count on one hand the number of people with positive, or even neutral, thoughts. Most of them were far more emphatically against it. I received more than one message along the lines of _did that attack that put you in our offices also do some serious and previously-undiagnosed brain damage?_

However, seeing as those messages never _actually_ had any deeper argument or reasoning than "he's a criminal" ( _wow, really, you don't say, I had no idea, it's not like I arrested him or anything_ ), I dismissed them as unsubstantial, people offended on the principles that I valued. Caffrey needed to do his time.

There was more than one way of paying back, though, then sitting around in a prison cell, reading Adams and Colfer, smoking in the yard, and jacking off – whatever it was Caffrey chose to do to pass the time in which he wasn't permitted to do much of anything. What they didn't consider in their argument that he had a responsibility to "give back" to the people he took from was that this current form of "giving back" was actually letting him do nothing but sit around and rot, all at the taxpayers' expense. Not only would having him work for the bureau _actually_ give back in an ironic way, but if it got out to his former contacts, it could possibly ruin the illegal bridges that hadn't already been burnt by his arrest.

I'd thought about it a lot.

Seeing as other people apparently hadn't bothered to formulate an actual argument, I elected to acknowledge their opinions (some of those acknowledgments were more strongly worded than others, depending on how insulted I was by the format of their complaint), and then proceed to throw them out. A good chunk of them had possibly skipped every debate or persuasive writing class in their lives.

It came down to my decision, as I knew it would, but between knowing he was a professional liar and knowing that he desperately wanted out of jail - to the extent he was willing to make a deal -, those parts of the situation cancelled each other out. Him being a con artist and playing people's emotions made me leery about trusting my intuition when my head told me he was sincere.

A light flipped on by the stairwell and Kate emerged in the kitchen, rubbing sleep out of her eyes and padding across the room in fluffy animal slippers. She squinted at me to make sure she wasn't still partly dreaming, and when I reached for the coffee and downed half the mug, then panted because it burned, she realized that I was totally, one hundred percent real.

"Oh, you're kidding," she complained, crossing the kitchen and heading to the cupboards where we kept our glasses. "You're still awake?"

I looked at the clock, wondering why she was up. It was still in the dark hours of the morning as the sun slept, so I hadn't worked all night. Yet.

"It would appear that way, yes." _Working on my caffeine dependency._

Kate took down a glass and she filled it up with cold water from the filter tap. She picked up a bottle of low-strength melatonin from the shelves by the fridge and then came to sit with me at an open chair. She had to balance her water on her knee because there were papers about Caffrey everywhere.

"What's wrong?" She asked, looking over the table dully and then realizing I was obsessing over work problems.

"Nothing," I denied. Something being 'wrong' to me was something like people being hurt. In this case, no one was getting hurt; I was just having difficulty deciding if this was a great idea or the worst I'd ever been confronted with. I propped my head up on my elbows. "Nothing's wrong, I'm just… ugh."

The 'ugh' was what really communicated it to Kate, and that wasn't even sarcasm.

"You're considering taking him on," she said, not sounding very surprised. She knocked back a pill to help her sleep better and chased it down with water, then wiped her mouth with the back of her wrist.

"I really wanna catch the Dutchman," I answered defensively. Taking a criminal out of jail… it was literally the exact opposite of what I was _supposed_ to do. I felt like I had to justify the choice even if I was only considering it.

Kate snorted. "You're too stubborn to take him out if that were the only reason, especially this soon." I hated how well she knew me sometimes; she was going to find out in about thirty seconds that there was a bit more to it than just the Dutchman case, no matter what I was telling myself. Sure enough, her eyes fixed in on me and became sharp and focused, waking up further. "What did he say to you?" She demanded apprehensively.

I laughed softly at her protectiveness. Although I was far more likely to be impulsively violent, Kate was the kind of avenger who struck sneakily. I hated to think of what Caffrey could be confronted with if I let him out of prison with Kate under the impression he had forced or otherwise coerced me into it.

"He didn't threaten me or anything, okay?" Still, that had to be established, because I wasn't sure I could consider him safe in or out of prison if I didn't remedy the misunderstanding. Kate softened and relaxed.

She quietly sloshed her water around in her glass while she patiently waited for me to figure out how to explain my reasoning. I knew that I didn't have to defend myself to her - if she had a strong opinion, she'd have made it known by now - but she knew just as well that I would want to prove I was able to defend myself from others' judgments.

I took a deep breath and then let it out. If I said it to Kate, at least she'd know why I was caught by it and how it felt. She hadn't looked into his eyes and felt sympathy for him, so she could tell me if I was being stupid and silly again.

"He wants out early because he added to his sentence escaping, but he broke out because he was trying to find his sister before she took off." I breathed again and shook my head, looking down at the files strewn in front of me. No matter how much they held, they were all missing the definitive answer I needed to confidently make the call. "I think it's fair that he serves time for his crimes… and for breaking out… but I think another four years, just for looking for his sister, is a bit much."

Kate was nodding in understanding, so at least it wasn't just me being caught with the charming smile and the gorgeous eyes. "So you want to help him get out?"

"This could be a great win-win situation for us both!" I implied that I did without stating it. She noticed and rolled her eyes. "He's not in prison, and I have a consultant who really knows what the hell he's talking about!"

An indent appeared in the side of her cheek, not like a dimple, and she picked up a photograph of Caffrey that I'd been looking at to reassert my vision. She tilted her head slightly to the side and kept biting gently on the inside of her cheek, thinking.

"Is this him?" She asked, already knowing the answer. "He's cute."

I hypocritically ignored that I thought the same thing. I thought a lot of people were lookers, ranging from attractive to hot to drop dead sexy depending on the context and my mood. Kate knew this, because I tended to have even less of a filter than usual around her, and we both knew that while we could appreciate looks of men, neither of us were any straighter than bendy straws, and just because we could think that laying a guy would be awesome, we didn't automatically idealize the man in question or think he was that great in any other sense. We just learned from experience and theory and discussion that lust is far from affection or admiration, and how to separate it from anything else.

"He's a conman, not a puppy."

"I didn't say he was puppy-cute," she retorted with a quirk of her lips, mischievous. She dropped the photo back onto the table and it landed a bit askew. I resisted the urge to retentively fix it. "I meant he's badass-and-hot,-fuck-me-please-cute."

I wasn't too sure that 'cute' and 'fuck me please' belonged in the same phrase.

"I think the word you're looking for is 'sexy,' not 'cute,'" I indulgently corrected.

"Ha!" Her eyes lit up with a sparkle and she pointed at me animatedly. I gave it about fifteen minutes before she felt the Melatonin and started yawning. "You said it, not me."

I laughed quietly again. I loved my sister so much sometimes.

"I think you want me to pine after someone so that you can tease me when I get on you about Derek," I playfully argued. Kate's grin dropped but she tried to recover. "I'm not going to pine for this guy, Katie. I'm going to get him out of prison for a while, maybe enjoy the conversation, and - maybe - look into reducing his sentence if the bureau doesn't hire him as a consultant."

Giving up on the play, I realized too late that I had said 'going to' like I had already made the decision. From the look Kate gave me, I knew she caught it, too.

"Look, people do stupid things," she delicately began. This was one of her 'serious' tones, so I listened up attentively to whatever it was she wanted to say. She was already being reminiscent of words that had been said both to and by me. "And if this were your normal type of criminal, I'd agree; keep him in jail. But he's not, Kenzi." The gentle reminder was what I needed to help me tell the difference between Caffrey and the inmates that I was used to. "Caffrey is a forger and a thief and a liar, but he doesn't torture and rape and murder people and then dispose of the body in some creative and horrific way." I looked down when she said it all so casually. Sometimes I regretted her being so desensitized to it, but I knew that she reacted differently when it was more than hypothetical, so she still felt. Besides, a lot of the desensitizing had been done before we'd even met.

"He made bad decisions," she allowed without trying to defend those. "But I've done my own research, and I haven't found anything that indicates he hurts just for hurting."

"Yes, but he's still convicted," I pointed out weakly.

My sister nodded slowly. "Okay. Look at it this way," she suggested. "If he were some guy, who wanted to help the FBI, who had a background that suggested he would know about the crimes, but _hadn't_ been convicted, would you be opposed to letting him help?"

It dawned on me that I wouldn't. I wanted leads. I didn't really care who I got them from - except, it seemed, when it came to criminals.

"He's still paying. He'll be tethered to you, and you know how to make his life hell. He won't be free, just in a less high-strung place, and with some more luxury. To catch the Dutchman, it might be worth lengthening his leash for a while." She paused and thoughtfully drank the rest of the water left in her glass. "Besides, if you really can't stand him, you can resign custody. And who knows? If you stop thinking about him as someone who wears orange, maybe you'll actually like him a little bit."

My brilliant, brilliant sister stood up and left the chair pulled out to the side. Kate left the table to go to the sink, rinsed out her glass with warm water, and then put it down on the left side to be loaded the next time someone did the dishes. I supported my head with one hand, elbow propped on the table, and I thought hard about it.

Kate was absolutely right. My wariness regarding convicts came from an entirely different class of criminals. It's not like it was a long-term arrangement; I could end it whenever I wanted, but, being a reasonable and amicable person, maybe I could make an agreement with Caffrey about his allowances that gave him the freedoms and rights he wanted while I had a minimal amount of work to do pertaining to him.

She yawned widely and covered her mouth with her elbow, blinking. "I'm going to go sleep now," she announced, smiling mockingly like she was taunting me with the silent, _you know, like a normal person. You might wanna try it if you still expect to pass yourself off as human._ "Wash the mug when you're done with it."

* * *

"I know it's here somewhere." I was standing up on top of my desk chair, door to my closet wide open, while I tried to reach in and lean towards the top shelf without sending the wheels of my chair sliding across the carpet. I gripped the wall with one hand and felt around on the shelf between boxes. I wasn't even sure what most of them held anymore, but I knew the one I was looking for. "Come on. There's no way I would've tossed it with the junk."

I bit my tongue and stood up on my toes. Right as the chair made a frightening lurch backwards, making my heart thud, I felt my hand hit a velvet edge almost at the very back of the shelf and all the way to the left.

"Ah!" I called, both in victory and in fear as I pushed my rear back, pulling my feet back under me and dragging the chair along with it. In hindsight, it was a really good thing that I had held a strong grip on the doorframe.

Now that I knew where it was, it was a fast process of getting the box out from where it was buried out of sight and out of mind. I retrieved it quickly, moved it to the chair beside my feet, and stepped down before I broke my neck. Closing the closet door, I rolled the chair back to my desk and picked up the black box, about the size of a large filing envelope, and carried it with me back to my bed. It smelled like musk and Febreeze, was adorned with a layer of dust that stuck to my shirt, and one of the cardboard corners was bent underneath the glued velvet. There wasn't a big surprise there. I'd gotten it at seventeen and didn't have the heart to trade it out for something newer.

My overhead lighting was the only source I had to read by, although dawn would be breaking sooner rather than later, and I'd regret staying up any later than I absolutely had to the coming morning. Still, the satisfaction was worth it. I was going to be suffering anyway. What was ten more minutes?

The box top was stiff and had to be worked at to get it to open. I waved it away from my face to get rid of some of the extra dust and looked down at the stationary inside. The box was stuffed almost to the brim with unsealed envelopes and crinkled post-its with smudged ink and faded pencil marks.

"It's been a while," I said, rolling my shoulders down and looking inside. I didn't even remember half of the stuff that was in there, yet once I'd chosen one to read, I was sure it would come back to me. "Can't really say I've missed you, Zar, but it'll be nice to hear from you again."

I let out a quick breath and reached down into the box, pulling up envelopes and trying to get towards the bottom of the stack. They'd been added as they were received, and I wanted to start at the beginning. It just seemed like the right thing to do, at least for the first time I was unearthing them. I kept them in case I needed a reality check or a reminder, but I'd dutifully spent my adult life pretending they weren't hoarded away in a dark cupboard somewhere.

The envelopes were all the same color, but the stationary was different. The letter at the very bottom was thick and old, the edges of the paper soft with age and duress on the crease, a gentle bird's egg blue with fleurs-de-lis in violet shades around the edges and heavily layered in the corners. I couldn't recall where it had come from, but I touched it with soft fingers and fought the urge to hold it to my nose and sniff, having a ridiculous thought that it might brush away the cobwebs clinging to underused memories of being a teenager. In a way, I was thankful to Caffrey, because it could've easily been _years_ before I went looking for ghosts if it wasn't for the moral conflict his proposal incited.

 _"_ _This isn't stationary. This is kids' paper,"_ a French-accented voice sniffed with disdain to a ginger girl in a sundress and tights, hair braided.

 _"_ _It's stationary for people who aren't_ _ **boring,"**_ the girl had retorted to him. She had less of an accent – English wasn't as foreign to her. I giggled at the memory, looking down at the words in familiar handwriting and running the back of my hand along the crease as it unfolded.

Time to delve into the past. Quiet snickers aside, I knew that more of the letters would make me feel upset or angry than reminiscent or gleeful. It was Pandora's Box – I was willing to at least acknowledge that the demons existed for the sake of the light and the understanding that I hoped would come as a result.

I'd always hated that story as a kid. Shaking my head, I sat down on the side of my bed and then leaned backwards, falling sideways on the mattress, hair spreading out like a messy backdrop.

* * *

**Hey, so, remember that day when our mom told us we couldn't go to a college party with Michéle, so we (allegedly) made fake IDs? Because I do. She was older than us, only by a couple of years, but when you're 15, that's an enormous age gap, especially when you're as desperate to fit in as we were. God, we were such fucking losers that year. Couldn't even speak enough Italian to ask questions in class. I had been so excited about that relocation until it turned out that we were one of the dumb privileged kids no matter where we went.**

**Mom really kicked our asses. Asked if we** **_wanted_ ** **to have criminal records, be lumped in with killers and sex offenders, and man, we were pissed. We were 15, no one wanted to do anything with us until then, and our parents couldn't be bothered to give a damn unless it could turn around and reflect badly on them. And they called themselves parents. We raised ourselves. With some help from the staff.**

**Dad got it worse from her, though, since he had so much to worry about that was a hundred times more important than any disappointing daughters could ever have been. Well, fuck you too, Dad.**

**Actually, fuck you, too, Mom. You only found out because the ER called you; we'd have done fine if it weren't for that. Did you think we didn't learn our lesson about criminal activity when it turned out Michéle took us to that party to spike our drinks and get us drunk? She got blackmail, and her skeevy brother got easier prey. He also got a broken arm. We may not have been able to walk straight, but those self-defense classes that dearest, darling Mommy and Daddy insisted on turned out useful, after all. Oh, well. He deserved it.**

**That bitch was a minor and only had probation, but her brother was a full-fledged adult, in college and everything. We testified under the table in a private court and got him arrested, expelled from his school and charged with sexual harassment, assault, and intent of sexual assault. Good for him. That looks a ton worse than** **_made a fake ID._ **

**Whatever. Won't be trying that again. I don't need a fake ID to travel, just a passport, which I already have. The second I get the chance, I'm going to get so far out of here, away from this fucking hell, that I'm never going to look back. Wherever you're at now, McKenna, I sure hope you know better than to stay somewhere where you're miserable, and I hope you remember what happened when we let someone break the law and get us fakes, and if you don't keep in mind that criminal activity apparently leads to that entire nightmare, I'm going to punch your teeth in.**

**Can't say I particularly love you, but I do wish you the best. Go get 'em. Be the antithesis of our teenage selves and catch out the bastards that'll take advantage of drunk girls like we were.**

**Hope you miss me,**

**Zarra L**

* * *

I didn't speak to Caffrey again before I had it finalized, and so it must have come as at least a little bit of a surprise when he got the news that he was leaving this afternoon. At about an hour past the time I'd eaten with my sister, I was sitting up on the hood of my FBI SUV, waiting patiently for the prison gates to open while on my phone.

I took a picture of the prison while I was waiting and put it on FaceBook with the caption, _Picking up my new pet from the pound!_

When they opened as a guard scanned his key, Caffrey walked out the gates for the second time in less than as many weeks, in the same outfit he'd been wearing when he'd been arrested in Moreau's apartment. The guard saw me and let Caffrey keep walking out on his own, while he squinted slightly against the sunlight behind me.

I pushed myself off the front of my SUV and dropped down solidly onto my feet.

"Lemme see," I prompted before he was within five yards of my car.

He rolled his eyes, but stopped walking and pulled up the left cuff of his pants. Around his ankle, he had a thick belt strapped around and connected with a tan monitor that kept emitting a solid green light to show that it was in connection with the satellites. I grinned.

"You understand the terms of the deal?" I confirmed, waving him onwards. He dropped the cuff and continued. I almost felt weary of letting him get close, but realized that I was going to have to suck it up and get used to it. I'd have to deal with being pretty close to him for the next however long this case took.

He held his arms out. "I'm being released into the generous, warm arms of the FBI, under your custody." At least he liked satire. That I could get behind. He pointed down at the anklet hidden under his cuff. "And this thing is chafing my leg," he complained. "Anything I'm missing?"

I joined him at the side of the car, smiling saccharinely. I felt this would be one of those give-and-have-taken situations, so I wanted to make sure he knew that he could not fuck with me and expect to get away with it.

"Yes," I replied, because he was forgetting to remember the consequences of a failure to behave. "If you run, and I catch you - which we know I will, because I already have - you're not just back here for four years. You officially become a fugitive, and you're likely in for good." Caffrey became serious as I spoke, his eyes darkening, and he nodded to show he understood. "Another thing - you're probably tempted to start looking around for Kate. Don't."

"I told you," he objected softly. Whenever Moreau came up while we spoke, he seemed to immediately grow more earnest and easier to see through. It seemed too convincing and too repetitive to be a charade, but I would keep on my toes. "The bottle meant goodbye."

"Then leave it at that," I advised sharply, and then tried to soften my own disposition. With those things said, there was no reason to be harsh when getting along would work better for the both of us. "This is a temporary situation. Maybe in the future, if it goes well, we can see about making it more semi-permanent."

Holding up the keys to my car, I pressed on the unlock button. The locks went up, visible through the windows. I smiled and nodded my head to the side, indicating for him to get inside.

"Where are we going first?" He asked, raising his voice as I sauntered around the car to the driver's side and pulled open the door.

Cheerily, I called back, "Your new home!" Although I hadn't chosen the residence he would be taking… it would be a lie to say that I wasn't a little bit pleased with it.

"What happened to keeping me locked in yours?" He asked, sounding like he was mostly joking, but I still saw a red flag in my head.

"I'm making an effort to trust you here." Catching his eyes, I pulled my door shut without looking. He kept looking at me while he pulled on the seat belt and buckled it in. "Don't push it by inviting yourself into my territory." Trusting him to have my back out of mutual gain was one thing; trusting him to behave and look out for Kate was another completely different ball game, and until I knew that I could actually trust him to be a help, I wasn't happy to consider them even meeting, much less living together.

I thought that everything was pretty settled with that. He blinked, breaking eye contact, and nodded, accepting it even if he didn't fully understand why. Twisting the keys made the car turn on, the engine starting up and then purring heartily.

"What made you decide to try it?" Caffrey asked me, looking across the car like he was arguing with himself. Did he really want to ask? Did he really want to know the answer? Did he care one way or the other?

"My sister," I answered softly. Kate had really hit me with a clue. No one could blame me for not trusting Caffrey, but I had no reason to really believe he would betray me. If I made our lives difficult by not even _trying_ to trust, then it was on me. "You know," I added as an afterthought, laughing a little. "Her name is Kate."

His eyes widened and his lips pulled up in a grin. "You're kidding!" He laughed loudly and I smiled as the noise filled my car.

* * *

"This is Neal Caffrey. You should've been called earlier by a Derek Johnson." Smiling politely at the clerk behind the counter, I held out a hand to my left at the convict, who was looking around like he was in a trap.

The bureau was prepared to house Caffrey for as much money as it took to house him in prison, but not to go over that. It was government money, and just because he was a CI now didn't mean that what he'd done wrong was erased. The best extended stay place that they could afford for a month-long stay was a really old one that didn't even have a name other than "Motel." It wasn't a nice place; dirty, crowded, and small, I was amazed it was even still open. Had it ever been checked by the health department?

A prostitute was working at her nails with a nail filer while leaning against the wall in the lobby, her shirt too short, her hair coiffed, and her bust emphasized by her shirt. A man was reading the paper at a table behind us and swatting at an insect with a ping-pong paddle. The man across the counter had his computer open, and one of the internet tabs read suspiciously like a porn site.

This wasn't a place I could be _paid_ to stay in; I much preferred greater luxury. I was absolutely certain that Caffrey did, too - and that was why I was somewhat sadistically delighted to drop him in here.

The clerk reached into the dirty mail slot for room number twelve on the second floor, picked up a card key on a tacky pink keyring with dirty Persian pink fuzz, and dropped it onto the counter for Caffrey to pick up. "There you go, Snake Eyes," he said, popping chewing gum with his teeth and sitting back down in front of the computer, switching the tabs again.

Caffrey stared at the keys as if they carried the plague, revulsion in his eyes and disgruntlement written all over his posture.

"Can I talk to you for a second?" The felon touched my shoulder and kept very close to me, like he was afraid to get near any part of the motel lest he pick up a disease, and I was the only sterile surface.

I rolled my eyes, grabbed the keys off of the counter, and walked him back into the lobby, past the front door and the prostitute by the cushioned old chair in front of the dusty television with the crack in the screen.

He looked around anxiously. "Maybe a little further down," he hedged, shuffling further away and eyeing the man who was swatting at the insect suspiciously. I followed him, much more at ease. I had gotten all of my rabies shots and taken my cipro pills already. "Do I have to stay here?"

I grinned at him, enjoying his discomfort far too much. "What's the matter, not enough stars for you?" I mocked. Instead of manning up, he just copped to it with an emphatic nod. I scowled. He took the fun out of it. "Grow up. It costs the government seven hundred to shelter you in prison every month, so that's what they're going to pay out here in the real world." Pulling his elbows in tighter to his body, he looked around uneasily. For someone who liked to use illegitimate money to lounge in the lap of luxury, I could see how a place like this might feel like sleeping in a barn - especially because a barn might actually be preferable. "Hey, I'm with you, I'd rather camp in the car than stay in this place, but I can't put you up in my home." I _could_ if I got his perimeter adjusted, but not only was I not sure I was cool with that idea, I wouldn't ask Kate to deal with it. "I won't put my sister in that position."

"What, with a houseguest? Who cooks?" He was almost begging. I rolled my eyes and shook my head more sternly. Looking after my sister came first; and sure, a cook might be nice, since Kate doesn't particularly enjoy making more than a handful of specific foods and I just… don't mix well with kitchens, but we manage on our own, between drive-thrus and microwaveable macaroni.

"I won't ask my sister to start sharing her house without warning, and definitely not with a man." I could have very well added that he was a felon, but him being a stranger to her of the opposite sex was reason enough, in my opinion.

While I did believe that most guys would probably be fine to share temporary housing with, there was always the risk and concern that maybe they _wouldn't_. Neal gave me a lot of feelings, but none of them had anything to do with being in danger, of any sort. Regardless, there was a stress that society bred into females, since it was impossible to tell from one look at someone whether or not they would take no for an answer. Women are sexualized enough, and the difference in sex is enough to make anyone uncomfortable.

I wouldn't put my sister in the position where she felt like she had to put on a bra and shorts of a certain length before she left her bedroom. She should be able to feel safe through her entire home, no matter what. "Look, if you find a better offer, I _encourage_ you to take it." I wrinkled my nose. I was going to have to come back here to pick him up for cases.

His shoulders sagged. "What about clothing?" He tried to argue. "I'm _wearing_ my entire wardrobe."

 _It's not a bad wardrobe,_ I almost said, but stopped myself because I had thought the same thing about the orange jumpsuit, so I was thinking I'd just have to learn to sublimate what my body wanted me to do versus what my head wanted me to do. Well. What one-fourth of my head said I should be doing rather than what the other three quarters _and_ body wanted.

"There's a thrift store at the end of the block," I informed him. I wasn't unnecessarily mean, usually, so I had made sure there were enough places nearby for him to attend to all of his everyday needs without requiring an FBI escort. His face fell and he opened his mouth to start whining. Like lightning, I covered up his mouth with my hand. "No, no, no whining, no complaining. This is what you wanted, right?" I took my hand away from his mouth before he thought to lick my palm. "You get to breathe fresh air whenever you want. You get to set your own sleeping schedule. You can do any leisure activity you please within reason when off the clock, you can exercise, you can eat whatever you want, you can talk to whoever you want." All of these simple liberties I took for granted, he hadn't had for four years. Compared to the confinement, this freedom seemed like it would be overwhelming on its own. "Hell, you can fuck whoever you want," I continued. "If it's consensual, I don't give a damn."

He sulked. "My mate might," he muttered.

My eyebrows rose, surprised. "You've met them?"

That would make this an entirely new ball game. If he knew who his mate was, I'd have assumed he would have brought it up at some point. Even when in prison, people were allowed time with their mates. I'd have to look after his mate along with him, and-

"No." I cut my own train of thought off when Caffrey responded and shook the idea way, undaunted. "Point stands."

_So… you just used your mate as a ploy to garner sympathy?_

The way he'd done it so casually aggravated me. His mate is supposed to be the one person he will always be permitted to have ties to, the one person that can't be taken from him. In a perfect world, he or she would be the one person that Neal Caffrey, con artist extraordinaire, never lied to. In a realistic world, he or she should be the one person that he can rely on to be there for support. It's not a theory to be taken lightly; the ideal should be respected regardless of the unknown odds of the reality. If _my_ mate took advantage of my existence, I'd be pissed. I'd feel used and offended.

"You're complaining to complain now," I stated sharply, glaring through narrowed eyes. I needed to get out of here before I said something that I would possibly regret. "Your anklet is set up so you can go anywhere within two miles of this hotel. You find another housing situation, then I'll have it adjusted if you like to better accommodate you for space, stores, and restaurants."

"I don't get a housewarming present?" He tried to smile charmingly, no longer complaining or making offhanded remarks about his mate. He must've realized he'd pressed a wrong button, so he tactfully avoided it.

"Oh…" He'd reminded me of that, actually. I opened up the flap of my messenger bag and pulled out a binder of information that we'd photocopied from files to make yet another set for the Dutchman case. My bag felt significantly lighter on my shoulders without it, and I shoved it at his chest. "Happy housewarming," I said tonelessly, closing my bag more securely as he took the binder and frowned at it sadly.

_What was he expecting? A potted plant?_

"Remember, two-mile radius. Four-mile diameter. That's around eighty city blocks north-south. Just be more watchful going between avenues." The strange thing about New York was just the sheer mass of streets and blocks and how it was all crammed into one space. "Oh, and since it's not really easy to mark exact distances, your anklet will beep at you when you approach your perimeter. It gives you about three feet of warning, but the first inch you take over the edge sets off an alarm with the system."

"How much research have you put into this?" He asked, raising and lowering one arm while balancing the binder in his open hand, as if weighing the files. "And on a scale of one to ten, how much pleasure are you getting out of this?"

"A fair bit," I nodded shamelessly, "And, uh, seven point five." He'd taken some of the enjoyment out with the quip about his mate, but I wasn't going to let that ruin the novelty. "This is assuming the scale doesn't account for physical pleasure." Might as well get that out there. I laughed wryly. "Hey, if it makes you feel any better, this feels better than arresting you did."

"Well, I was _sad_ then," Caffrey replied slowly, using _feeling_ words as if he was unsure he was actually saying it right. "So if you had been having this much fun, I probably wouldn't have wanted to even try being around you this much."

I snorted rudely. There's no way. My attitude wouldn't have had a bearing on what he chose when he had already made a clear decision on what to try. "You'd prefer me to prison no matter how rude I was, and that's a fact." I considered pushing him, seeing what his limits were in the coming days, but decided that being capricious to that extent for no real reason was just too much trouble. "See you at seven AM tomorrow."

I left him in the plague hotel with a wave over my shoulder and a spring in my step, fully intending to go back home to Kate and watch television with her while eating a big dinner of microwaved macaroni. I don't need a chef.

* * *

I went back to the hotel the next morning at seven, just like I'd promised, hair still slightly stringy from my shower but with my breath carrying the vanilla scent of my Starbucks purchase on the way over. I covered my mouth as I yawned and stepped up to the clerk's desk.

"I'm here to pick up Caffrey," I announced, looking down at the same man from the day before. Normally I'd have leaned on the furnishings, but didn't think this place had half of the cleanliness any public facility was required to have, and very pointedly stood upright, supporting myself. "Room twelve."

Evidently, the clerk remembered him. He looked up from his game of solitaire to chuckle. "Oh, yeah, Snake Eyes." I didn't think that when I looked at Caffrey; I thought _pretty_ , and it was enough to make me want to not ever acknowledge that I felt that way about his appearance. _Sublimate, McKenna, sublimate!_ "Nice guy…" Rotating on the creaking chair, he reached for the mail slots for the individual rooms behind him and picked up a slip of paper from the cubby for Caffrey's room. "Left you a note."

He passed it over to me, a bandaid on one of his fingers. I took it out of his hands without touching said bandaid and unfolded the piece of scrap notebook paper, folded in two with sharpie staining through to the back. Caffrey's printed handwriting was bold and big on the paper, visibly cheerful and defiant without using any standoffish or rude words.

 _Dear Kenna, I have moved approximately 1.6 miles._ He followed it with an address that was on a street not far away; definitely within his perimeter. I rolled my eyes when the note finished with hugs and kisses. _XOXO, Neal._

"You cheeky son of a bitch," I whispered, starting to smile despite myself. I folded up the note and slipped it into my pocket as I left the clerk to play his game on the computer, going back out to my car.

* * *

"Christ, Caffrey," I breathed, standing at the front of the porch with my head tilted all the way back to look up at the _mansion_ in front of me in soft whites and green trim and emerald roofing. "You're going to be the death of me." How had he managed _this?_ What the fuck?! I left him twelve hours ago in a disgusting, trashy motel, and now he's living like a duke in one of the city's most scenic mansions. And, no, that's _not_ an exaggeration.

I felt like Burke would probably be saying _I told you so,_ and Kate wouldn't believe this until she saw a photograph.

Although the building was somewhat intimidating, I knew that I had to make sure that the owner was actually aware Caffrey was here, and I still needed to pick him up for work, so I stepped up to the door and poised my hand to rap on the polished oak before I saw the doorbell. My hand fell awkwardly and I pushed the button. I heard the echo of the ring even through the closed door.

A maid pulled the door open. There was no mistaking her for anything else; hair drawn up with ringlets falling out of her bun, she wore what looked like a French maid's costume, except the apron was dirty from cleaning or cooking, the bust was loose, and the skirt was much longer and accompanied by appropriate nylons.

"Um. Hi," I said intelligently, wondering if I was amused or irritated that Caffrey had moved into a place where he could literally have a maid. If he made _one_ joke about a maid's costume, though… "I'm FBI," I introduced, trying to look past her to see if I saw either the building's owner or the con artist I was looking for. "Can I speak to whomever owns the property?"

"You must be Kenna." The maid looked to the right when she heard the soft but friendly woman's voice and she stepped to the side. Into view moved an elderly woman, probably in her sixties or seventies, with rich complexion, wavy black hair with dark caramel highlights, and light brown skin, dressed in an orange coat with fur on the collar and holding a ginger and cream Pembroke Welsh Corgi in one arm. My eyes darted down to the animal before I told myself to _focus_ and looked up at her again.

Her eyes sparkled mirthfully, having no doubt noticed the wave of affection that overcame me the minute I saw her dog.

"It's McKenna, actually," I informed her, suppressing a groan. Caffrey was definitely here. And definitely telling people my name was Kenna. "I'm looking for Neal."

Saying his first name casually, without it quickly being followed by his surname, was a relatively new thing to me; and while I liked how his name sounded, it was strange to seem so familiar with him when I had yet to berate him for this new life decision he'd made.

The woman stepped to the side in a clear invitation into her manor. "He's upstairs," she informed me. I wandered over the threshold and looked around the rich, lavish downstairs that was in view of the door. I hadn't lived in a house this big since-

_No. That was a completely different part of my life._

"And…" I couldn't see a set of stairs in sight, meaning that it was further away. After seeing the size of the house from the outside, I was pretty sure I could get lost in this labyrinth and need David Bowie to come rescue me. "Which direction will take me to the stairs?"

I looked back at her, earnestly questioning, and she smiled.

* * *

For me, I wasn't sure if I was more irritated that Caffrey had managed a penthouse suite or that I kept half-panicking every few seconds, wondering if the reason it was seeming like such a big house was because I had taken a wrong turn and gotten lost, even though the manor's owner had given very straightforward directions.

Part of the penthouse extended onto the roof and overlooked the busier skyline of New York on one side. I very hesitantly stepped out onto the third-story roof as if it might turn out to be an illusion, but no - a couple of picnic tables were set up, a swimming pool glinted and reflected sunlight to the left, and a wall going all the way around the perimeter of the roof was built up about four feet high for safety. Being in a place this luxurious almost made me long for having a place this big, too - but then I realized I had absolutely no idea what I'd do with all of the space.

Caffrey was enjoying the calmness and great view. Clad in a navy blue robe tied loosely around his abdomen, I caught a glimpse of his chest as he moved his arms, turning the page on the _New York Times_ newspaper and shifting the fabric. He looked up and grinned widely at me.

"You're early!"

"We found a lead at the airport," I stated, transitioning swiftly into a teacherly disposition. "Here's your pop quiz - we got a hit on our Snow White."

"Snow White," Caffrey answered, lips quirking as he proved that he really had done his homework. "The phrase you decoded from a suspected Dutchman communication at Barcelona."

I nodded my head once to confirm he was correct, regardless of whether or not he already knew it (he did). Then I looked around. I almost wished I'd brought sunglasses because the morning was so bright, but it just served to emphasize the great deal that the conman had somehow managed to score.

"You moved," I said intelligently.

"Yeah," he agreed, folding up the newspaper neatly and setting it down flat on the picnic table in front of him. The black wire was patterned with small, precise images. Without the papers in the way, I could see a small cup of coffee in front of him. "It's nicer than the other place, don't you think?"

_Obviously._

"Definitely," I said, humoring him as I looked around, pretending to actually have to seek out the differences. "I don't remember the motel having, uh, half the size."

Caffrey smiled at me cheekily. "I went to the thrift store - like you suggested - and June-" _Lady with the Corgi,_ I assumed - "-Was donating her late husband's clothes. We hit it off, she had an extra guest room…" he trailed off as the puzzle drew itself together. I rolled my eyes. He noticed my irritation. "You said if I found a nice place for the same price, I should take it," he reminded, as if I was considering taking it back.

"Yes, I did. And I'm proud of you for taking initiative," I sarcastically praised. There wasn't really anything wrong with what he'd done, so long as June was aware that her new tenant was a convict, so I couldn't exactly threaten or reprimand him for his new shelter. "This whole place for seven hundred?"

"Yep," he replied, clearly delighted with himself. He popped the "P" in the word. "But I help out around the place. Feed the dog, wash the Jag, watch-"

"The _Jaguar?"_ I interrupted. Though not a mechanic, I admire beautiful cars. A Jaguar certainly qualifies, but there was no way I could buy one on my bureau salary. Kate and I lived quite comfortably, but not quite _that_ comfortably. "Unbelievable. You are unbelievable!" He preened like it was a compliment. "Look, this is great, and I'll have it recorded and the tracker adjusted, but I've got to ask-"

The smile dropped from his face. "No, you don't," he disagreed.

"Yes, I do," I contradicted firmly, finally pulling out the metal chair across from him. I dropped down into the seat and looked at him across the table. From this angle I could see the steam rising from his coffee. "She _does_ know who you are, right?" Caffrey sighed and looked out over the wall at the skyline. "You didn't just charm your way in with a smile and some half-truths?"

I wished that I was surprised, but I caught on rapidly when Caffrey deflected and turned the subject around. I just resigned myself to asking June instead as he put on a sexy, suggestive smirk. "You think my smiles are that charming?"

"You're about as charming as Ted Bundy," I stated tonelessly, unimpressed. At least Bundy was actually charismatic… I could've said something meaner.

His mouth made an 'O' and he leaned back, raising his hand to press over his heart through the fuzzy, dark blue robe. "Oh!" Pouting, he looked across the table and blinked. "Ouchie, Kenna, that hurts. You hurt me in my _heart_."

"You know what else hurts?" I said, mouth moving on autopilot. Times like these were when I was most grateful for my practice being sassy and quick-witted. I didn't have to work or think to be a verbal match. "Being called 'Kenna' and seeing you without clothes." I nodded to the door going back inside as it was opened again. An excited yap let me know that it was June and her dog. I tried to smile to seem friendlier for her benefit rather than broadcasting the annoyance and stress in the interactions between myself and my new friend. "Go get dressed," I instructed, lacking much fire.

Caffrey stood up, still grinning in good humor at his melodrama, and overemphasized the swish of his robe as he headed to the door. June moved to the side and she bent down, placing her Corgi gently on the concrete, its paws already scrabbling. Caffrey was wearing socks, at least, but that was all else. He passed by June with a polite greeting, a perfect gentleman to her.

The ginger and white dog raced for me, its short tail whipping back and forth. Tiny claws skittered on the rooftop for traction while its head bounced. Bunching up its hindquarters, the dog sprang from a couple of feet away, aiming for my lap. It fell embarrassingly short of its goal, succeeding in awkwardly getting its front paws onto my thighs and falling back down.

Undaunted, the little animal sat down and wagged its ass back and forth happily, tongue lolling to the side of his mouth, looking up at me expectantly. I 'awww'-ed when appropriate.

"That's Cinnamon." Wrapping her shawl more tightly across her shoulders, June looked to the dog with fondness, joining me at the table while I waited for Caffrey. "He's a sweetheart. Oh, he won't bite. You can pet him."

With permission from the owner, I bent over and reached down for the puppy-sized dog, seizing him lightly around his body. He had the weight of a living animal but was light and easy to carry for his size, and his legs stilled and he panted while I put him down on my lap. When my fingers were unburied from his fur and I balanced him on my legs, he chased my hands with his tongue, yipping excitedly as he headbutted my lower ribcage.

_Instant best friends._

"I have another one around here somewhere," June mused, looking around the rooftop, but not seeing another pet. "Bugsy. He's a pug, and still thinks he's a puppy."

A hand moved to Cinnamon's side to stabilize the dog, but I reached over across the newspaper and picked up the half-full cup of coffee from in front of June and carefully carried it back to me. June watched with a sparkle in her eyes as I took a drink from Caffrey's mug.

I moaned indecently. "It's perfect," I declared reverently, putting it down in front of me possessively. "Oh, God, the coffee is perfect." The caffeine was strong, but the coffee was sweetened with creams.

June laughed at my fervent adoration.

She, Cinnamon, and I sat around the table while I occasionally shamelessly drank Caffrey's coffee. Although it's never been medically confirmed, I have a slight suspicion that I may have a small caffeine addiction. While it's nowhere near the withdrawal that people go through when they quit recreational drugs, I've noticed that when I stop drinking coffee for longer than usual, my headaches increase in both frequency and intensity.

Cinnamon really was a sweetheart; his owner was more than correct about that. The Corgi was so happy just to be on my lap that it stuck its head over the arm of the chair, wiggled its body across both of my legs, and now leaned at an angle, hind legs pushing against my slacks to stop from slipping off of my thighs. He chuffed happily every few breaths and when I lowered my hand down to stroke down his body, he lifted his head and licked halfheartedly at my hands, torn between being affectionate and receiving a good petting.

 _Why doesn't Kate want this,_ I thought mournfully, looking down at the animal with the big brown eyes. _We could have this. Instead she wants the animal of Voldemort._

It was kind of awkward to me. Here we were, sitting on the rooftop of a penthouse, our mutual connection inside ditching his robe for no doubt some sleek suit or elegant get-up that used to belong to the widow's husband. I had her dog in my lap while I drank her coffee. I had to break the silence somehow. I had to make friends.

I love my friends, but I don't particularly enjoy making them, so for me to abruptly realize that _I need to be on good terms with this woman for my sanity_ almost made me break out in a sweat. So many things can go wrong when trying to make friends.

"I have to make sure you know," I blurted out before I could stop myself, and my years of practice at calm, level composure was the only thing stopping me from face planting the table. _Yes, yes, make friends by establishing rapport over that she's invited a convict to live with her. Good thinking._ Now I have to come up with something funny _quickly._ "French fries didn't come from France." She frowned and blinked at me and I hurried to elaborate, internally scolding myself. _See?! This is what happens when you decide to socialize!_ "And French waiters get really offended when you insinuate that they did."

Her expression cleared, and the landowner started to laugh. I felt the systems in my body calming down. _Mission cleared._ What does it say when the thought of facing down a gun gives me no pause, but I get an adrenaline rush at the thought of avoiding a social faux pas?

 _That I need more in my life,_ I decided glumly.

"It's not jewelry on his ankle," I informed her more seriously now that the ice had been broken. I shifted as little as possible to preserve Cinnamon's place on my legs while I put down the coffee cup and set my hand flat next to it. "It's a tracking monitor. He's a felon, released to my custody in exchange for consultation."

June's eyes softened, and she slowly leaned over the picnic table to place her hand, soft and smooth from lack of labor and presence of lotions, over the back of mine reassuringly.

"Oh, I don't mind, dear," she said with an air of wisdom. "My husband was one, too. But oh, could he pull off an orange jumpsuit." She added mischievously, somehow knowing what to say to make me loosen up and laugh.

I did just that. It was kind of entertaining to relate, even if it's internally, that the new acquaintance and I have both known someone who looked damn fine in prison uniforms, even if I doubted I'd ever admit it.

"You're welcome here to check on Neal any time, McKenna. And for other reasons." Again, there was that mischief and the light humor. I sighed and shook my head. I appreciated the invitation, but other than checking on him, the only reason I could think of to be here would be to maybe study cases. "He's earning and paying his right to residency," she earnestly continued. "I just don't understand how we can expect them to redeem themselves if they're never given the chance after doing their time."

There was a certain stigma attached to being arrested, let alone convicted. Being a felon kind of put a label on a person. Some associated jail with theft, and there was a loss of the feeling of trust. Some associated it with more violent crimes, like homicide and rape, and there became a feeling of a lack of safety. Even after being incarcerated for crimes in which no one was physically hurt, a lot of people may feel endangered by being around someone that the government had decided needed to be locked away from the population.

In theory, the system works so that a person does a crime, they pay for it accordingly - by serving time - and then they're released to continue with their lives. Unfortunately, what's not always taken into account is the dent it puts on their reputation. Oftentimes friends, family, employers, and even potential relationships of any kind are dissuaded from association because of the stigma, and someone arrested in their teen years for shoplifting some jewelry or supplies may be left paying for it the rest of their lives.

June definitely had a point there. It was unfair to deny Caffrey residency simply due to his criminal record; if she had felt unsafe, that would be one thing, but if she felt fine around him and just refused on principle, it was another.

"Right," I said, understanding - really, I _did_ understand. I was just still trying to accept what Kate had reminded me of in that working with Caffrey wasn't going to be like working with Dahmer or Bardo. He had quirks and irritating parts of his personality, sure, but doesn't everyone? It would be cruel to deprive him of the rights I would give someone else just because of something he had already paid for. It goes against the principles behind my job. "Well, he has charmed his way through most obstacles, so just be warned."

* * *

After sitting with June for a few minutes, I made an excuse to go back downstairs and wait for Caffrey to be ready to go. I was pacing back and forth and trying to stop (is it rude to pace in someone else's home?) but not having much success.

I checked the pastel-colored watch on my wrist over the top of my laced gloves. _Jesus. It takes him longer to get dressed than it takes me,_ I thought with initial amusement, which I forced into irritation because _I'm not supposed to like him, damn it._

Someone cleared their throat to make an entrance. I looked up to the top of the stairwell as Neal came downstairs, twirling a black fedora around, tossing it up, and catching it upside down, placing it on his head neatly. He was dressed to impress in a suit that was probably too expensive to be sold in any of the stores I went to, the material well-fitting and emphasizing his body in the right places. The hat trick should've been silly, but it was appealing. I almost stopped blinking and breathing.

 _Fuck,_ I thought emphatically, very, very glad that I was saying this in my mind rather than out loud. I would never live it down. _What I wouldn't do to have my legs around him right now._

It occurred to me a second later that he was expecting to make an entrance complete with a good reaction. I crossed my arms, putting on the air of someone who totally _wasn't_ intending to check him out when he was no longer looking. "Wow," I said dryly, making a point to subtly check my watch again. "Whose boy band are you joining?"

He frowned, not garnering the desired reaction. "This is _classic_ Rat Pack." I rolled my eyes, and he held onto the finial on the banister, twirling off of the stairs. "This is a Devore!"

I suppressed the impressed expression. It wasn't difficult. Recognizing the name didn't mean that I wanted to fawn over him. "Right, right." He picked up the fedora and flipped it back on, raising his eyebrows at me excitedly to see what I thought. "Just stop playing with the hat, Krueger."

He wasted no time in plastering on a flirtatious grin. "Does that mean I'm in your dreams?" Caffrey asked, almost purring.

"It means you're screwing with my life." I like shooting people down when they come onto me. I turned my back to him and checked my watch. We really should be going…

"You're upset!" Behind me, he sounded so surprised by my mood that I had to wonder if he was a little dense. Maybe he was a crime savant and a social idiot. "Sour grapes…"

He was already needling me in ways that I didn't appreciate, so that was all it took to have me whirling back around to face him. He hadn't moved from beside the stairs, but now held the hat in a hand to his chest, making a sad face at me.

"Would you like to repeat that a little louder?" I asked testily, almost sure that he'd back down. He didn't know me that well. For all he knew, I was angry enough to take a swing at him.

That thought might have occurred to him, from the way that he held both arms out, waving the damn hat like a peace gesture, indicating not to shoot the unarmed man. "Look, you tell me which rule I broke, and I will thumb it back to prison myself," he vowed.

 _Okay._ I wasn't sure if I admired or hated that he'd managed to get this far on his own with what very little he had, but I certainly couldn't condone it. It was all too easy to be a little jealous of the ease with which he'd gotten this luxurious penthouse and kind hostess. Then, on top of that, he'd come downstairs looking like a model and started flirting with me. I was a little annoyed at him for taking that liberty and at myself for being attracted to him. The work he does entitles him to a prison cell, which I got him out of. The work _I_ do may give me more of an entitlement to a luxurious home, but that's not the way the world works economically, socially, or politically.

It would also be a lie to say that him living in this mansion wasn't stirring up some old aggression from my former life. This place was _great._ I'd given up one similar for reasons that were more important, but that doesn't mean that I don't miss all the space, privacy, and - yes, I'll admit, I may be well-off financially, but I do miss having the ability to get on a plane first-class and fly out to Cape Town or Berlin pretty much whenever the mood struck.

"You didn't," I said, and then waved my arms to emphasize the place we were in. "That's the problem! I'm glad you found accommodations I can walk into without worrying about my vaccinations, but it's not right that you just walk around like you own the place after you skip your way out of prison to work on a case that it seems like you're actually _enjoying."_ This wasn't him getting out of his sentence. This was him serving _me_ for its duration, and happening to have limited freedom because I'm not a freak who will demand he live with me and be my personal slave. Also, it wouldn't be legally condoned. But mostly the former. "And you get a furry friend to keep you company, and that's just not cool, because I've been pestering Kate - my Kate, not your Kate - to let me get a Corgi for _years_ and it's always _no Kenzi, it's too small and yappy and there'll be fur everywhere_ and _no Kenzi, if I can't have a snake you can't have a dog, and even if you change the rule and let me have a snake, my snake would probably eat your dog._ " I started to pause, because I really hadn't intended to start talking about my pets argument with my sister, but I shrugged and worked around it. "It's not right that in the meantime, you make lines at me, try to use your _soulmate_ as a point in an argument, and drink coffee in a view that looks like you're watching from Heaven!"

Although in truth the exploitation of his mate was what had me the most riled up at him in general, I was aggravated now for the long list of things. I think it was just finally sinking in what I'd signed up for, and I sent up a prayer to the powers that be that we could learn to get along sooner or later. If I had to deal with stress like this for four years, I probably wouldn't _live_ through the entire four years.

Although I was surprised by how I ranted, what surprised me more was the way that Caffrey received it. He listened very attentively and solemnly, not once trying to interrupt, and when I was done, he stepped towards me slowly. Once he was close enough, I bit my tongue and let him gently place his hands over my shoulders, wanting to see what he would do.

He looked down at me with understanding and sympathy. "I will find out where June buys her coffee if it's that important," he promised me emotionally, as if we were having a big bonding moment here.

I just groaned. _Of course._ I should've known that it would have killed him to take something seriously.

"It's not about the coffee," I moaned, pinching the bridge of my nose and shaking his hands off.

"I think it is," he wisely chose to ignore me. "I think you're a coffee nut and you want the good coffee."

"I don't care about your coffee," I maintained stubbornly.

"Well, you were fine with the escaping from prison and the forgeries and the alleged stealing and lying and frauds and cons, so something in that list you just named is apparently quite a problem with you, because they all seem pretty irrelevant in comparison." Knowingly, he tilted his head down to me. I resisted the urge to smack the fedora off, but only barely. Of course, _now_ he would use reasoning skills. Well, I'd be damned if I told him I was pissed because I'm a closet romantic, so he'd just have to enjoy his guessing game.

"You try to figure me out, Caffrey," I invited coolly. "But, if you insist on puzzling me…" I poked his chest to make a point. "Make sure you prioritize puzzling _my_ puzzle first, because that's why you're out of the bars."

He looked contemplative as he rocked back to his heels. "I think it's…" he said, narrowing his eyes in concentration. "... Some sort of Italian roast…"

_Shut up about the coffee!_

"In the car!" I snapped, stepping to the side and pointing fiercely in the direction of the front door.

Caffrey ducked his head sheepishly and hurried in that direction. "Okay…"

* * *

"They're over there," I told Caffrey, mostly recovered from my irritation and his insolent quips about coffee.

We approached after being frisked by security. Derek and Diana had come to meet us right past the security checkpoint to take us to the space that they had taken up with the airport so that we could take care of our work without disturbing the airport hubbub from the passengers of airplanes and the families of incoming and outgoing people.

While Caffrey had seen Derek already, Diana was new to him, so he elbowed me and dropped his voice as we watched them talking a few yards away. "Who's she?"

"Diana." Diana was in her mid-twenties, a gorgeous woman of African descent with long black hair that hung straight naturally, unlike mine, and her eyes were always sparkling and lively. She was wearing a pantsuit like mine, but hers was pinstriped and grey while I wore a solid black set. "She's my probie."

"Probie?" He repeated in question.

"Probationary agent. She does what I don't, and I vouch for her and give good reviews." I looked up at him. He was staring at Diana, noticing like I did that she was a beautiful woman… except that sort of observation was much more welcome from me than it was from him, as he would find out if he didn't leave her alone. "She is _very_ good at her job, and she is, ah… out of your league." Both of our individual conversations ended as we stopped in front of Derek and Diana. "Heya."

"Neal Caffrey." Derek, despite having been in the party that arrested Caffrey, was more welcoming to him than I had been. He held out a hand for an enthusiastic felon to shake. "I heard she was so charming when we arrested you, you wanted to flip sides and work for her."

"Hah, yeah, sure." I looked at him in warning. I got how people bonded, so if they were going to comment about me right in front of me, they were welcome to as long as they weren't insulting. I hoped he got this message. "She sure was something."

"Nice hat," Diana complimented to be nice. Caffrey just grinned at her.

Trying to save Diana from the evilly flirtatious conman, I started, "What is this, gossip hour? What's going on?"

Diana made a 'come forth' gesture and I passed the boys to walk next to her. She stayed in step beside me, but she led me past the checkpoint and to the left. "His name's Tony Field," she informed, filling me in while the men started to follow in our wake. "Customs flagged him coming in from Spain in response to our Snow White BOLO."

"Are Customs cooperating?" I asked, almost dreading the reply because the vast majority of the time, Customs were about as cooperative with the feds as children.

"As much as usual," Derek said. It was vague, but I understood the meaning and groaned. "He's in their custody, not ours."

"Well, it's less paperwork for me." I detested paperwork - the field was where I belonged, not the desks, so I'd take the upside. "They can keep him. What was he carrying?"

"You're gonna love this," Diana promised vehemently, beaming widely.

I was a little worried by how eager she seemed.

* * *

It turned out that, instead of confiscating something interesting, the man that had been detained - Anthony Field - had been carrying two suitcases chock full of thin children's books. Both suitcases were open and laid on collapsible white- and grey-mottled tables in a secure room in the airport.

I let out a long breath and blinked several times. _They rang our alerts,_ I thought to myself stubbornly. _They have to be important._ Plus it was just a strange thing. I crossed the airport's linoleum floor and stepped between the two tables, moving to stand behind one of the suitcases and look down into it.

Delicately, I picked up a top copy of a red-covered book with a drawing of… _well, I'll be damned._ The blue and yellow dress, black hair, and pale skin couldn't be mistaken for anyone other than Snow White in the oval cut-out, surrounded by crimson which traveled over the binding and covered the back.

 _"_ _Blancanieves y Los Siete Enanos_ ," I read aloud from the front cover, translating as I read and repeating it for the other three. "Snow White and Her Seven Little Men."

Caffrey moved around the tables, making them his comfortable territory. He put his hands on them and spun around energetically, coming to a halt and adjusting his fedora with a grin as he looked down into the contents of the other suitcase. "You've seen the book before?"

"No, I just speak Spanish."

"Ah, the romantic languages." Caffrey chuckled. I tried to ignore him and flipped open the book I was still holding, running my index finger down the creases between the pages. There wasn't anywhere to hide anything. I knew the alert had been "Snow White," but I hadn't expected it to be literal! It looked just like Snow White and the dwarves on the pictures, and although the language was Spanish, it translated to the same fairytale I remembered from since I was a kid. "Gotta love 'em."

"These triggered our alerts?" I closed it up, held it so the cover faced away from me, and held it in front of my chest, showing Derek and Diana. "What was this guy doing with so many _Blancanieves_ books?"

"He says he's a rare book dealer," Derek replied. The way he held himself when he said it, as well as the raised eyebrow, made it clear to me that he was more than a little bit skeptical.

"There are precisely two hundred in the suitcases combined," Diana added from just behind Derek.

Caffrey jumped behind me. "Is that what it was?" He asked in intrigue, as if something had led him to a guess. "That you're a romantic?" He was teasing as he said it, playful, if a little cheeky, but he sounded absolutely thrilled that maybe this was what had really bothered me earlier.

Derek looked at Caffrey, but then back to me, trusting me more than whatever the criminal said. "What's he talking about?"

"Nothing relevant," I said, somewhat strict. I changed gears just as quickly. "What about his paperwork?"

"That's all straight," Diana said, tapping her thigh with an ink pen. "He's brought the same books in the same quantity on three previous trips, and declared them each time."

"Were you upset I was being sweet?" Caffrey cooed. _"Usted tiene los ojos azules más bonitos que he visto nunca."_

I sighed and rolled my eyes. Of course he would learn I spoke a romantic language and then start trying to flirt in said language. He could say more things in that language and not have anyone but me know what he was saying. What he'd said was cute, sure. Sweet. But coming from him, it just sounded like a cliché; I had no real issues with my eye color, but someone with his irises saying that to me just sounded cheap. He _had_ looked in a mirror, recently, right?

"Alright, Casanova," I finally acknowledged, turning around to put my back to the suitcase, still holding one of the books. I figured that the fastest way to shut him up would probably be to humor him for as long as it took for him to get bored - or, because I didn't have the patience for that, to reprimand him.

"What, not forward enough?" He asked with wide, innocent puppy eyes. "Alright, how about _¿puedes venir aquí para que pueda abrazarte?"_

 _Okay, that's it._ Something snapped and I violently growled, "How about _cállate la boca con el coqueteo o yo en realidad podría matarte!"_

"Well." Caffrey stepped back, giving me my space, and pulled the edge of his hat down. "That's a bit of an overreaction to some flattery." He stopped, though, and didn't even seem offended that I'd threatened him; I realized a little too late that he had been testing me to see if I really spoke Spanish or if I'd been trying to show off or be impressive.

My expression darkened and I stepped to the side, imagining with a vivid show in my head how satisfying it could feel to give him a hard shove back into one of the tables.

"Start pulling your weight, Caffrey," I ordered instead. "Are we wasting time with these?"

Caffrey picked up another book from the first suitcase. He held it horizontally in his right hand, then experimentally tossed it across a short distance to the other. He repeated this a couple of times before he turned it around and held the spine to his nose, sniffing the binding.

I felt a headache coming on and rolled my eyes.

"They're not limited runs or special editions," he said, thinking out loud before I said something rude. "Can't be worth much."

Derek looked at them cynically and with a hint of disappointment. I think if they really were interesting, then this would be a more promising lead, and feel like less of a time waster. "So why go through the trouble of flying them in?"

Caffrey shrugged and lowered the book carefully back onto the others. Despite it not being special, he was still careful with how he handled it. "Good question," he said to my brother.

Diana put her hands on her hips and coughed slightly. I looked to her and she shifted, putting the majority of her weight onto her right leg. "He sure is nervous for having all the right paperwork." She observed, meeting my eyes steadily. I raised my chin slightly in acknowledgment and pointed at Derek.

"I'll set it up," he said, nodding to Diana about something and going to the left to wherever Field was being detained. I nodded, satisfied. My team knew me so well.

Diana went in the opposite direction. "Hey, boss, I'm grabbing some coffee." She declared to me, knowing full well that my caffeine addiction was a very strong force to be reckoned with. "You want some?"

In response, I leaned over the table between us, promiscuously pushing my chest out and winking. "Anything sweet, gorgeous," I purred. Diana smiled, licking her lips, and gave me a thumbs-up on her way past.

Caffrey called her name and she paused, looking over her shoulder. I looked back to see what he was trying; he smiled charismatically, emphasizing his handsome face and elegant figure. "I'll take mine straight," he said, blinking flirtatiously. I winced at his come-on.

Diana, bless her, stood for none of Caffrey's manufactured or manipulating charm. "The coffee shop's outside," she informed him smugly as she left.

I laughed at how crestfallen he looked, amazed and injured emotionally that it hadn't worked on my probationary agent. I had always known there was a reason I liked Diana. If it wasn't for the coffee and the playful flirting, it was for this instance.

"I told you," I giggled at how far over his head he was without even knowing it. "You are batting _way_ out of your league."

"Oh, harmless flirting," he said, mistaking what I meant. He waved a hand dismissively and with the other, he pulled his hat off of his head. "It's like a dance."

"No, there is no dance," I lectured. I'd have been a lot more serious about it if I thought that he actually stood a chance with my agent, but I knew better, so instead I was content to mess with him until he figured it out. "You're not even in her dance club. No dancing for you."

"You're dancing with her," he accused.

 _There we go._ "Exactly," I replied, watching him expectantly.

He didn't get it. Flipping the fedora back on and striking a pose like a model at Target, he smirked at me sexily. "She digs the hat."

I leaned in, rocking forwards on my toes to bring my face closer to his, and whispered, "She'd rather be wearing it." Then I rolled back onto the balls of my feet and waited a second.

It took Caffrey a shamefully long minute to figure out what I meant. His face went blank as the gears worked in his head, puzzled, a crease between his brows and his eyes down in thought. Then he caught on.

"Oh," he finally managed, looking sheepish and, yeah, almost apologetic.

I laughed. I felt like that more than made up for the Spanish lines.

* * *

I sauntered confidently into the holding room that airport security had sent the book collector into. It looked at first like he'd been sent into a large time-out room. The room was large and clear, with tables set up around the sides of the circular room, and the tiles were boring white. The walls were dull grey. It was not exciting in any way whatsoever.

"Tony Field?" I asked, making sure that this was who I wanted to talk to. Hearing his name, the man across the room looked up. He was pale and had wire-rimmed glasses that pressed into his nose snugly to the point of looking uncomfortable, but he just seemed bored. "Agent McKenna Anderson, FBI."

The door closed behind me with a click as the door shut completely.

"FBI?" Field scoffed, reaching up and running his hand through his hair, messing up the short comb style. "Oh, they're really kicking it up a notch in here," he derisively complained.

I raised an eyebrow. That was okay. A lot of people had problems with the FBI. "You're a book dealer?"

"Yes, well…" Field rolled his eyes. The dealer leaned back in the chair, too comfortably for a guy in a chair that didn't have any cushions, and crossed his arms sassily. "As I've told everyone here - repeatedly - my business is the import and sale of rare books."

 _I don't think you understand what 'rare' means._ "They don't seem very rare if there are eight hundred of them," I said mildly.

He shot me a nasty bitch face. "Would you like me to go with you to the crime lab and help you dust for fingerprints?" He asked sarcastically, commenting none-too-subtly on how I was seemingly telling him how to do his job.

"We've got the dusting down, but if you'd like to give us a set of yours, that would be awesome." I pressed my hands down over the table and leaned over him, smirking down and enjoying that I was looking down to see him. "So. _Blancanieves?_ "

"Snow White was not created by Disney, Detective." I bristled as the man wrote me off and got my title wrong. _So he's going to be like that._ Even Caffrey was more respectful than that. And sure, he was being a suck-up because I was getting him out of prison, but still. I could put this guy in prison just as easily as I could Caffrey, even though it might not stick. "There are a few stories that predate the Steamboat Willie."

Because he was setting me up to look like an idiot, I decided to pull the rug out from under him and make him look bad, instead.

"I'm a federal agent," I corrected icily. "And you mean the original stories that Disney made into fairytales, where Mulan became a prostitute, Ariel died, Pinocchio was a psychopath, the prince raped Aurora?" The way he reacted, with his eyes widening slightly before he recovered and the purse of his lips tightening, gave me a strong feeling of satisfaction as it became more obvious to him that he had prodded the wrong bear. Or dragon, as the case may be. "Or older than that, like the virginally-pure Queen, the tale of the _White Princess and the Seven Knights_ … those stories?"

He looked down and reached up to the collar of the vest, scratching his neck where the back of the wool rubbed at the skin of his throat.

"Don't mistake me for an idiot," I warned softly enough for it not to be picked up by any audio recorders, because that was definitely the right tone for a threat. I raised my voice to normal again. "Now, what are the books for?"

The door's lock clicked as the handle was twisted, and the hinge squeaked protest when it was shoved open far too fast. A suited man with rich black hair and a clear face stood in the doorway and stalked inside, holding his briefcase with white knuckles.

"I'd appreciate if you didn't talk to my client." _Ah._ Well, that definitely made sense. He looked like a stereotypical lawyer. He smiled, thinly and rudely. "Constitution and all."

"Hm." I took a step back from Fields to show that I would cooperate for the legality. "Yeah. Damned constitution."

* * *

I meant to go see Diana again, but ended up stopping in the hall alongside Caffrey while she was entertaining herself with a uniformed airport security officer. The redhead twisted a curl of hair around her finger and giggled. Diana used her hands vigorously in animated gestures as she told a story, the smile never fading from her face.

Caffrey sighed again, not having to look at me to realize that I was there. "No dance, huh?"

"Not with Diana," I replied with a wide grin. Obviously Diana wasn't just one of my favorites for her sexuality, but she and I both always had fun watching the overly confident men get knocked down a peg or two by pursuing her – especially when we were in a setting nonprofessional enough to get away with kissing each other's cheeks to drive the point across.

Diana was openly gay at the office. The FBI had a policy that most people called "don't ask, don't tell" but the 'don't tell' really only extends – at least, in my experience – to those agents that are more traditional or openly homophobic. Thankfully, the division I presided over hadn't had a discrimination incident since I had been transferred. My probie had a steady girlfriend whom she shared an apartment with: Christy, a doctor at NYP Lower Manhattan Hospital. She may have enjoyed flirting with the auburn-haired TSA officer, but she wouldn't betray her significant other.

Caffrey fixed his hands behind his back. " _Con tu?"_ He asked with innocent, wide eyes, turning to look at me.

I smirked. _"En tus sueños."_ Derek, talking with another officer now that Diana and the first were preoccupied, pointed me out, and both started to come over. I didn't wait for them to get here, or say hello to the Customs official before I stated to Derek, "Please tell me you've got something on him."

Derek was shaking his head before I had even finished talking, and I sighed impatiently, driving my heel into the floor. "Neal was right." The con in question looked _way_ too smug. "The books aren't worth much. You can pick them up for a few dollars on e-Bay."

"Why didn't you tell me that guy lawyered up?" I asked Derek, a little wounded and irritated at the same time. Once he officially decided to call for legal counsel, I couldn't legally talk to him about the investigation at all. Period. Because I hadn't known, I'd tried to anyway, and his lawyer could bring up the potential to press it in any court case, in which case however we obtain evidence or information from him could be dismissed under the clause of negligence. "The second he makes that decision, I can't talk to him."

Instead of acting sheepish or looking as if he suddenly remembered something, Derek just cocked his head at me in confusion. "But he didn't call anybody," he objected.

I crossed my arms. That wasn't possible. "Then how did his lawyer know that he-" _He couldn't have,_ I realized as I was talking, and so that I could focus on thinking, I stopped talking in the middle of my sentence. The only way the lawyer could've known to come was if someone else had tipped him off; someone who wasn't supposed to know what was going on, because Customs and my team were the only people who knew anything was wrong. Well, and the criminals we were after, of course.

I dropped my arms from in front of me and took off in a sprint back in the direction I'd come from.

* * *

The room I'd left Field and the lawyer in had the door wide open, even though I specifically remembered pulling it shut for the two's privacy as I'd left. Although the lawyer was nowhere in sight, the dealer was slumped over the desk he'd been sitting at, his forehead down on the surface like he'd fallen asleep, except for that his vest was rumpled and a needle was sticking out of his throat.

I went running to him without pause from the doorway and stopped right behind the dealer, feet slipping for purchase on linoleum. "Hypodermic," I called across the background noise to Derek, taking the needle and yanking it out of Field's throat. I replaced it with my fingers, pressing tightly against his skin and feeling around for a pulse.

Derek leaned out the door. 'We need paramedics! _Now!"_

"It's no use," I told him agitatedly, not finding any heartbeat in the dealer's limp body. I threw my arms to my sides and dropped the needle on the table for the crime scene team to pick up later. "No one frisked the lawyer?!" I yelled, furious at airport security. I mean, for fuck's sake, I couldn't even get into the building without taking off my _shoes,_ but the "lawyer" could manage to sneak in a needle and whatever he'd injected the dealer with?!

Caffrey had followed Derek and I inside with a similar haste, but stayed out of the way while I tried to see if it was possible to save the man's life. He'd been dead before we'd even come into the room, I knew now.

He inhaled and winced, prepared to be hit for what was sure to be a remark I wouldn't appreciate. "I'd make a joke, but now doesn't seem like the best time." Meaningfully, he looked from me to the corpse. I glared exasperatedly.


	2. You're Still Lovely on the Inside

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Though their first case is off to a rough start, Neal strives to prove his worth as a CI while McKenna adjusts to her new responsibility.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Lucy Hale's "Empty-Handed."

_**Chapter Two - You're Still Lovely on the Inside** _

The only downside to having one of the best teams I can put together working on a case is that when we come to a standstill, however temporary it is, I feel like I'm failing to do enough, and like I should be pushing myself harder to make more progress. Which is ridiculous, because ninety-nine percent of the time, I'm doing all I can, but that's just how it is.

Diana had a date to keep with Christy, so she was out at a late dinner that I had encouraged her to go to, leaving Derek, Caffrey, and I to mull in the conference room. At first I hadn't liked how comfortable Caffrey felt in the middle of the bureau, given his history, but then noticed that he had actually been keeping rather close to me, especially when unfamiliar agents came near, and I decided not to bother him about it. In my opinion, he'd paid for the crimes he was convicted for. Although I understood the principle behind it, four years for trying to catch his sister seemed really harsh. Trying to be understanding, I was trying to think of him more as a colleague than as a convict.

Of course, that didn't mean I was totally thrilled that he had put his feet up on the table, but, ah… pick and choose my battles, right?

I paced along the length of the conference room by the windows. Caffrey timed the rocking of his chair so that it was always out of my way when I passed by him. "We have a dead book dealer, a homicidal lawyer, and a fuck-ton of worthless kids' books." I stopped pacing and raised my hand to my face. I pinched the bridge of my nose tightly between my thumb of index finger while Derek looked up from the table. "Okay," I let out a long breath. "Alright, come on, Caffrey, as a former professional counterfeiter, can you figure out what the Dutchman's interest in these is?"

Tapping his fingers against the flat surface of the table, Caffrey opened up one of the _Blancanieves_ copies that I'd let him hold onto after leaving the airport. The rest were being catalogued as evidence. If nothing else, we'd pissed off the Dutchman for confiscating his belongings.

"Published nineteen forty-four in Madrid…" He spoke softly, his voice a gentle murmur that I didn't think was strictly meant for anyone other than himself to hear. Then he kicked his legs off of the table, sat up straight, and scooted his chair in, lowering the spine of the book gently to the desktop. "This is what he's after," he declared, picking up the blank top sheet of the thin book and then letting it fall back down.

"The top sheet?" I asked, half skeptical and half curious.

"More than that," Caffrey corrected, rubbing the old paper between two fingers slowly. "This is a piece of nineteen forty-four Spanish press parchment."

I snapped my fingers. "He wants it because he wants to forge something originally printed on forty-four Spanish parchment," I realized, and then almost smiled, because hey, thanks to Caffrey, that was a bit of time saved.

He shrugged and looked up at me, watching me while I rocked back and forth on my heels. Frustration made me want to move, so I moved in the small, controlled ways that I could. "That's what I would do," he said freely, and I wanted to make a quip about trying not to remember that that was true.

Derek sighed tiredly. Neither of us had been resting the best for a long time, and honestly I wasn't sure what it would take to get me a full night's long, good, dreamless sleep again. Still, he pushed on. "Tony made three prior shipments of those."

Caffrey looked up to the ceiling thoughtfully. "One blank page per book is six hundred sheets."

"Plus these, which would make eight hundred." Assuming that he'd only wanted eight hundred, we could operate on the idea that he had already gotten most of the parchment that he'd wanted. "That's too many for artwork, but not enough for currency."

"Bet our book dealer knew," Derek suggested, looking up darkly. "That's why the lawyer shut him up."

"Do we have his wallet?" I asked, trying not to think very hard about the lawyer. I got really pissed off every time I remembered him. Instead of being snide, I should have taken out my gun and called for backup. There had to have been _something_ about him that I _could_ have noticed, something that would have given him away…

Caffrey frowned. "The lawyer's?"

"No, the dealer's," I corrected.

"It's here." Derek stretched almost all the way across the table to reach the collection of evidence bags we'd taken from the scene. We'd sent the rest to the lab, but kept the personal effects of the dealer and a _Blancanieves_ book, which Caffrey had long since taken out of the bag.

I took it up and flipped it around in my hand so that the opening in the bag was towards the ceiling. As quickly as possible, I dumped out the wallet into my hand, turned it around right, and opened it up. The simple leather billfold only held a few cards and several green bills. Some coins clinked noisily in a small change section at the back.

What I was more interested in were his cards. Already knowing his identity made them useless, but I figured that to forge something, you had to know what the original looked like, and anything worth forging was valuable enough to have someone keeping an eye on it, right?

A pass several days old from the National Archives department here in New York City caught my eye, the hole at the top punched out for a lanyard. No necklace was attached, but the slip had stayed in its laminated cover.

I pulled it out from among a credit card and an insurance slip, then tossed it down to land with a plop on the desk. The lamination made it heavier than it seemed like it should be. Caffrey leaned forward to see.

"This is where he went the day before he left for Spain," I said, praising myself mentally for thinking to check the wallet at all. "It's field trip time, Caffrey."

* * *

The man working at the desk was very friendly, and only too happy to give us a tour. This was _before_ I even had to pull out the badge to get cooperation. Still, for full disclosure and the general respect that included having it go both ways, I cheerfully informed him that my partner was Neal Caffrey, halfway hoping that he would recognize it as the name of an art thief and start to panic. I was woefully disappointed, but he was even more cooperative with me as law enforcement (if that was possible).

The portly man in the brown vest came waddling back to the desk a few minutes after he'd left, having gone to retrieve the treasured artifact from inside a security piece. We'd showed him a picture of Tony Field and asked to see anything that he'd looked at, and apparently he recognized him immediately, clucking his tongue, wiping the lens of his glasses with the corner of his shirt, and asking us very politely to wait for just a handful of tics.

"I _do_ remember him," the archivist proudly proclaimed. Caffrey and I shared a look, both of us a little exasperated by the optimism and painful joy that the man just seemed to radiate. Caffrey was a much lighter person in attitude than I typically was, I was learning, but even he seemed like he felt this guy was just too much. "He came by several months ago, and then again last week. This is what he came to see." Holding it carefully, touching it almost with reverence through gloves, he nodded to the table. Caffrey carefully stacked a folder on top of a pile of papers and then moved them all to the side, clearing off a space. The man lowered the old, old parchment down. I thought it might be artwork, but then he stood up again.

It was old, alright - but it wasn't artwork. There were drawings on it, but most of it was elegant, dark calligraphy in the same writing style as the copies of the Constitution. I supposed a history fanatic might call it artwork by this point. Peasants and lower-class citizens rejoiced, drawn with painstaking detail on the bottom part of the paper.

"The Spanish Victory Bond," the archivist puffed, awed. He took his hands away. The ends curled up slightly without him holding them down, but the majority of it stayed visible. He kept the gloves on - they allowed him to touch it without smudging the parchment with the oils on his skin. "He took several photographs of it, said he was going to write a book. It's a shame he's dead." He looked almost like he was actually going to mourn for this guy he'd never really known, eyes big through his glasses. I was just relieved that he wasn't about to start crying. "This bond does have a fascinating history."

Caffrey made himself comfortable, leaning over the parchment and observing it upside down with hawk-like attention. I kept glancing at him to make sure he was behaving, but even I could understand why he'd want to really analyze it. If it was of interest to Field, it was of interest to the Dutchman; and besides that, illegal or not, the things he could recreate - it was pure artistry, even if he did copy others and then claim it was authentic. The detail and history in the piece was enough to capture an artist's undivided attention.

Caffrey took a deep breath as if he could literally inhale the work put into the art. "It's a Goya," he noted. I recognized the name as a famous, renowned, and certainly dead by now artist, but it had no significant meaning to me.

"Yes," the archivist agreed in wonder, looking down at it with the affection of someone looking at a sleeping child. "Beautiful, isn't it?"

I shook my head. I understood passions - these guys both appreciated art. Cool. But I was here for a reason, and while I can always happily look at a nice painting for a few seconds, I didn't want to stay here longer than it takes to get the job done.

That motivation had me opening up the flap of my messenger bag and taking out a sheet of parchment removed from a dissected _Blancanieves_ book and unfolding it to the full length. Caffrey heard the rustling and stepped out of the way when he saw me getting it out, so I could stand over the Goya and hold the book sheet to the parchment to compare.

It was an exact match in size.

"Okay, I'm convinced." I announced, folding up the sheet and pushing it back into my bag. I focused my eyes raptly on Caffrey. One was okay, but two coincidences were too many to be feasible; I was buying it, but keeping the receipt, just in case. "You're earning your keep," I praised.

Caffrey smirked and didn't reply, instead looking across the desk to the proprietor. "You said it had a fascinating history?"

"Quite," the bespectacled man nodded in agreement. "It was issued during the war."

"In nineteen forty-four," I confirmed.

"Yes." He nodded some more. "The US issued these to support the Spanish underground in their battle against the Axis." Caffrey bent over the desk again, which wasn't strange on its own, but he put his face much closer to the Victory Bond than it needed to be. I withheld a sigh. _Men are all strange._ "Very few have… have ever been redeemed…" he trailed off when we both heard the sniffing, and both of us looked down to Caffrey, who was very conspicuously _smelling_ the parchment.

I resisted the urge to smack him upside the head (he was in such near reach, too) and instead shook my head at the archivist. "Don't mind him," I advised, sure that I looked physically pained. "He does that a lot. Just keep talking."

Eyes darting unwillingly between me and the conman, he tried to keep telling me the story, but his focus was understandably divided. "Um, there's… speculation that entire boxes were captured, and, uh, many are still hidden away in the caves of Altamira."

"Entire _boxes?"_ I repeated, raising my eyebrows, because suddenly the quantity of books ordered made a lot more sense.

"Yeah." He pushed his hands into his pockets. I hoped he'd remember to put on fresh gloves. Thank _God_ this guy wasn't on a crime scene team. Dreamily, he looked up towards the ceiling. "Boy, that would be something, wouldn't it? This is the only surviving copy."

"Except it's a forgery."

The archivist and I both turned to look at Caffrey. I blinked at the artist while the man in glasses finally, _finally_ faltered, smile breaking completely and looking like he'd have been more willing to accept the sky was green. "No," he said slowly, although by the wavering in his tone, he wouldn't have bet money on it now that it had been said otherwise. "That's not possible."

"Can you prove it?" I asked Caffrey sharply. He'd better be prepared to prove it before making potentially outlandish accusations like that, especially if he actually wanted me to do something about it.

In response, he picked up the parchment by the sides. He didn't even put on gloves first; that, more than anything, convinced me that he was certain, because even the conviction in his voice wasn't as meaningful as his willingness to risk smudging ink and leaving natural oils on the parchment of a beautiful, old piece of art.

"It's the ink," he offered, lifting it towards my face. "This is an iron-gal dye mixed to match the period colors, but it hasn't dried yet. You can still smell the gum arabic."

In spite of what it's called, gum arabic is actually tree sap. I breathed in deeply, shutting my eyes lightly to concentrate on what I smelled. It wasn't much, because there was so little there in quantity, but there was a natural scent lingering on the parchment that should have long since faded if it had really been made last century.

I opened my eyes again, nodding. "Yep. Okay." Caffrey nodded, pleased, and started to put it back down on the desk. "Next time you want me to sniff some ink, I'm just going to believe you." I was starting to think Caffrey might actually be helpful, and while I was still wary of trusting him, I was glad that my decision was paying off.

"Um," the archivist laughed anxiously, forced and uncomfortable. "No," he denied. "This has been here since nineteen fifty-two."

Caffrey raised his eyebrows with attitude and replied matter-of-factly, "It's been here less than a week."

I looked between the two men. _Now_ the archivist looked stupidly close to crying. I pointed at Caffrey with my left hand. "I'm gonna have to go with the expert on this one," I awkwardly and apologetically informed.

* * *

I rubbed my hands together briskly for friction, regretting leaving my blazer in the car. My white button-up dress shirt wasn't doing a very good job of keeping me warm. As my hands heated, I locked my fingers together.

"Field makes two trips," I summarized, briefing my team (sans Diana) on what was going on in order to regroup.

This was all pretty new information, since we had only come into it recently, and it couldn't hurt to put everything in one place for closer scrutiny. It's what Derek and I always did. If Caffrey didn't like it, he'd have to suck it up and deal with it - though I don't think he really minded, considering he was tossing a small yellow and blue stress ball between his hands over his chest, reclining in a chair with his feet up comfortably on the table. I was ignoring it for as long as I could.

"The first time, he takes a photograph of the bond. The second time, he steals the original and replaces it with the forgery." That alone was its own great crime, and regardless of forging other bonds, we could still get the Dutchman on being associated with that long enough to find evidence of the others. "Can we confirm that?" I looked to Caffrey for an answer when I asked, what with his expertise.

Derek leaned over the table and set his elbow up on the surface, balancing his chin on his knuckles. "The timed ink identification test puts the age of the bond at approximately six days, which coincides with Tony's visit. I'm having the surveillance pulled to back it up."

 _Good. That's acceptable._ If Field had had an accomplice, we might as well get that on tape. "Then the question becomes, why go to the trouble of making a forgery on the right kind of paper, just to stick it back in the archives?"

I balanced myself over the desk, placing closed fists on the table and leaning my weight forward onto my hands.

"Boys, this isn't Jeopardy, you can hypothesize without locking in."

Caffrey kept tossing his stress ball back and forth. I was pretty sure it had come from Diana's desk in the bullpen and made a note to make sure it got back there. "Is the bond still negotiable?" He wondered.

"It doesn't have an expiration date," I replied, having already seen the document on the value of the bond when the National Archives faxed it to my office. "It's worth a thousand dollars, face value, plus a nine percent annual interest."

Derek shifted to the side, reaching into his pocket without getting up. "Compounded for over sixty years…" He started to press buttons, more than likely going for an internet calculator, but he was interrupted by Caffrey, who figured it out mentally.

"Two hundred forty-eight thousand dollars," he supplied, blinking.

Derek stared at the man while he pressed in another few buttons for it to make the calculation, looked down at his phone, and then up at me in surprise.

_Okay, we just acquired a human calculator._

I trained my eyes on Caffrey intently. "He has six hundred sheets of them," I prompted.

"A hundred… fifty million, give or take." He then shrugged. I figured we had a general idea of how much it was, and the specifics weren't really important at that point, so I moved on.

"Well, that explains why he's forging them." That was a lot of millions. The Dutchman could get rich and move to anywhere in the world he wanted, and relocate several times, living in luxury each time. "But why steal the real one?"

Derek shrugged.

Caffrey picked his feet up off the table and sat up, scooting his chair in. "What if he claimed he found boxes of the original bonds?"

"And dragged them out of the caves in Spain…"

"Yeah. How would they be authenticated?"

It dawned on me pretty quickly after that. I tilted my head to the side and shut my eyes. The Dutchman was really thinking this through; of course he replaced the original. Otherwise, he'd be caught before he could get anywhere near cashing out. "They'd be taken to the National Archives and compared to the original," I explained. That was the procedure in place for authentication of documents, and it wasn't exactly secret knowledge. "Which has already been replaced with his forgery, so of course, they'll be exact matches."

Derek surveyed Caffrey appraisingly, considering the man in a new light. Caffrey saw and shot him a bright, movie-star smile worthy of cameras. "Hey, you're pretty useful for a con," he stated, sounding both shocked and a little respectful.

"You have no idea." Caffrey moved across the table and dragged his chair closer to Derek's. "She has free access to a Corgi because of me."

I felt both men's eyes on me as I looked between the two of them, daring them to start talking about me as if I wasn't here. Caffrey was being silly. Derek knew that I wasn't so in love with dogs that they would cancel out the whole "criminal" thing.

… Right?

"She loves those dogs," Derek said, sounding impressed as he looked at Caffrey as if prepared to hail him for a job well done.

I imagined a mark on my temple like angry characters in anime. "I can still hear you!"

* * *

I didn't know if Caffrey was a big fan of Jason Derulo. If he was, it just really sucked for him, because when hestarted playing on the stereo system of my car, I turned off the radio, intending to leave it off for the rest of the drive back to June's. I liked some of his songs, but not that one, and I'd have preferred the reign of the silence, anyway. There was too much going on as it was.

This left us driving (well, me driving, him sitting) in the SUV. It wasn't silent, because there were the sounds of rain splattering on the windshield and wheels forcing through puddles, of other cars' engines and the noise of Manhattan, even at night. I yawned and wished I had gum to pop in my mouth.

Caffrey cleared his throat after the second minute that we were stopped at an intersection by a long red light. "Big plans for the weekend?" He asked. His tone was unsure and his body language said _uncomfortable_ , but the attempt at casualty was obvious, and his unease comforting to me. It told me he was being sincere, not dishonest or manipulating.

It was hard to believe that after so long with nothing, we'd finally gotten this far on the Dutchman case - in just a day, no less. I felt somewhat obligated to talk with him, especially if he was going to be kind and civil about the entire thing. "Not really," I answered. When I wasn't working, I spent time at home, watching television, eating, and reading. I didn't have a lot of free time. "... I'm going to go to a hockey game with Kate," I admitted, coming up with it when I realized I had nothing more exciting to talk about. "My sister."

Caffrey's mild surprise overshadowed the relief we both felt that I hadn't had to ask him what his plans were for courtesy. What are you supposed to expect from an ex-con that just got out of jail with a sentence of probation over his head?

"She's into hockey?" He asked, wiggling around in the seat. With the seatbelt tight across his chest, because it locked at a shorter length when he slouched down, his clothes were rumpled while he tried angling himself a bit to me to engage in the conversation.

I shook my head with a sigh. "Not really."

Although he had asked the question, I don't think he had expected me to respond with anything but a positive affirmation. It gave him pause. "Then… why's she going?"

I didn't care if he noticed or not, but my hands tightened on the steering wheel. Was I really having this conversation? Was I really willing to have this conversation with _Caffrey,_ who had already annoyed me by being offhand about his soulmate, and who would probably try to drag me by the wrists out of my comfortable closet of pretend-hatred of romance?

"We made a deal," I said, deceptively lightly-toned while I argued with myself in my head over what it could hurt. Trying to be cooperative with him sure was making it hard to cooperate with _myself_. "I helped her with something, she comes to the game with me."

"What did you do?" Still facing me as much as he could, I got the feeling he was going to go after this like a dog with a bone. I wasn't sure if I regretted throwing him the bone or not.

I took in a deep breath and raised my hand up to rub the back of my neck. I kept my left hand on the wheel for when the light turned green (it had to eventually. Right?). "I helped her scan her mark through databases," I finally said flatly.

"You what?"

"Yeah."

I snuck a glance to the side at him. He was looking out the windshield with an incredulous frown, eyes wide and confused.

Kate's soulmark was on her hip, a heart-shaped lock of red and black patterns framed by delicate wings on either side in ashy grey and black that stood out sharply against her skin. She was a romantic and an idealist where soulmates were concerned, and I had agreed to digitally run her soulmark through online records of others. There had been a very low chance of finding hers, because most people didn't want to put theirs out there where other people could find it. Soulmarks were the closest thing to sacred anymore, given the same respect that devout religious followers gave to their places of worship, and they were given legal rights to privacy under almost any and all circumstances.

My soulmark was on my wrist, almost _always_ covered by some gloves. Long, wrapping almost all the way around the inside of my wrist, it was at least fairly easy to hide. Kate wanted to find her soulmate. I… was fairly impassive about finding, and rather intent on protecting, despite the contradiction. I secretly adored the idea, but any time I imagined it put into practice in reality, it didn't seem right. I thought it would be fantastic to have that person just for me, but, realistically, would we even get along?

There's a certain stigma attached to not being close to your mate, but honestly, I would _much_ rather a treasured relationship with someone that I met, bonded with, and chose to love _without_ matching marks over a forced physical _or_ emotional intimacy just because of some identical pictures, and that was a big part of what gave me pause. I wanted someone because I loved them, and they loved me; not because we were supposed to love each other.

I had no idea what was going through Caffrey's head. Being able to seek out soulmates via technology was pretty controversial still, between romanticism of the prospect and the more progressive, modern-day view. Personally, I thought it was good to have the available databases, especially to law enforcement. Think someone's on a psycho killing spree? Run their soulmark and find their mate, then take them into protective custody. That's at least one person who would be a potential victim made safe.

"What happened to… seeing each other in a crowded room, or meeting over spilled coffee?" Caffrey finally asked, looking as if he was in mourning for the loss of the aforementioned situations.

"You really are a romantic," I accused, laughing at his disappointed expression. I twisted on the windshield wipers to clear away the rain splashing across the glass. "She worries," I tried to explain. "A lot. And she hates that she does, because she believes in the whole 'soulmates are good' and 'it's predestined' shtick." I was giving away more of my opinions than I had meant to, but somehow I still felt safe. I guess it was hard to be worried about being judged when you were opening up to someone who had _already_ been judged. Several times. By a court of law. "But I think… I think seeing me almost killed so many times, and hearing about all the crime from my job… it doesn't help her any."

I stared through the rain, thinking more than seeing.

"I just ran it through a few databases," I echoed myself. "And, you know, most people don't even have theirs available online, because it's one of the few rights almost always protected. So, no match."

I had been worried that Kate would be disappointed by this, but it was actually hard for me to guess how she was feeling. When she got worried about it, she would trace her fingers over the outlines of her mark. She wouldn't even need to move her clothes to see it; she knew it well enough to outline without the visual. When she was optimistic about it, she watched cheesy Netflix shows about soulmates.

"You don't believe in soulmates being good and predestined?" Caffrey asked. I don't know why it surprised me that he didn't sound suspicious. He didn't sound very surprised, either, but he asked out of curiosity, and I thought that maybe by trying to understand me better, he was trying to bond.

"I believe it's predestined or something like that. And I'm Atheist, so believe me, I've questioned that one a lot." He nodded, either agreeing with my secularization or with that it was hard to come up with another explanation. It was an unexplained phenomena that seemed to be as old as time. "The vast majority of people with their soulmates are happy, whether they're married or dating or roommates or siblings. I just don't think that it's inherently a good thing."

"Why not?" Caffrey smiled kind of dreamily. "I always thought it was sweet." Then he raised his right hand and observed his fingernails, awaiting criticism like he didn't care.

I decided to let his obvious infatuation with the notion escape un-critiqued. We were _bonding,_ not _offending._ "Because just like we have soulmates, so do horrible, awful people, like Kaczynski and Holmes and Gacy. Rapists, serial killers, hitmen, home invaders…" I trailed off for a minute and squeezed my eyes shut.

_Pale skin, red blood, wire glasses, teeth and smirking._

"I met a guy once. Not a normal guy, a serial killer. He killed _her._ " Not just one out there, but the girl he'd killed, his eighth victim, whom he'd claimed to be head over heels for but then slaughtered heartlessly. "His soulmate, I mean. Stabbed her half a dozen times because she had been going behind his back to take contraception pills." I lowered my eyes to my hands, looking at the muscles, the tendons flexing as I drummed my fingers, the pull of skin taut over bones and sinew. Humans were so delicate for a species so complex. "I can tell you dozens of other stories like that with the motives, victims, killers different, but it's all the same. Someone kills their soulmate. Turns out that they weren't the best match after all."

I still remembered the specifics of every incident with those freaks, and I didn't think I would ever forget. I gave a lot of families closure, a lot of criminals justice, but in the process I had taken some of their traumas onto myself in a way that I didn't think I would ever be healed from.

"That's a lot of information for you to know about serial killings," Caffrey remarked cynically. "Are you trying to tell me something here?" He leaned to the side, his back pressing against the door. "Should I be concerned?"

I scoffed. "I'm not a killer, moron." _Bonding, not offending,_ I scolded myself, gentling my tone again to the same soft melancholy. "I wasn't always white-collar. They're the reasons I hide my soulmark. So many of them hated me. A few wanted me to suffer for putting them away, so they threatened…" _They threatened to kill my soulmate._ Being my sister by love rather than by mark was probably the only thing that had saved Kate's life. That kind of threat was more… just, _more_ than anything I could think of in comparison. Was a line most people wouldn't dare to cross. I had no doubt those demented monsters would have at the first chance.

"... I'm sorry," Caffrey offered, sounding genuine in the tentative way he offered condolence.

"You don't need to be sorry for that." That wasn't on him. That was on them, and they were already rotting in jail cells, if they weren't dead. "I knew what I was getting into, I just… it never occurred to me that I might not be the only one at risk. So. That's why I wear gloves. Because that sort of threat doesn't just go away and get better. There's no guarantee my soulmate isn't just like any of them. The world screws a lot of people over with it."

 _Domestic abuse. Reproductive coercion. Rape. Emotional violence. Verbal beating._ The list of what soulmates would sometimes tolerate just for the sake of staying with their mate went on and terrified me. I understood loyalty and devotion. Hell, I _understood._ But didn't they have the self-worth, the self-preservation to _get out?_

"That's just part of the draw, Kenna." Caffrey's hand touched my leg and I looked down at his long fingers, then up to him. He didn't take the hint, didn't move his hand, just tried to get me to look into soulful, expressive eyes, lit with excitement and affection… for an idea? For someone he'd never met? "Two people are thrown together. It's their job to make it work, decide if they even want each other or not. It's not like they apply for it," he pointed out with a shrug. I knew very well that it wasn't something anyone got a say in; he didn't need to remind me.

"But, I mean, your soulmate gets, what?" He withdrew his hand and gestured to me, indicating my entire self. "A gorgeous, clever FBI agent," he went on, waxing praise, but the way he said it didn't seem like flattery. It seemed like he was stating what he felt was fact, and this, more than the sweet lines in Spanish, made me feel like I glowed. He didn't seem to notice. "Who is protective of her family, who is empathetic, who shows compassion."

I looked down to my lap, trying hard not to let the coloring in my face change in response. _That_ I could get used to… _But,_ a small voice protested, _what's it worth, coming from a professional con artist?_

"What about mine, then?" He continued, motioning back to his own chest, seeming not to notice my internal imbalance. "A convict with another four years to serve, either in an anklet or in orange, who has a lot of enemies, who has lied and - allegedly! - stolen, forged, counterfeited, run fraud schemes."

"You shouldn't talk down about yourself," I said, in the same matter-of-fact, purposeful tone I took with Kate. I looked at him again. He seemed shocked that I was defending him - and from himself, of all people, watching me and waiting for me to go on. "I'm not going to be your moral counselor, Caffrey, so I don't want to say this more than once: you've gotten yourself into a lot of trouble, but you're paying it back now." Isn't that how the system says it works? Make a mistake, atone, get on with life? "You're paying back even more because of devotion to your sister." Which wasn't something I felt I could criticize even a little bit.

"And, you know, for everything you've done, you're not even a little bit dark compared to the people I'd seen." I chuckled softly. Compared to other people I'd met, Caffrey was a saintly ray of sunshine. "You've never assaulted just for the hell of it, or gotten off on torture or rape or murder - that I know of," I amended at the end, giving him a look.

He put his arms up quickly. "No, no, that's all definitely still very off the table," he assured, looking disturbed by the mention of it. He couldn't be a stranger to the sick things twisted people did, but it was possible he hadn't come face-to-face with it as often.

I nodded. The _good_ went unsaid. "So, you know, all things considered, we're both a little bit fucked up. I have my reasons to hate myself, you apparently have reasons to hate yourself… but this isn't going to work if we're not actively trying to be better people. For whatever reason."

And I wanted this to work; Kate was right - if he wasn't a convicted con artist, I'd have liked the damn guy. That was enough to aggravate me, but it also made me try harder to like him, to let myself get over the anklet he had to wear. I could have trouble trusting him because he was renowned for lying, but that didn't mean that he didn't tell the truth sometimes.

Plus, it would be kind of embarrassing to have put some trust in him and then have to arrest him again.

The light turned green over the intersection after an eternity and a half, and I pushed the car forward, smoothly accelerating, yawning, and checking the GPS to see how much longer the ride was to June's. I just needed to drop off Caffrey and I could go home to my bed. And Kate. But mostly to my bed.

"For the record?" He waited until I looked at him again. I was driving, so I couldn't give him my undivided attention anymore, but I kept glancing back, showing that I was listening. He was serious, and looked a little vulnerable, trying to make himself seem a bit smaller, pulling his shoulders in. "I _am_ a romantic. I think soulmates are incredible," he freely admitted. "I want mine. I don't know if they'll want me, but I want mine." _Then I hope they're not as limited in their perspective as most of the agents I talked to about you,_ I thought to myself. "But I have to admit, I see your point, too. I would much rather be happy with someone I chose to love, in whatever way, than be miserable with someone I'm just expected to."

Okay. It was nice to share an opinion. I hummed, accepting, hoping that that was the end, because I felt like I'd exposed too much of myself for my comfort, and even worse was that I was being trusted with the same vulnerability and emotional exposure from him.

"I hope you're feeling better emotionally now," I warned, not sounding mean but not sounding particularly happy, either. "Because I've done enough sharing and caring tonight. And don't call me Kenna," I remembered to say.

Caffrey grinned and started to emphatically brush invisible dust off of his blazer. "I feel like the camaraderie is physically _on_ me," he whined, wiggling and waving his hands. "Get it off, get it _off…"_

I laughed.

* * *

I hummed along to a Taylor Swift song while I stood in front of the bathroom mirror, the taste of mint toothpaste still fresh in my mouth and heat radiating onto my face from the straightener that I held close to my face as I pulled my hair through. The scent of sizzling bacon wafted up from the first floor of the house. My feet could feel the chill of the floor muted through fuzzy and warm slippers of blue and purple.

When my hair came pressed out of the flatiron, it looked like an extension or something because it looked so out of place with the natural waves and volume that my hair had. It looked nice, but it was easier to keep out of my face when it had been ironed flat, so I tended to spend a few minutes doing that every morning.

My phone started ringing with my personalized tone for Derek. I looked at the vibrating screen and sure enough, _Derek Johnson_ was listed on my caller ID. I pushed the tab on my iron to release my hair, set it down cautiously on the edge of the dry sink, and picked up my phone with that hand instead.

"Anderson," I responded cheerily, knocking my head back and bouncing my hair away from my ear.

 _"Hey, it's me."_ I'd already known that from the ID, but I supposed it was possible someone else could have been calling from his phone. I shrugged slightly and didn't comment. _"Caffrey's anklet is activated. Is he with you?"_

I swear my heart skipped a beat - not in anxiety, not in fear, but in _anger_ that was rising up in my chest like the Red Sea. _He promised,_ I thought furiously, slamming my hand down beside the sink. I retracted it faster than I had put it down when I burned the side of it on the hot, hot flatiron.

"Ah!" I shouted, waving my hand frantically in the air pathetically. "Fuck!" Derek didn't respond, giving me time to work it out. He probably thought I was just pissed at Caffrey. Which I was, but also, damn, that hurt. "No, I'm - I'm coming in."

I left the bathroom in my slippers, phone still turned on, Derek's voice in my ear, flailing my hand to try to cool it off, and rushed for the stairs, hoping that the grip on the tread of my slippers wouldn't let me fall down if I ran.

 _"I've got Diana on it, pulling up his location,"_ Derek informed me, sounding tired already. I darted into my room, grabbed my wallet from the side of my bed, and ran back out, slamming the door shut behind me as I made a beeline for the stairs.

I must've looked silly chasing my own shadow down the flight of stairs to the first floor. Our house is arranged so that the base of the stairs opens into the living room. When I was halfway down, shoeless, waving my hand like a lunatic, and with my hair caught between two styles, I started yelling for Kate, since she was cooking in the kitchen. She'd have to consume the bacon on her own.

"Katie, I've gotta go, Caffrey's out of his perimeter, his-"

I stopped dead halfway down the stairs, breathing heavily into the phone, and I even forgot that I was supposed to be trying to shake off an invisible fire on the side of my hand, because sitting on the couch was Caffrey himself, in slacks and a long-sleeved black turtleneck. Kate was on the ground on the other side of the coffee table, both of them holding a hand of cards and playing some game on the furniture between them. They were laughing. Kate's laptop was sitting meekly over a piece of yellow-ish paper on the other side of the table.

I gave it ten seconds before I freaked.

 _"Mick?"_ I heard Derek calling in concern from my sudden silence. After hearing me thunder down half of the stairs, Caffrey looked up at me and smiled eagerly. Kate looked only a little bit guilty, and I was pretty sure that that was faked.

I put the phone back to my ear, locking eyes with Caffrey and squinting at him. _Is he here? Am I hallucinating?_ "Caffrey's with me," I said, pretty sure that if I were hallucinating, I'd be hallucinating something better. Like Mila Kunis draped across my couch in a garter belt and stockings. Or, you know, Satan.

 _"You're sure?"_ Of course Derek knew something was up. He knew me. And it was weird that I was suddenly denying that he wasn't with me and claiming I knew where he was. I was just thankful he wasn't pushing on it, because I wanted to find out exactly what the _hell_ he thought I was doing before I chose to make a phone call and have his perimeter restricted if at all possible.

"Yeah, absolutely," I said, feeling the anger return. I didn't wait for a response, instead ending the call abruptly and dropping the hand holding my phone.

Caffrey beamed over a mug of coffee that had been purchased from the original Cafe du Monde itself. "Good morning, Kenna!"

When deep breaths didn't work, I just let it explode. "Well, it _was,_ until I found out you were in my house!" Livid, I marched down the remaining stairs with as much dignity as I held in my half put-together state. "And _don't_ call me Kenna!"

Kate put her arm up. "I'm making breakfast if you stay long enough," she said, leaning to the side and looking up at me from where she sat on the floor.

"Oh, I am having breakfast," I hissed back as calmly as possible, before raising my eyes to glare threateningly at Caffrey. This was _so_ not what I agreed to. In fact, I specifically remembered telling him to stay _out_ of my territory, but did he listen? No, obviously not! "Caffrey, however -" His face fell and I stomped my foot. "Damn it, you're on my couch!"

Though surprised at how the yelling suddenly changed tracks, he happily bounced in place just enough to show that he thought it was very comfy. "Yeah, I am," he stated matter-of-factly. "It's a nice couch. I actually came to talk to you."

"Get off of my couch," I stated, feeling something in my throat stand out as my eyes burned. I knew very well that it was a nice couch. I did not need a convicted felon sitting on it to know that it was a very nice piece of furniture. "How did you get in?"

"I used this," Caffrey responded, holding up his hand and curling his fingers into a fist. The way he said it, with the obnoxious tip of his head and the unimpressed stare, made it as if he thought it was obvious.

I advanced, seething. He had _hit_ my baby sister?! "You son of a bitch-!"

As soon as I started swearing, he leaned back into the couch and threw both arms up innocently. "Whoa, whoa, I mean I knocked!" He yelled to be heard over my own incensed shouting, and Kate moved to the side and grabbed my leg.

"Don't kill him," she said when I stopped and looked down at her. There weren't any marks on her face or arms that I could see. "I let him in. We're just talking."

"Talking," I repeated cynically, looking back to the convict, who was tentatively putting his hands down. He just… came to my house… and talked to my sister? Yeah, still a _no, no, no!_ I crossed my arms and Kate let go of my leg when it seemed like I was no longer intent on homicide. "How'd you get here?" I asked like I was in an interrogation.

"Took a cab," he said with a shrug.

"You activated your tracker," I said in disbelief. He _knowingly_ activated his tracker. "I have a phone! You were given a phone so you could talk to me without activating your tracker!" Not handling this well, I raise my hands and covered my face. This is _so_ not what I signed up for. More calmly, I muttered through my hands, "You are in my house, on my couch, with my sister."

He leisurely stretched out on the couch, crossing one leg over the other and reaching both of his arms across the back. "You are very possessive of your furniture, aren't you?" He observed thoughtfully. I tensed and pulled myself up, trying to seem taller. "I think it's adorable." He looked around while Kate raised an eyebrow at the flirting. "Hey, you know what?" He said contemplatively. "If you're still wanting a dog, this house is definitely big enough. Get a terrarium for the snake and lock the dog in a room when you let it out."

"She's not getting a Corgi!" Kate denied, shutting him down. She looked about to scold me for getting another person on my side of the argument.

I threw my arms up. "Why are we talking about pets?!"

He leaned forward again and tilted his head. His hair caught on the back of his turtleneck sweater behind his head. "Because I still want to know what's eating at you," he explained in what was probably a perfectly reasonable way to him.

"Unfortunately, not a person," I said, feeling a headache beginning to develop from my stress. I pinched the bridge of my nose and leaned my head back, trying to ward it away.

Caffrey didn't take well to my reply and he put his arms out. "Whoa. Whoa, okay, that last one was _not_ meant as a come-on." He looked at Kate and emphasized, "I'm far smoother than that." I noted that he didn't object to it being inappropriate, though, and if that was his only complaint about it, then obviously making him uncomfortable wasn't going to work.

"I can't do this," I moaned, raising my phone and unlocking the screen.

"What are you doing?" Kate asked, since I had already long since hung up on Derek.

"Calling Diana!" I said back defiantly, because hell, Diana could deal with Caffrey today. I needed to get back in the shower for a long, hot, luxurious soak before I could deal with anything else. My hand was burning and stinging, my couch had a convict on it, my brother had called me to say that my pet had escaped his kennel. I had barely been awake for an hour and I was ready to give up and go back to bed.

Caffrey's eyes flashed with something that took me a second to identify, even after the emotion was shut down. _Alarm._ "I know who the Dutchman is!" He said quickly before Kate could ask me anything else.

 _That's what it is. Fear._ I almost felt bad, so I made it obvious that I was closing my phone app and putting my device to sleep again. I wouldn't have sent him back to prison for coming to talk to me. If he had run, sure - but trying to escape by coming to me? I know he's smarter than that, even if he doesn't act like it.

I took a deep breath, exhaled through my mouth, and motioned to him in invitation. "Speak on."

Caffrey nodded and moved for Kate's laptop. To my surprise, Kate didn't immediately smack him for it, but let him _touch_ her _computer_. He moved it to the side, over their down-facing hands of cards. It had been sitting on the forgery of the Victory Bond.

I covered my mouth, trying not to make a sound. _He brought evidence… to my house…_

"Curtis Hagen," he enunciated clearly, not seeing the problem with toting evidence around. "He's an art restorer. One of the best in the world, but his own work never took off. He's particularly good at Goya restorations. That's what this is, Kenna." He looked up to me again after smoothing the parchment out worshipfully. "The bond is him showing off."

"Don't call me Kenna," I said on impulse, but I was feeling a little less angry since he had actually made progress. "How do we prove that?"

Caffrey smirked. "He signed it."

_No fucking way._

I looked at him like he was being an idiot. To me, it felt like he kind of was. "I know you're the expert in forgery here." That was meant as a subtle dig, and although Caffrey just nodded like he was saying it was true, Kate winced on his behalf. "But I _think_ I'd have noticed a signature."

"Show her," my sister urged.

Caffrey patted the couch next to him and then pointed at part of the lower half of the bond, towards one of the lower-class citizens in the bottom. "Look at the pants on the Spanish peasant."

I lifted my right hand and blew onto it, not forgetting about the burning sensation, but I sat down next to him and leaned forward, keeping my back straight like his was to look. His fingertip rested gently beside the edge of the figure's leg, and warmth and heat seeped through his clothes and radiated to my skin.

"It's the initials "C" and "H,"" he said proudly.

I licked my lips. I could see it, but only if I was looking for it. The "C" didn't have a neat curve. It was more angular, blending in with the folds of painted fabric, and the "H" was drawn in a way that if you could convince someone it was an "H," you could convince another just as easily that it was an "N."

"That's a stretch."

He shook his head at me. I felt like I was dangerously close to being patronized. "This bond is a _masterpiece,"_ he said feelingly. "If _I'd_ done something this good, I would've signed it." _Yes, but thank God, there's only one Neal Caffrey._ Before I could say that, he continued. "Hey, the forgeries I was caught on - I signed them."

There was something strange about a felon telling me where there was evidence that he had committed a crime, although yes, I realized that he had already served his sentence for those, so there wasn't really a way to make him pay for it with the new proof. That didn't make it any less weird.

"Where?" I asked anyway, because that hadn't been in any of the court transcripts or Burke's notes.

Caffrey rolled his eyes at my priorities. He couldn't believe I was asking about that instead of focusing on the bond, but he answered anyway so that I'd think about something else. "Look at the bank seal under polarized light sometime," he said to satiate my curiosity before redirecting me. "Hagen is doing a church restoration on Third Street. We can stop by on our way in."

It spoke to my frustration and complete _done_ -ness with this case that, even though I knew it was reaching, I was still ready to go check it out. I'd take any lead at this point, and coming from Caffrey… I had to admit, he was the expert where this was concerned.

"Okay then. Meet me in my car." I stood up and reached my arms out to my sister to beckon her near so I could have a word in private with her about letting Caffrey into our home. Caffrey just stayed put on the couch, and I fixed him with a more… _persuasive_ gaze. "I'm going to say goodbye to my sister now," I hinted firmly.

Kate caught sight of my hand where I was holding it out to her and gasped before Caffrey could be directed out the door. "Oh my God, what happened to your hand?"

_One, two, three, McKenna._

Caffrey sat up, pushing himself to the edge of the couch in what seemed uncannily like concern for the woman who had arrested him. After a pause, I corrected myself. "Correction: I'm going to find our burn kit, and then I'm going to say goodbye to my sister."

I wished I'd just kept my mouth shut, or told Kate not to bother.

"What'd you burn your hand on?" Rising from the couch and moving behind me, Caffrey landed his hand on my back with his fingers splayed widely, pressing against my blazer and shepherding me towards the kitchen.

I didn't like it, but I was curious what he was going to do, so I let him. Was he actually going to play doctor to the person who held him on a leash?

"Flatiron," I replied, glaring at him in his reflection in the kitchen window, because it was his fault for activating his tracker that made me recklessly slam my hand down to begin with.

"You straighten your hair?" He completely missed the point. What's more, he sounded aghast that I would even bother doing such a thing, turning on the cold water tap, wrapping fingers around my right wrist, and then holding my burnt hand under the water. It was a good thing I'd worn gloves that tied off around my thumb. With the other hand, he lifted some of the unstraightened hair that was falling down my back and wound it around his fingers. "There are people who'd kill for the natural curls. Hey, Kate, can you get an icepack?"

Kate pulled open the freezer and picked up a Velcro ice pack, just as useful for burns as it was for contusions and bruises. "Already got it, Neal."

"Kate? _Neal?"_ I huffed. "I can't believe you're on a first name basis! How long have you even been here?!"

Kate just grinned and pulled my hand out from underneath the water. She left my hand wet with cold water while she wrapped the padded Velcro pack around my palm, going several times between my thumb and hand and then once over my thumb so it would stay on better.

"He's a charmer," she said. She's usually impervious to charm unless she wants to be, so I stared knowingly, not falling for it for a second.

"It's true, I am," he chipped in behind me, and unwrapped my hair from his fingers. I almost relaxed, until his hands were suddenly rooting around in the half-style I'd completed before panicking. "You should take this out. Here…" he pulled out a hair clip I'd gotten from the French Market in Louisiana that had been under my hair and pushing it up. Kate started laughing at how irate I looked, but I was trying very hard not to punch Caffrey, so he got a pass for however long it took me to repress the violent impulses. "It'll look a little odd since some is straightened, but it'll stand out, be an accent, if you push this in here instead to keep it back-"

He reached forward, pulling back long fringe that had fallen in front of my face with a slow curve and clipped it behind my ear.

"Oh my God, who made you my hairdresser?!" I snapped, wrenching away when Kate finally finished her deliberately slow binding on the ice pack.

* * *

Although Caffrey was giving me directions, I did the driving that took us out to the church. I wouldn't admit it, but I was actually looking forward to seeing what Hagen was doing with the place. I like art and I like churches. I'm fairly secular, but churches are just nice places most of the time. We had to park in a garage a few blocks away because it was the middle of the day, but we didn't annoy each other… much.

The Catholic church was being entirely redone on the inside, but it turned out that Hagen wasn't actually doing all of the painting himself. He had a mural that he was responsible for underneath the stained glass art at the head of the building, but the rest of the interior painting was being done by a team who was putting fresh coats on. It was closed down to the public, and there was a helpful sign out front directing churchgoers to the nearest in-service house of God.

I looked up at it. It was a neat, but stereotypical, church. "This is the place?" I asked skeptically. Was I really expecting to find the Dutchman inside a holy house, working on a painting that I was going to try to find his initials on?

Caffrey nodded, pushing on the rim of his fedora as he flipped the hat back onto his head. "Yep."

We ignored the sign out front and went inside, but we attracted attention as soon as we stepped through the door. An older man with greying hair in a priest's outfit descended on us after we'd taken barely two steps indoors. I stepped in front of Caffrey defensively on impulse, though I doubted a man of the cloth would start taking swings at me.

"You can't come in, I'm sorry." He did seem genuinely apologetic by the tone of his voice and the way he held his hands in front of him. "We're closed for restoration."

I opened my mouth, fully intending to give him my name and show him my badge, but before I could, Caffrey beat me to the punch… and he didn't say what I had been planning to.

"Could we - Could we just…" Absolutely shocking me, Caffrey leaned in over my shoulder and pressed a soft kiss to my cheek with barely a brush of his lips against my skin. Then he patted my shoulder and moved to the priest. "Could we just have a moment? Thank you, Father."

Leaving me standing in surprise right inside the church's red-carpeted main aisle, he raised his left arm to the priest and moved the two of them off to the side. Before he got out of earshot, I could hear him saying, "Please, Father, my mate is having a crisis of the soul…"

_Did he - just. Fuck. He did._

"Oh, for God's sake," I said in exasperation. He just had to make it into an act. One of the painters to the left of me and down a pew coughed and glared with disapproval. I realized what I'd said and covered my mouth, making a halfhearted attempt to look repentant.

It felt like my cheek was tingling, but I didn't want to give the conman the satisfaction of looking off-put by his act, so I refused to rub it away.

I stood there awkwardly at the front of the church for a long minute, feeling horribly out of place now that I wasn't allowed to be an FBI agent. Caffrey kept whispering with the priest, and yes, I mean _with._ The Father was responding in kind. I rubbed my left elbow with my right hand while looking anywhere but at the two of them, and found myself looking to the mural at the front of the church.

It was absolutely gorgeous. It looked so vibrant and expressive, using a wide palette of colors and techniques. It didn't look like it was entirely finished yet, by the masking tape around it, but if the tape was removed, it still could have passed as complete and beautiful.

The mural was of a scene full of Caucasian people, and by the architecture around the conglomeration, it was probably set in a modern, romantic European place, like Spain or Italy. Peasants surrounded a small family of royals or nobility in the center of a plaza with a fountain in the background. The lower class were rejoicing. There were notes of realism in the poor clothing and romanticism in tapestries.

I was so lost in looking at the mural that it took me by surprise when Caffrey swept his arm smoothly over my shoulders, pressing his forearm gently against the back of my neck and ushering me forwards, evidently having gotten a pass from the priest. I blinked, but because he had probably told a story and was sticking to it, I grudgingly let him.

"Did you just say I'm your soulmate?" I asked, a little bit pissed but mostly unsure how to handle the situation.

"Yep," he whispered back, taking me straight to the front of the church. "That's a new one, actually. Never lied about my mate before." God help him, he actually sounded proud of himself for pushing his own boundaries.

"... Did you just lie to a priest?"

"Do you think Diana's attractive?"

I looked back to him warily. What the hell? Where did that come from? I answered cautiously. "... Yeah?"

"Then we're good," he nodded like we'd just clarified something, and he stopped with me a couple of feet away from the mural. His eyes roamed over it, soaking it in with awe. "Extraordinary," he breathed.

I nodded in wholehearted agreement. "This is gorgeous."

I wasn't allowed to marvel for long, because Caffrey flipped a foldable magnifying glass out of his pocket and jumped up onto a footstool beside the mural, crouching down and looking along the painted peasantry, searching for the initials.

I leaned back and crossed my arms. "If Hagen is as good as you claim, why haven't I ever heard of him?"

"The FBI only knows about the guys who got caught," he answered slowly, most of his attention diverted and focused on his intra-mural search. "You know the second-best criminals."

I raised my eyebrows and grinned. "What does that say about you, then?" I challenged, snickering.

He looked up and glared at me. "It says there's an exception to every rule."

"Oh, of course," I said sarcastically, still laughing.

He stopped, bit his lip, and then looked up. He kept his magnifying glass hovering right over this sort of swirling mark meant to add definition to the golden-orange dress of a peasant woman. He gestured for me to come closer with his free hand. "Look, here. "C" and "H.""

I moved closer and knelt next to his footstool. I raised an arm and rested my elbow over one of his knees for balance and looked at the markings on the hem. It was very subtle, but it was there if I looked for it. "Could be."

He balked. "What do you mean, 'could be?'" He gestured more pointedly at the letters. "That's a "C" and an "H!""

I looked back up at him, prepared to argue with a sharp wit and a sharper expression. He had to realize I needed more than a 'could be' to make an arrest or to get a warrant.

"Can I help you?"

The voice of a stranger made me snap out of the eye contact I'd started to hold with Caffrey, and I jumped up to my feet, leaping onto my toes and rocking back on my heels. Caffrey got off the stool swiftly and surreptitiously tucked away his magnifying glass while I smoothed my clothes.

A man who looked like Mark Sheppard was standing behind us, now in front of us, his hands at his sides and his face uncomfortably calm. In his late forties or early fifties, his brunette hair was short and almost kept in a crop cut, his face red like he was sunburnt, and he wore an impeccable suit just as expensive as Caffrey's.

When I surveyed him up and down, he linked his hands in front of his stomach.

 _Hagen?_ I thought, glancing at Caffrey to see how he was reacting. He slipped his hands into his pockets friendlily, but his expression was guarded.

"Your face…" the artist focused on Caffrey intently. There was something about the way he spoke that I didn't like; it unnerved me. "It's very familiar," he said, sly and sneaky, and I barely withheld a sigh. "Maybe I've seen it on the news… Or, perhaps, on a "Most Wanted" web page." He had a British accent, not too thick, but heavy enough for me to hear the London dialect.

Caffrey smiled thinly and offered his hand for courtesy's sake. "Neal Caffrey."

Hagen narrowed his eyes, canted his head, and rudely refused to shake hands. "Forgive me if I don't shake hands with an art thief," he said, passing on it.

_What's he going to do, steal the wall the mural is on?_

"He was never arrested for art theft," I coolly interjected, defending him. Just because I may have an issue with him didn't mean I wouldn't honor that he was mine to protect.

"Not arrested, no, but as I recall, you were known as quite the Renaissance criminal." Caffrey inhaled deeply and raised his chin, and didn't respond to Hagen because he was too aggravated. "So you can understand my concern at having you in my space," the man finished, not even a little bit polite. He turned his attentions to me again. "And you are?"

He looked me over with emphasis on places I didn't appreciate.

"A friend," I said, snapping my fingers and directing him back to my face indignantly. _Unless you ask the priest, that is._

"Well… friend." The way he said it after a pause made it clear that he didn't entirely believe that that was the truth. He sidestepped, moving to an angle so we were facing his profile, leaving the path up to the main doors open. "This church is closed."

I itched to arrest Hagen as it was; priding myself on reading people, I had picked up on the strong vibes coming from him, and I couldn't wait to get any dirt that I could on him. Even if he wasn't the Dutchman, being arrested would certainly fuck with his plans for the day. For the priest's benefit, I let Caffrey press his hand against the small of my back like we were a couple, walking out with me and to the sidewalk, where we were suddenly back in the entirely different world of noisy, colorful, and overwhelming New York rather than the charming quietness and eccentricities of an old church.

"Was it just me, or did he look like the actor from _Supernatural?"_ I asked nonchalantly on the sidewalk. Now that we weren't pretending to be mates, he dropped his hand from my back and walked beside me with his hands in his pockets.

"Never mind that," he dismissed, twisting his head to look over his shoulder before looking back where he was going. "Did you see it?"

Now would be the time to decide whether or not I wanted to take the final leap and believe Caffrey. By zeroing in on a suspect, I was limiting my field of search and pursuing one lead, but… by nature, he was a good liar and actor, yet, at the same time, he had to know that if Hagen _wasn't_ the bad guy, I'd find out definitively sooner or later. He wanted to stay out of jail far more than I wanted a C.I., so he wouldn't sabotage himself by deliberately misleading me.

_And it's not like I have any more promising suspects._

"Signature alone, I'd be skeptical, but after talking to him, you've got me curious," I reluctantly allowed.

On the sidewalk, the priest was setting up a small sign advertising the forecasted end date of the church's renovations, and as we passed, he straightened his back and called out to me, "Listen to your spirit, daughter, not the flesh."

"Yeah…" I turned around to walk backwards as we passed him and I nodded, pretending to look earnest when really I was just creeped out. "I'll do that, thanks," I lied; my "spirit" and "flesh" rarely disagreed with each other, but that was still really weird advice. I turned back around and hissed at Caffrey, "What… the _hell_ … was that about?"

"Um…" he grimaced and rubbed the back of his neck. "Nothing relevant."

* * *

I settled in at my desk, leaning back from my computer and rubbing my eyes, sore from staring at a computer screen for the last couple of hours. After going to the church, I'd taken the leash off of Caffrey's collar and let him do whatever. So far, he'd stayed within his perimeter… this time. I had been trying to dig up evidence or probable cause on Hagen, but I just couldn't find anything.

If he _was_ a criminal, he was a fucking Moriarty. Or… actually, a Caffrey. I snickered to myself as I thought that, but was it really too inaccurate? There were some things connecting him very vaguely to other companies that were far more sketchy, but nothing solid enough to legally pin to him or imply that he had any reason to be aware of what they were doing, so I couldn't even pick him up for conspiracy. He was doing well at keeping himself out of the line of fire using a system of scapegoats and patsies.

I rubbed my forehead again, back hurting from being straight for so long.

"I need to go to the track," I told the photograph of myself, Kate, and Derek all posing for a camera, our faces lit by candlelight at a Halloween party.

Derek was in long robes and a tall costume headdress, dressed as a larger and broader version of Tom Hiddleston's portrayal of Loki from _The Avengers_. Kate was dressed as a leopard woman, a headband with spotted furry ears slid into her hair, her camisole tight-fitting and leopard printed, a tail pinned to the short white daisy dukes she'd worn. She'd gotten me to help her use face paint to draw black whiskers on her face. I'd dressed as a racy candy striper, a nurse's hat perched on curled hair with cotton candy-colored streaks, long legs bared. The dress I'd worn had been so short it barely passed my ass, and the chest was so snug that it looked indecent. I'd painted my lips crimson and worn golden eyeshadow with rosy blush, nails done in blood-colored acrylics. Part of Kate's soulmark was visible as her tight shirt rode up, but I was wearing lacy purple and black gloves to cover my wrists. While Kate had rolled her eyes at the more sexual nature of my costume (which Derek had actually chosen for me, since he won a bet), she had jumped on the bandwagon with the immodest clothes.

"Maybe I can get Derek to go with me," I said, continuing my discussion with the object on my desk. "We can time each other on laps. I just need to get out and do something."

The blinds were drawn in front of the windows looking into my office from the mezzanine, but someone must've directed Caffrey to my door, because movement made me look up as the doorknob turned, and then my C.I. pushed open the door, stepping inside and leaving it ajar. Most people had already gone to take their lunch break, so I was surprised at how little noise was unblocked.

I perked up when I saw him, and he didn't immediately start talking, so I assumed he was here for lack of anything better to do, or maybe it was just to check in. Either way, evidently nothing pressing. I ducked down under my desk, reaching for the evidence bags I'd tucked into an empty drawer that had been delivered this morning.

"Your evidence has been released to me," I told him brightly, taking care not to knock my head on the desk as I sat up. I put the other two bags of his belongings from the prison onto the desk and pushed them across, but directly held out the Bordeaux bottle from his old apartment with Moreau. Caffrey looked surprised for a millisecond but he blinked it away and stepped to the side of the desk to take the bottle with gentle hands. "Thought you might want this back, Mr. Romantic. What's the deal with the bottle, anyway?"

It wasn't anything special, the crime lab had ascertained, so there had to be a story behind it for it to have meaning, right? Sue me for being curious.

Holding the bottle by its neck, he pulled the evidence bag off of it and dropped it into the trash bin by my desk. "It's an eighty-two Bordeaux." He twisted it around so that the label was facing him and softly seated himself in the empty chair across from me.

"Yeah," I had already noticed that, thanks to the label. "Expensive stuff."

"It is when it's full," he agreed. "I got this empty." His eyes were focused on the bottle, caressing the glass body with an open palm.

I raised my eyebrows, begging an explanation. "You… bought an empty wine bottle?" That seemed to me like it defeated the entire purpose of buying a wine bottle.

Caffrey looked up at me but held the bottle carefully, like a prized possession. "Look," he said with a sigh. "When Kate and I met, we had nothing. We were younger. I got this bottle, and I used to fill it up with whatever cheap wine we could afford, and we'd sit in that apartment and drink it over pizza and pretend we were living in the Cote d'Azur, whatever family we'd have in another room."

My eyes softened as I understood. The bottle represented an imagined life he and his sister had held onto. And I could understand him enough to guess that by 'family' he meant their mates and whatever families they'd built, be it biologically or by people they'd chosen to love and be attached to.

"Did it work out?" I asked gently, knowing that this was a button I could all too easily push, but… not wanting to.

He looked up at me and fixed me with his sharp blue eyes. I caught myself before I even mentally called his eyes beautiful. "No, it didn't," he deadpanned. "Because this bottle was a promise of a better life. What Kate got was a disappointing brother locked away for half a decade."

Irrationally, I hated that he was thinking down about himself like that. From many perspectives, he was a brilliant man… just not from the perspectives of morality or law enforcement.

"I'm sorry," I apologized, even though it wasn't my fault. "I wish I could help you find her." That was true enough. I empathized.

He looked up again. "You could." It was more of an imploration.

I shook my head, wondering if I should regret saying that. "Not legally." He looked down again, disappointed. "I've tried what I can without the grounds for an investigation," I assured. Kate Moreau was gone without a trace, and without probable cause, I couldn't turn over too many stones to find where she'd gone. "She's a ghost." If his hand had been on the table, I was scared I'd have reached out and tried to hold hands with him to try to comfort him. It was a strong urge, and while I'm a tactile person, I try to hold back when it's in a professional context.

_What is it about him that makes me want to hug him when he's upset?_

Footsteps made me look over his shoulder to my open door, and I saw Derek about to come in, so I smiled welcomingly at him for permission to enter as much as to let Caffrey know that if he wanted to continue the conversation, it should wait until a later time when we were alone again.

"Hagen's leaving the country," Derek informed flatly, not stopping for pleasantries. Though his hands were at his sides, his fists were balled up tightly. "He booked a flight through a private charter in Barcelona for the nineteenth."

Once he was in Spain, America wouldn't have any legal rights to him, and without physical evidence we hadn't yet obtained, the other country wouldn't be willing to extradite him back to us. I closed my eyes for a minute.

"Damn it," I swore quietly. "Seeing you must've tipped him off," I added to Caffrey.

"He's flying into Spain," he pointed out in response. Since that was the same place that the _Blancanieves_ books had come from, it was a connection, albeit a very flimsy one… and one that wouldn't hold up. "That's something."

"So are a million other people at some point this month," I estimated roughly. "Circumstantial at best; irresponsible at worst." If I tried going after Hagen with less than a sure thing, and was then shot down, then my supervisors probably wouldn't listen to me if I tried to get the same guy again. I only wanted to attack from that angle at the last minute if we still couldn't find anything else. I wouldn't risk it, not when there was still over twenty-four hours. _It's… the seventeenth, right?_ A look at my computer confirmed it, and I looked back up to Derek. "Is there any possible connection between the _Blancanieves,_ the bond, or the murder?"

My brother shook his head gravely. I didn't think he would have brought it to me like that if he hadn't already gone through his own sadly exhaustive list of options first. "Hagen's impressive, to say the least." I like to think part of what made us such a great unit was that we acknowledged that our opponents were good at what they did, and then strived to be better. We didn't rely on morals to win. "His bases are all covered. He has a lot of international holdings, but he's kept his name out of it."

"You get every agent we have on it," I ordered, knowing he'd listen. I was trying to plan for myself what to do; I'd take Caffrey and go do some legwork, to see if we couldn't find something that wouldn't be showing up on any papers or online records. "Steal the best away from their own cases if you need to. I want no exceptions, and if anyone gets in your way-"

Derek waved one hand to cut me off, and with the barest smile, he finished my sentence for me. "Send 'em to you for your no-holds-barred, no-excuses-accepted intimidation tactics." I grinned roguishly, and he chuckled while he mock saluted me. "I got it, babe."

He left to go do my bidding, and when we were alone again, I bent down in my chair to grab my messenger bag from where it was leaning against the wall by the outlet. I unplugged the USB port I was charging with and shoved it inside.

"Babe?" Caffrey questioned, standing up and looking over the desk to see me.

"He's a charmer, too. He calls Katie the same thing." Although Kate doesn't particularly like to be called Katie, I called her Katie more often than Kate or Katherine put together. Besides, calling her Katie made it easier to distinguish to Caffrey whose sister I was talking about. I stood up too quickly as something occurred to me and slammed my head on the underside of my desk, swore, and shoved my chair back so I was clear before standing up all the way, balancing the strap of my bag on my shoulder.

The terms of my deal with him were that he helped us catch the Dutchman in a timely manner before we saw about any more permanent arrangements, and if we couldn't get Hagen before he left…

"We _have_ to connect Hagen to the Victory Bond." Intensely, I put my hands down on the table and looked up into his eyes, hoping to convey the importance of doing this. It wasn't just closing a case; it was protecting someone, too. He was offering me his services in earnest, holding up his end of the deal, so I had to try mine. If the guy got away, that wasn't really his fault, so he shouldn't be held responsible for it, but the world's not a fair place, and I don't make the rules. "If he gets away…" I let it hang. Caffrey's face closed off as he understood. "I can't protect you if he gets away," I rephrased, making sure he knew that protecting him was my aim. "Understand?"

He nodded, subdued, and looked thoughtfully at the bottle of Bordeaux on my desk.

I gathered up my things into my bag, shoved my phone, earphones, and wallet into my pockets, and then opened up the empty drawer in my desk, pushing my bag inside and closing it up for safekeeping. Legwork was just easier when I wasn't carrying as much; if I could get away without carrying around my bag, I usually did.

"Is it that I'm enjoying it?" He asked while I fished for my key on the ring to lock my office door. I looked up to him and blinked. Having schooled his face back from the threat of prison, he remained evenly inquisitive.

It took me a minute to figure out that he was still trying to puzzle out what he'd done to aggravate me the first day, and, exasperated, I rolled my eyes. _We're fine now. Just let it go._ "Um, no. It's that you made a deal. I'm the proctor, not the administrator," I said, feigning ignorance to what he was asking about, pretending to think he was querying about why he'd have to go back to jail.

"No, I mean, what bothers you so much about me." I wished I was taller than him. With nothing else to add to my person before going, I didn't have anything to do with my hands to pretend that the conversation wasn't important to me. He looked at me just as intensely as I had stared at him. "Is it because I like the puzzle? The challenge?"

I gave him a plastic smirk. "That would be hypocritical of me."

He crossed his arms and rocked back onto the heels of his dress shoes. "I thought you just wanted this over with. That's why you got me out."

"I like a challenge," I reasserted. "That's why I do this job. If it wasn't challenging, I wouldn't care for it. What I _don't_ like is people like Hagen getting away with things because I'm missing half of the puzzle pieces." I looked him up and down for show and then canted my head. "You're like my lost and found box."

His shoulders rolled back with a new set of determination. "So I still haven't figured your problem out yet," Caffrey mused.

_Oh, for God's sake, just let it go._

"Keep trying," I sang as I beckoned for him to go to the door.

* * *

Caffrey and I weren't sure where to go. That was how prepared we were in the situation. Admittedly it was kind of sad that I hadn't thought it through, but I winged it pretty well and decided we were going to go back to the church. Since Hagen apparently already knew we were onto him, it wasn't like it could have hurt.

We walked instead of taking a vehicle, because traffic was already pretty bad and it wasn't really that far. I whine and moan about going to a gym, but I usually don't mind walking or running. I think part of the reason I hate gyms is because I'm doing all that work but not actually getting anywhere.

A jogger in shorts and a camisole with her phone in a wrist clip passed by Caffrey, and he respectfully moved to the side to let her pass. Consequently, he ended up closer to me, and while we were physically closer, he took the opportunity to begin a conversation at the same time.

"So, remember when you told me not to look for my sister?" He asked, aiming for casual. Not only did he miss the bullseye, he missed the entire target.

I kept walking and tried to give him the benefit of the doubt. What kind of partner was I if I just jumped at the chance to accuse him of doing what he wasn't supposed to? "Yes," I stated carefully. "Yes, I remember that very clearly."

Caffrey stopped walking, and his warm hand on my shoulder made me stop, as well. I turned to face him as he pulled a small piece of paper out of his deep pocket, unfolded it, smoothed it with his fingers, and held it out to me with a hopeful face.

I shook my head while I reached out and took it from impulse, lifting it to see what he was trying to show me. The picture was in black and white and looking down, like a security camera. The image clearly showed Kate Moreau's face, standing and looking over her shoulder at someone else with a small stack of bills in her hand. To her right was an ATM, like she'd walked through a drive-through bank lane.

"Caffrey…" I reached up with one hand to rub at my eyes, keeping the photograph held in a tighter grip with the other. How had he even managed to scrounge that up? What did he want me to do with it? He was dangerously close to violating the terms of his deal, and by bringing it to me… if he went on with this, I wouldn't have any choice but to arrest him. "You're putting me in a very difficult position."

He put both of his hands on my shoulders like he thought I was about to walk off. "It was taken four days ago at a San Diego ATM," he told me meaningfully, leaning forward and looking down at my eyes. "She's going under the name Kate Perdue. You know what _perdue_ means in French?"

I shrugged off his hands with a particularly violent roll of my shoulders. He dropped his arms down to his sides where his fists clenched in frustration, but he didn't try to cage me again. I wasn't going to just leave him, but I wasn't secure enough to behave honestly and responsibly when he was all I could see.

"Of course I do. I speak the romantic languages, remember?"

In French, the word _perdue_ translated to the English word _lost._

"It makes you wonder, right?" I reached down to one of his hands. He uncurled his fingers without thinking about it, and I forced him to take the picture back before I turned back in the direction we'd been walking. I started to move my legs again, and Caffrey took faster strides, keeping up with me. He didn't take the hint. "Is she lost _to_ me? _Without_ me?"

"Stop it," I commanded, blinking.

"Look, I just need a couple of days after this Dutchman thing is over to go to San Diego." _Why, to do exactly what you promised not to do? To put me in a place where I have to arrest you? I know you love your sister, but think of me in this. I'm the one who's putting her neck out to defend you, and not only do you want to impugn my judgment in the face of the bureau, but you want to do it to go back on something you swore to me._ And I knew that he was far smarter than to do it if it were anyone else, but Moreau… Moreau was his _family._ Possibly the only family he had. How many times would reality have to smack him in the face for him to get a clue? "You can send an agent with me. _You_ can come with me-"

In a sudden fit, I took it upon myself to deliver the clue once again. Loudly. And harshly. "Shut up!" I stopped, turned on my heel to face him again, and looked up into his eyes. This time, I was the one invading his personal space as I stepped forward. "Shut up, stop it!" This deal was supposed to benefit both of us. Not only would he forfeit it if he couldn't let it go, but it would reflect badly on me if, less than three days after he was released, I had to put him right back in prison. "How many times are you going to screw yourself over for her?!"

The pure shock on his face at my outburst would normally have been enough to make me stop, but with a resourceful and persistent man like Caffrey, I wanted to be absolutely sure. There was also the concern that I wasn't entirely sure I could have if I had intended to. Kate Moreau was obviously a touchy subject for him, but it was meaningful to me, too, constantly reminding me that I could just as easily be put in his situation. Would I be willing to jeopardize my career and my freedom to find my sister if she really wanted to be gone?

The people walking around us didn't seem to hear or care about our argument, just weaving around as if we were totally normal, which only made me feel more displaced.

"I hate to break it to you, sweetheart, but she ditched you!" The endearment became sarcastic. He started to raise his hands as if to defend himself, and his eyes looked hurt. He put up a mask quickly to pretend he wasn't affected. I felt bad. "I am _trying_ to find her, okay? I have Be-On-The-Lookouts, I have sent out emails, I have Kate Moreau listed as a missing person, and I have an alert set for any Kate, Katie, or Katherine with her last name. If she pings in America, I'll find her. In the meantime, I _cannot_ pursue her and keep your custody at the same time! It looks like you're manipulating me. And I can't let you pursue her, either, because that was part of the condition.

"Burke, Hughes, Thompson - _everyone except me_ all _expect_ you to run the first chance you get to find her." Did he know what faith I was putting in him? I wondered. Rationally, it would make no sense for him to violate his deal. It would only hurt us both. I chose to side with reason and empathy, and I really hoped it wouldn't come back to humiliate me. Also, for some strange, inexplicable reason, I was beginning to actually _care_ about the stubborn son of a bitch, and I didn't particularly want this to end badly for him. "You sneak off to San Diego to find Kate, then you go back to jail, and I won't be able to do a damn thing about it!"

Caffrey looked at me, stunned that I'd said all of that, and he looked down. It was hard to read his face because he didn't want me to be able to.

I took a deep breath. _Maybe I went too far._ Very slowly, giving him the option of moving away, I lifted my hand to his face and raised his chin so he was looking at me again.

"I am so sorry," I apologized quietly. His eyes were so intense that I wanted to look away, but he deserved to see my sincerity. "She left you when you were in prison. She skipped town before you got out. She changed her name and erased her tracks. I do not know how to find her, and I can't let you go to San Diego." His skin was so soft, and before I knew it, I was tracing my thumb over his jaw. "I know it's scary, and I know it hurts, but I also know that maybe she's running because she needs to run, because that's what I did. And if someone had followed me-"

I cut myself off when I realized that I was about to tell more to this man in one conversation than I had shared with Katie across a period of months. It took a long time for me to open up to her, and even longer to Derek. It didn't make sense that I would instinctively trust Caffrey with the knowledge.

His expression had become readable again, dropping the icy facade he was an expert at wearing. "Who were you running from?" He questioned.

His voice jarred me out of my thoughts and I focused more on the present. Like his skin burned, I dropped my hand from his face, swallowing. This wasn't a conversation for in the middle of a busy sidewalk, so I averted my eyes, beckoned with a hand between us, and looked around. Across the street was a plaza, not too unlike a college quad, with a public wish fountain. There weren't many people around since most were either in school or at work, so it would be quieter and more private (although those were totally relative, given that we were in New York).

 _Who was I running from._ Huh. That was the question. Sometimes it felt like I'd run from a _who_ , other times a _what_. I turned my back on a lot of things when I left. Sometimes I missed a few things I left behind. If I had to do it all over again, I wouldn't even consider the other option; without running, I never would have met Kate, Derek, Diana, or even Caffrey, and although I couldn't say I was particularly attached, knowing him was certainly helping my perspective to shift and grow.

Compliantly, he followed me to the fountain. I sat down on the stone edge. It was calm enough around the edge that I wasn't worried about being splashed. On the fountain bed, silver and copper glinted underneath the water from haphazardly tossed coins.

Putting my hands in front of my stomach, I cleared my throat and skirted around the question he'd actually asked, instead focusing on which parts were relevant. "I met my Katie, made a new life, and God, I wish I had my old life some days, but I am _so, so_ glad that they didn't chase me." Caffrey turned on the fountain so one of his legs was up on the edge with us, and the other was bent at the knee sharply. "I am so much better here than I _ever_ could have been if I'd stayed."

"What are you saying to me here?" He asked, frowning deeply. I think he may have wanted a more concrete answer than I could give him. "That I should just give up on my sister? That she wants to be away from me?"

"I'm saying that you can only hurt yourself so many times for her," I clarified. What I had tried to mean was that maybe Kate Moreau had run away because she felt she had to, not because of anything Caffrey could have helped. "If she doesn't want to come back, she won't. So before you get any further along on that early grave you're digging, you should give her a chance to find whatever it is she's looking for and to come back on her own." That was the only way she'd be happy returning, anyway, and if he was a good brother, he'd want her to be happy, not just present. "In the meantime, _behave_. See if you can get instated as a consultant indefinitely. Prove that the bureau can trust you. Then you'll have more leeway."

"I just _know_ there's more to our story," he confided. What felt like weeks of pent up confusion and upset rolled off of him in waves, probably stemming all the way back to his last meeting with Kate, the one that convinced him to break out of prison after years of model behavior. "She disappears in the dust?" He shook his head vehemently. "No, that's not an ending."

"That's what I thought about losing parts of myself." My reality check was quiet. I just didn't want him to think that this was a fairytale. Endings weren't always happy out here in the real world. It sucked. I got over it, more or less. His expression sobered as he recognized a bad memory being pushed. "After the last time it happened, I just couldn't take it anymore. Now I've moved on. It gets easier if you try to help yourself."

If I had stayed stuck in the past, tearing myself apart, then I'd have run myself into the ground long before it occurred to me that there was any other way. I'd had to put my foot down and decide how much of me I was willing to give before it was time to take some for myself. There's a difference between selfishness and self-preservation. … At least, that's what I kept telling myself, and I hoped I was right.

"I brought this to you," he appealed. "Doesn't that count for something?"

I knew he didn't want to give up searching, but he had to. For both of our sakes. And it was my job to make him realize that. On the other hand, he was a criminal who lied and charmed his way through scams and operations, unused to allies. Having shown his hand by bringing the evidence he'd found to me demonstrated a level of trust I hadn't expected, asking me for _help_ rather than assuming I'd immediately take the excuse to lock him up. Just as much as I needed him to stay off of Moreau's trail, I needed him to realize that I understood the practical risk he'd taken and appreciated that he gave me the opportunity to prove that I wasn't looking to backstab him.

"To me, _yes,_ absolutely." Especially emotionally, as I felt safer sharing with him now that I knew that it wasn't just a one-way, unreciprocated street. "To a prosecutor?" I bit my lip. "Not so much. I wish there was more that I could do, but my primary interest is to keep you out of jail."

He fidgeted, playing with the fabric of his pants. I waited patiently with my hands locked on my thighs. Caffrey wouldn't look at me.

"God…" he sounded a little choked up. He looked up and forced a clearly plastic smile onto his lips, making himself smile for appearances, although it wasn't nearly as convincing as he should have been. "You're right, you're right." I raised my eyebrows. There was a quip I could've made right there, but he sounded like he was convincing himself more than me. "I'm a smart guy, Kenna." Composing himself, Caffrey raked his left hand back through his hair. "I should know when I've been ditched." Dusting himself off, he stood up. Effectively, he ended the discussion. I took the cue and rose, and he pointed to the corner of the next block where a small group of people were smoking, out of the way of other civilians. "Hey, um, I'm gonna go grab a smoke real quick."

I was taken probably by more surprise than I should've been, my eyes widening.

"You smoke?" I queried. He took very good care of himself, paying attention to his hygiene, but I still associate certain signs with smokers, none of which I'd noticed with him.

"It's a nasty prison habit," he offered reluctantly with a grimace. "I've been trying to quit."

I hummed. That made sense. It wasn't like there was much to do in jail, anyway. "Okay. I'll join you." I didn't have coffee, anyway. I'm not a big fan of nicotine, but for a while, a cigarette feels like it clears my head. If I had a headache later, I would try not to think too carefully on the cause. "And stop calling me Kenna."

"You smoke?" He parroted my own question back at me while we left the square.

"Not often," I informed him in case he started to get any ideas. If he's one of those people who is overly affectionate and kind with their partners, I'd much rather find cupcakes on my desk than a lighter or pack of Marlboros. "Very infrequently. I don't even like it, it's just…"

I hated chemical dependencies. For a while after breaking a bone, I had trouble falling asleep without any narcotics helping to knock me out. Going too long without caffeine makes me moody and irritable. At least with cigarettes, it wasn't a chemical _dependency_. It was my body not being used to functioning with said chemicals.

"Yeah, I know." Knowledgably, Caffrey nodded. I trusted that he understood, because he didn't seem like the type to get into smoking for fun. He nodded to a man wrapped up in a scarf. "Can we bum some from you?" He asked politely.

He looked at Caffrey anxiously through black-rimmed glasses. Stocky, a little bit shorter than me, but around twenty years older, dressed in a coat with a pale scarf wound a couple of times loosely around his neck, and the man seemed paranoid. Either by choice or unfortunate genetics, he was balding. He glanced at me quickly, a cigarette held between his teeth while he fumbled with the pack in his hands.

"These things'll kill you," he muttered. Regardless, he handed one to Caffrey.

"Add them to the list. Thanks," I added when he passed me one, too. I noticed he held it differently when he offered it to me, keeping his hold on the end as far from my hand as was reasonably possible.

 _Jeez. I don't think it's my imagination that this guy's jumpy._ I wondered if suddenly lunging would give him a heart attack. I wasn't cruel enough to try. I also didn't particularly feel like dealing with a heart attack if it was. Good Samaritan laws would protect me. Personal ethics, however, would probably suffer.

Caffrey took the proffered lighter when it was extended, too, and aside from a spare dart of his eyes, the stranger didn't look back at me. I leaned against the side of the brick building. Caffrey smoothly rocked back on his heels and let his weight carry him further, leaning his back on the wall, as well. Biting lightly on the end of the stick, he cupped one hand over the small flame and flicked the spoke with the other.

"But these filters…" I looked at the stranger again, patiently waiting for Caffrey while I held the cigarette between my lips, getting accustomed to the feel again. Despite having felt it a low number of times, it wasn't the kind of thing I forgot. "... They're good." He said, this time not looking at either of us. "Not for me, you understand. I tear 'em off."

"Need a light?" Caffrey's cigarette glowed at the end, paper blackening and shriveling as it burnt. He leaned over into my space.

I stayed still while he did the same to my cigarette, sheltering the easily-extinguished fire while it caught on the end. I inhaled shallowly, careful not to overwhelm my lungs, and Caffrey shook out the flame, handing back the lighter to its owner.

"Thanks," I said, taking the cigarette between my fingers as I breathed deeply. The nicotine was a little bit heady, but my chest felt heavy, smoke robust. My throat burned, but it was a good burn.

I thought back to Kate. She'd kick my ass if she knew I was smoking. I'd kick her ass if she ever tried it. There was a reason I had always been careful not to get addicted. The first couple of times were curiosity. Beyond that it was a combination of situation or stress. Then I found coffee and the few smoking breaks I took were few and far between, gradually decreasing over time. It wasn't any more of a health risk to me than it was anyone else, but if it hadn't been for wanting to stay near Caffrey while he readjusted from the serious slap in the face he'd just gotten from life, I wouldn't have come near them. I'd much prefer Starbucks.

"So, you tear off the filters." Caffrey remarked, eyeing the stranger.

"Yeah." He took a drag, avoiding both of us with his eyes. "But I'm hardcore."

Of course, right as he claimed to be seriously hardcore, he choked and coughed on smoke. I smirked and refrained from snickering. Suddenly the paranoia made more sense. I had to admire them for their conspiracy and their skill with messages. It also explained why the man was so antsy when Caffrey brought me over with him and hadn't wanted to risk touching me.

I knew I _should_ bust them, but didn't really want to. Besides, at this point, I didn't have any grounds. They were too covert. And after the hand Caffrey had tried to extend, I wasn't about to smack his wrist with a ruler by arresting his friend… accomplice? Do criminals working together have friends the way cops do? Or are they just working for mutual gain? Interesting question.

 _Compromise,_ I thought firmly. _This entire deal is about compromising._

That didn't mean I couldn't have some fun, though. I smirked broadly at the man to set him on edge, arms crossed, cigarette pinched between the sides of two fingers. "You might want to leave the filters on," I advised, adventurously sticking my nose in where it didn't belong to see how much it bothered them. "You never know what's getting around."

I prided myself on my quick thinking to create such a message that flowed so well with the falsified exchange. Meanwhile, both men looked at each other quickly and grew silent, refusing to keep talking, lest they accidentally give me any more cause for suspicion. I strongly suspected neither were idiots - Caffrey wouldn't risk working with a fool - and they'd have to be pretty damn stupid to miss that blinking neon sign I just put up.

I inhaled lightly, closed my mouth, held my breath, and rotated my wrist to look at my cigarette's filter speculatively from another angle. Then, laughing softly, I opened my mouth and exhaled, a small puff of smoke reaching the air and beginning to float up in a plume.

* * *

I leaned back in my office chair and brought my hands to my face, rubbing at my eyes, tired from staring at the screen of my desktop monitor for so long. The door to my office opened without anyone knocking first and I saw expensive Devore pants from beneath my hand, so I automatically figured out who it was.

"Katie's soulmark has no matches," I conferred wearily, my search having run its course. "It must be someone who opted to keep their privacy." I knew Kate wasn't really expecting me to get a hit off of hers, but she'd still be a little deflated when I told her.

"I found Hagen," Caffrey said his piece in reply.

"Okay, we're in a workplace, so that needs to be more important." I forced myself to dispel the emotional duress and sat up straight, uncovering my face and looking up at Caffrey expectantly, hoping that I looked mentally prepared enough to handle more casework.

"There's a warehouse down by the docks." Caffrey leaned over my desk and he put both of his hands palms-down on the clear space. He bent one knee slightly to stand more comfortably. "Hagen runs it through a shell corporation out of Guatemala."

"I didn't know this," I lied, and it wasn't _completely_ a lie because up until earlier, I really hadn't. I was glad I'd left my tab on Kate open rather than the one that had been looking into said company. "How'd you find out?" I knew he'd figured it out the same way that I had - I was testing to see if he would be up front with me.

See, I already knew the information was real because I'd gotten it from the same source, who hadn't intentionally given it to me, but had nevertheless. I was pleased that he'd brought it to me, showing at least some honesty there, but I was curious how far that extended. Also, if he refused to explain to me who we'd gotten it from, then I'd know that it was probably not something I should look too closely at. Unless this source became problematic, I should just let it slide.

Elite criminals know each other, after all.

He didn't, instead shielding the identity of the man who'd given us our cigarettes. "I don't think you rely on rumor as much as I do," he half-deflected.

"Those special cigarettes really helped you think, didn't they?"

From my subtleties earlier and my cynicism now, he'd have to have been an idiot not to realize that I knew exactly where he'd gotten the info and whom he'd gotten it from, but I was letting him off the hook for his less-than-legal associations. I wanted him to know that, because I thought that - like bringing the photo of Moreau to me had meant something to me - showing that I was trusting his judgment and letting this pass should mean something to him, too.

"There's a reason so many people use them," he responded, not confirming or denying anything.

I stood up and turned off my monitor. It was password protected, so no one else would see what I'd been doing for my sister if they came in. "Let's go."

* * *

Caffrey took me to the nearest dock to the FBI building, and it didn't take long at all for it to become apparent that something strange was going on. The last time I had checked, storage lockers weren't guarded by people walking around with artillery. He and I snuck past by jumping over the gate instead of driving in, and the fence wasn't very high. There were no 'trespassing' signs posted, so I figured we'd be alright if we weren't caught - seeing as not getting caught was the plan, anyway, it seemed okay.

"Do you hear that?" He asked while we stood outside the largest garage, door dragged down shut and locked. We were around the back rather than the front, so we couldn't have entered even if we had had the cause to. No one could see us while we were back here. The man turned up the collar of his shirt, the color standing out sharply against his throat.

I leaned my head back until I felt the coolness of the metal sinking into my scalp. I could hear a faint mechanical noise through the material on the other side of the thin wall. It was a droning noise, but there were points where it faded before it crescendoed again, just like when a printer's noise lulled as it grabbed and fed another piece of paper through the device.

"That sounds like a printing press," I whispered back.

"He's printing bonds in there right now!"

 _We can't just bust in…_ I chewed on my lower lip before asking, "How long until he finishes?"

He looked up towards the sky and considered. "A multicolor print shop as complicated as the Goya - test proofs, ink formulation, perfect registration…" he rocked his head side to side as if saying 'more or less.' "He'll be running it for days."

 _Good. That means we still have time._ "We need to get bugs down here as soon as we can," I told him, already making a plan to send Derek a text about just that as soon as we were off the premises. "In the meantime, let's get out of here. Fast."

* * *

"I'm convinced," I said flatly, one hundred percent sure. Everything was too fishy now for it to be anything else. I paced across the mostly-empty office while Caffrey remained calmly sitting back in my visitor's chair. He put his shoes up on my desk, legs crossed at the ankles, and took an M&M from the bowl on the edge, tossing it into the air and catching it in his mouth.

I locked my door so that no one could come in without my permission and went back to pacing. "Hagen is the forger. We just don't have enough for a warrant."

"We know the bonds are there," Caffrey threw his head back to rest on the back of the chair, his blazer pulled up around his sides as he slouched down and leaned back. "Just open the door."

I almost wanted to rip my hair out. _Yes, thanks for that advice._ I'd fucking falcon-punch the door open if I could, but to do that would be to trespass, and forfeit any and all evidence inside.

"It's private property, we can't. The only way we could seize the evidence as it is is if we had a completely different reason, but we can't make the call of exigent circumstance when the only crimes we have reason to suspect are the same ones we can't seize on. I mean, that's a tricky loophole, and Hagen's too clean to do something like that, so we'd have to plant our own evidence, and then have feasible reason to-"

I stopped walking and talking very suddenly, just putting my hands slowly down on the desk, like I wasn't sure the desk was actually there, and squinting at Caffrey to make sure he wasn't a hallucination, because _hello,_ my ranting may have just given me the answer to my problems.

Caffrey looked up at me when my voice had so suddenly cut off, and he just groaned, shutting his eyes. "What did I do now?"

 _Wrong tense._ I couldn't _tell_ him what to do; no, ethically I couldn't condone it, and for all I know, my office has an audio recorder, just like some conference rooms do, or my lips could be read from a camera keeping watch out in the bullpen, and I might be under closer scrutiny now that I'm dealing with Caffrey's custody.

I ran to the window by the side of the building and ran my fingers over the tops of the books I kept there, some hiding folders and others specifications on legal practices and law. Most I had actually gotten from the bureau itself, and I found a thick, dark blue, hardcover volume and pulled it out from between the books pressing around it.

I carried it back to my desk, opening it up and cradling it in one arm while I pulled open a desk drawer and yanked out a blue highlighter. "I'm just thinking…" I drew it out. Caffrey opened one eye to see what I was doing, and I thudded the book down on my desk, roughly shoving papers to the left to find the right one. I had a rough idea what page it was on; I saw the heading and dragged the highlighter over it several times before popping the button at the end and retracting the tip.

I slammed shut the book before it was open for too long. "You should refresh on warrant law," I told him, a rush making me feel like I had some sort of runner's high. "I've highlighted the most interesting subject." Caffrey put his hands on the arms of the chair and picked his feet off of my desk, putting his shoes on the floor and pushing himself upright in the seat. I looked emphatically at the book and then pushed it across the table to him, dropping the highlighter on top of the desk by my monitor.

"As it is, the only thing we know is in there is some sound. There's no way to link the sound to the bond." Time to go at the other lead, although I desperately hoped that Caffrey was as smart as he liked to act and would catch the stupidly obvious hints. "I need to talk to your friend."

"Friend?" Feigning ignorance, Caffrey adopted a cute, puzzled expression.

"The guy that gave us the cigarettes," I specified bluntly, giving up on subtlety.

Caffrey's lips pulled up in a smile and he started to laugh. "I have no idea-"

"I'm not an idiot," I interrupted, my voice scolding and harsher than I had intended for it to be. Shutting my eyes for a second, I forcibly gentled my tone. "I had you both worried," I almost teased. "Come on. I ripped off the filter on mine while you were throwing yours out and got the address myself. I just wanted to know how long it would take you to bring the information to me."

He crossed his arms, pouted his lips, and looked at me with big blue eyes like a sulking child.

"I'm not going to arrest him," I promised lowly, assuaging that worry. "I have no reason to, remember?" I kept my eyes on him so he couldn't misinterpret my meanings. It's harder to misunderstand someone when they're keeping eye contact. I may not have been promising him my ethical rightness, but I was promising him my truth. "He's just some strange, short guy who gave us some cigarettes. I have to know how he connected Hagen to the warehouse. I am going out of my way to help you, and I'm trying to trust you that you won't run, that you won't manipulate me. That's a really hard thing to do, especially knowing you're a conman."

At that, Caffrey reminded me - intentionally or not - exactly why I'd just said that. Face blank, eyes like chips of ice or flint, he looked completely expressionless, a well-practiced expression. On occasion, I'd heard Kate mention how strange it was to see me when I went blank on a suspect I was interrogating, and she had never liked seeing me when I was like that.

 _Professional liar,_ a soft voice murmured in the back of my head, reminding me that I was playing with fire by extending him that trust.

"Try reciprocating," I urged, appealing to the camaraderie we'd been fostering. "Try trusting me, too."

He blinked his eyes shut. It was for just a second, but when he looked at me again, he was no longer the sullen kid or the potentially dangerous criminal - just a somewhat bothered man who thought a lot was being asked of him, and my shoulders sagged. That was the reaction I'd been wanting, the sign that he wasn't going to ice me out.

"Okay, okay," he said with a loud sigh, pointed and complaining. "I'll bring you to him." I grinned in relief and let him see how much I appreciated the extension of trust. "First thing tomorrow."

Given the timing, that made me slightly more cynical, but I tried to reserve judgment.

* * *

In the very early hours of the next morning, Kate and I were playing cards at our kitchen table, each of us with a hand of thirteen and the discard pile looking more and more appealing as I noticed at least three sets, two of which were of face cards.

I picked up a four of spades that she discarded, threw out a card of diamonds, and then leaned to the side while she drew from the deck, tucking her new card in with her hand. I pressed the home button on my phone, making the screen light up. There were no new notifications. I shifted, antsy. I wanted a notification - a text, call, email, voicemail, anything.

Kate looked up as I fidgeted. "Will you calm down?" She asked, not truly annoyed. Part of why we lived together was because not only did we get along, but she understood that I was a sort of workaholic. She liked having the place to herself as much as she liked having my company. I liked having someone to come home to. We split costs of rent and utilities and we both won.

"I need Caffrey to get the hint," I said, frustrated and beginning to think that maybe he was too dense to pick up on the hints. I didn't _think_ he was oblivious enough to pick them up, dust them off, and put them back on the shelf without realizing I'd deliberately put them right in front of him.

Kate made sure that her hand was still out of sight from my eyes as she folded the cards on top of each other and put the small stack down on the table. "You'd probably be less jittery if you'd had one _cup_ of coffee rather than two pots."

"I had to stay up all night in case the call came in," I muttered, looking for the run of seven that I was trying to get to pass my objective in this round.

My sister sighed and picked up her cards. "You think he's going to be willing to go for it?" She asked, her tone a lot more casual than the question warranted, spreading the faces out so she could see them again. I tapped my shoe against the floor, dressed and ready to dash out the door to my car.

It wasn't like it was an unreasonable question. Violating the tracker, in theory, would put his deal in jeopardy; on the other hand, however, not only could I protect him by explaining the circumstance I wanted him to cause, but it was a _certainty_ that his deal wouldn't hold out if we didn't manage to catch the Dutchman before he skipped out of the country on his private jet.

"He was willing to activate his tracker to speak to me face-to-face," I reminded her plainly. Caffrey seemed like a huge risk taker when he felt the risks needed to be taken to begin with. This was definitely a risk worth taking. It was better than a guarantee of being returned to prison.

"Yeah," she reluctantly agreed. "But I think he's sweet on you," she added more quietly, and then looked up to see my reaction. If she'd been a little more subtle, I'd have assumed she was just poking fun and trying to get a rise out of me, but she looked like she was genuinely interested in how I responded.

"Now _that's_ ridiculous," I declared, picking up another card, which, incidentally, turned out to be a wild. I pulled my run of six out from the other cards, laying them on the table smoothly, and dropped the new wild on top to make it a run of seven. "He's sweet on everyone." Derek liked him, Diana liked him - not in the way he would prefer, of course - hell, I was having to actively try _not_ to like him. Kate liked him, even! He wouldn't have gotten so far as a conman if he wasn't good at dropping lines and overwhelming people with charisma. "He _oozes_ sweet."

She picked up from the pile and immediately threw out another. "Right, I forgot." The pink-streaked girl rolled her eyes, overly dramatically, in my opinion. "He's your convict charge whom you're not allowed to acknowledge has a sex appeal." This was almost enough to make me miss the days when Kate wasn't comfortable enough to talk about sex of any kind with me, sex appeal included. Those days were long, _long_ gone. "Or appeal of any other kind."

"Hey," I said defensively, looking up. "His intelligence is appealing." I put down a new set of three and discarded my final card. It felt like a victory to punish her for bringing this up again. Why she thought there was chemistry, I had no idea.

She shuffled her cards together and started to thumb through, figuring out her points while she talked. It was a testament to how often we'd played this particular card game. "Of course, you _would_ appreciate his expertise, which he has for the purposes of doing what you disliked him for."

I raised my hand with my index finger waving at her warningly. "Don't you start using the past tense verbs on me!"

Kate grinned and started to laugh. I felt like a lot of my authority as the older one might have been lost sometime in the past few years if that was how she reacted to genuine warnings. At the same time, my phone started to vibrate, Diana's name lighting up my phone as her custom ringtone, One Direction's _Diana,_ started to play (yeah, cheesy, I know).

I picked it up before the first ring had even finished, sliding my thumb across the screen to accept the call, interrupting the lyrics. Kate covered her mouth with her hand courteously to muffle her laughter so I could hear over the line.

"Anderson," I said, practically buzzing in anticipation.

 _"It's Caffrey,"_ Diana's voice said. She sounded tired and groggy like she'd just been woken up. _"His tracker's off._ "

"Damn," I said with emphasis to her, but grinned widely at Kate to let her know that this was it - this was the call I'd been waiting for. "Do we have coordinates?"

 _"I'll text you,"_ she promised, something that sounded like car keys jingling in the background. _"Meet you there?"_

"Got it," I said, hurrying now to pick up my own keys from the table. I left my cards lying where they were. Kate sighed and reached across to pick them up and slid them, along with her own, back into the stack. "Don't forget the police team."

* * *

Although it had occurred to me for a second that maybe Caffrey's anklet had gone off because he was running away, it turned out that even that brief concern was unfounded, as the GPS that I fed the coordinates into began taking me down streets I recognized in the direction of the dock we'd snuck into the other day. I could feel adrenaline pumping in my veins and buzzed with anticipation. The Dutchman was identified and near - I was _so close_ to catching him.

I turned my sirens on and hurried through an intersection as cars pulled over to let me by. Just because Caffrey was in on the plan didn't mean that he wasn't in danger, and if Hagen didn't know we would be following, he still might try to hurt the man before he could go blabbing to law enforcement.

Less than a mile away from the dock, my phone began to trill generically. The call screen took over the directions. I glanced at the ID long enough to identify my new CI's name and picked it up immediately. I knew the way to the place from where I was, anyway, and it wouldn't be long before I was there.

"Caffrey?" I asked when I took the call, holding it up to my ear, but I didn't get a reply.

 _"What exactly is going on here?"_ The voice was hard to hear and I wouldn't have been able to identify it if it weren't for the British accent. It was also muffled, like it was behind a door. _"Why'd you bring him inside?"_

 _"... Taking pictures…"_ a voice faintly explained.

Suddenly, something pounded against a surface, like a fist banging on a door. It sounded a lot closer than Hagen's voice. I kept my sirens on for speed, but turned up the volume on my phone to almost maximum so that I could hear. It hadn't taken long for me to figure out that Caffrey's cell was on speakerphone. He'd probably dialed me on purpose so I'd know the situation without it being obvious to his new pals.

 _"Open the door!"_ A loud voice commanded, sounding downright furious. _"You're a dead man!"_

Then there was the voice I had actually _wanted_ to hear, much more audible, bright, and cheery. _"That sounds like inch-thick Lexan."_

 _Lexan? Of course._ He was separated from Hagen by strong, durable glass. I sped through the driveway to the security gate at the dock, which was already opened by a SWAT team that either Derek or Diana had thought to call. They saw my sirens and a fully-suited and armed officer waved me through. I slowed down significantly from the speed I'd been going on the main road, but still bypassed the posted limit. I turned off my sirens so it sounded like it had just been an emergency car passing by the dock.

I hadn't been wearing my seatbelt, anticipating the need to get out of the car quickly, so I pulled up, made gravel skid with how quickly I braked, and moved the gear shift into park.

 _"Keys are on the way,"_ Hagen said, disgruntled. I was immediately met by Derek and Diana, both of whom were suited up in bulletproof vests. I thought that was a bit much. The thing about Hagen was that he was far too arrogant and thought of himself as far too high-up. He didn't expect he'd be caught, and he certainly wasn't the type to carry heavy artillery. Any guards that had been posted along the perimeter of the operation had been arrested before I'd arrived, and it seemed like the SWAT vans had converged on the same storage building that Caffrey and I had heard the printing press from inside of.

 _"Nice,"_ Caffrey commented on something. While I listened to him, I held my arms up and let Derek lift a vest over my head. There was no way SWAT would let anyone, bureau or not, in without one under the circumstances, and I mouthed _Caffrey,_ pointing to the phone. _"You shouldn't've signed the bonds. I'm no stranger to vanity myself, so I understand the impulse."_

I winced visibly as Derek pulled the straps to tighten the vest and shot him a look, but I was far too focused on making sure that my new partner wasn't in life-threatening danger at the moment.

Something that he did must've let Hagen know that he was caught, whether it was an expression or a gesture, because next thing I knew, I could make out Hagen threatening Caffrey coldly.

 _"I'm gonna kill you,"_ he informed lowly, voice almost too quiet through the Lexan for me to hear. _"I hope whatever they're giving you, it's worth it."_

Just as quietly, Caffrey's response was, _"It is."_

There was a long pause where neither man made any sound, and I raised an arm as Derek patted my shoulder that I was good to go. I made eye contact with a SWAT commander, who nodded back at me, his men all stationed at the ready, prepared to go in on my signal.

 _"You are a particular kind of bastard!"_ Hagen suddenly raged, which startled me enough to start fearing for the artist's safety again. I brought down my hand in swift signal, and the raid began.

It all happened quickly, with precision and effort very focused and concentrated. Everyone on the SWAT team either had practice or had been intensely prepared for the situation. Derek and I were well-versed in the drill, and although Diana was fresh blood, relatively speaking, she had been instructed and trained very thoroughly.

"Freeze!" Someone yelled through a bullhorn to magnify their volume. Several agents went inside with their guns drawn before I gave Diana an 'okay' sign and hung up my phone, stalking into the large unit. "Federal agents!"

The inside of the facility was largely barren, a printing press to the right and more towards the corner, several open and closed crates scattered around the room, and a single office space in the center, surrounded by Lexan glass walls. Inside the office was a desk, a large floor safe, and a set of filing cabinets. Inside the office, legs kicked up on the desk and one of his pant legs pulled down to show the ankle monitor, was Neal Caffrey, arms behind his head and unlit cigar between his teeth while he grinned at Hagen. The latter fumed, face turning red as he stood right outside the door.

Although there was no way that this was everything involved in the elaborate and exquisite forgeries, this was enough to nab, convict, and get a search warrant for the rest of the premises. We'd find the rest of the supplies - the ink mixes and whatnot - sooner rather than later, and the Dutchman could kiss his chartered ride to Spain goodbye.

I strolled on in. There were a few people other than Hagen and Caffrey - including the "lawyer" from the airport, still carrying his briefcase, standing near the active forger - and most were around the crates that were being filled to fit the story of being taken from caves, but of the few that carried firearms, they had been taken by surprise by the raid and hadn't had time to draw them.

" _This_ is what the law calls an exigent circumstance." My voice carried well without a megaphone. I had the confidence to walk right through the middle of the storage unit, heading straight to both Hagen and Caffrey. "Any of you SWAT boys or henchmen know what that means?"

I gave them about five seconds, but no one spoke up. Hagen glared at me, easily recognizing my face, but for the most part, loathing and humiliation combined made his face pinker and pinker by the second.

"Exigent circumstance," I said airily, continuing in my own monologue. "Allows pursuit of a suspect onto private property _without_ obtaining a warrant, and to seize any and all evidence discovered in plain view, regardless of the connection to the original crime." I stopped in front of Hagen while Caffrey stood up behind the man's desk through the glass. "Remember me? Nice accuracy," I commended, "But I'm pretty sure if you'd really dug them all up from Spain, they would all already, you know… _exist._ "

I nodded towards the running printing press to prove my point.

"But, hey, you've already got a lawyer!" I looked over my shoulder and waved for someone who was throwing cuffs on a black-suited man standing over a box of faux Victory Bonds. "Make sure someone frisks him this time. He's been known to moonlight as a doctor. I wouldn't want this one giving me any shots."

 _"Ha!"_ I saw Caffrey grinning as he unlocked the glass door to the office. I pushed my way between the steadfast Hagen and red-handed lawyer, clapping the latter on the shoulder roughly when I got the chance.

Caffrey even pushed the door open for me, inviting me inside. We left the door open. The inside of Hagen's tiny office was warmed by a space heater underneath the desk. Now that I was in the glass box, I could hear it running.

"You know, you're _really_ bad at the whole 'escape' thing," I taunted playfully. We both knew full well that we had both intended for me to "catch" him here, but we had to keep up appearances, didn't we?

"Eh, what can I say?" He turned around, raising a hand over the end of the cigar and flicking the spoke of a lighter. "Cigar?" He offered, voice a little garbled by holding one in his mouth already.

"Nah," I said, shaking my head. I should've known better than to have the cigarette, too. I couldn't resist making a subtle jibe, though, and while he shoved the lighter away, end of the cigar glowing orange, he pushed himself up onto the edge of Hagen's desk, looking out over the seizure of the falsified bonds. "It doesn't look like the filter will do me much good."

"Hm…" He didn't deign that quite worth a coherent response, but I got the message behind it well enough. _I'm not confirming or denying anything._ "You should arrest me," he noted truthfully, and, yeah, on some counts I probably should've - especially for not giving me his source of the information, but that wasn't worth starting a fight. Not today, not when we'd just gotten our _huge_ break.

"For unhelpful filters?" I played dumb on purpose. Caffrey and I were opposites in some ways, and compromise was the only way that we were going to work. I could forgive him for the lesser offenses as part of that. "That seems kind of harsh." I jumped up onto the desk next to him, our elbows brushing. My legs were _almost_ long enough to reach the floor from the furniture, but not quite, so they dangled awkwardly. Caffrey knocked our elbows together and then nodded his head toward the safe I'd noticed, broken open with the code cracked.

A Spanish Victory Bond hung inside, stood up with gravity against the back wall, and it was more than just a gut feeling telling me that that was the special one.

"Is that the original Victory Bond?" I still asked, just to be sure.

He reached up to his mouth and took the cigar from between his teeth, grinning at me with pretty blue eyes sparkling. "Why, yes, yes it is."

I let my legs swing more deliberately, upbeat and bright with enthusiasm. Outside the office, Hagen scowled darkly through the glass as he was turned around and forced into a pair of chafing handcuffs. The criminal beside me waved happily, pretending to be oblivious to the loathsome stare.

"You know this puts me at two to zero, right?" I said, looking to my left at him, too pleased with myself.

Caffrey looked back at me solemnly. "Maybe I'm just not trying hard enough," he suggested, and I gave him a look that told him not to even think about it. He smiled at me and nudged my elbow again, making me laugh. It was too good of a day, too rich of a success, to be bothered by much.

* * *

This time, upon entering the mansion, I was greeted warmly by June and Cinnamon, gifted with the warmth of an embrace I didn't really get a vote in and the pressure of paws against my legs. I hugged June and then bent down to ruffle my fingers in Cinnamon's long fur, and when Caffrey didn't immediately show up, I assumed he'd be on the roof again.

June turned out to be a very kind, maternal person. As in, the kind of maternal person that wants to stuff you with food. I saw this coming and got out of it by taking one of the offered cookies and then declaring with a bright smile that I had good news for Caffrey - Neal, I had corrected myself to her - and wanted to see him as soon as I could.

The trip up to the roof took a bit longer than it should have because I kept laughing whenever Cinnamon's tiny little feet scrabbled on the stairs and pausing so he could move out of the way so I wouldn't step on him. And Kate said Corgis weren't amusing.

I pushed open the door to look out and see what was going on. Caffrey was alone, standing with his back to me. Leaning on the wall, elbows on the edge, he watched the sky attentively. At least he was dressed this time.

The dog yipped, giving away my position, so I shot him a betrayed glare before making my way over to the con and standing beside him at the wall, folding my arms over the edge and looking at the incredible view.

"We've got the bastard," I informed, rough language undermined by the delighted tone of voice. "The evidence we seized is enough to nail him on at least half a dozen counts."

At that, Caffrey broke his attention from the skyline and looked down to me. "Coffee?" He offered.

"Yes, please." The day I denied coffee was the day my life was endangered by it. Maybe not even then. I backed up and Caffrey walked away from the wall, going to one of the picnic tables. He grabbed an empty cup conveniently placed by his, took the coffee pot, and poured some in. I could smell the hot coffee and see the steam rising. "Italian roast?" I asked knowingly.

He stopped pouring before it overflowed, but he looked up in surprise that I had remembered his attempts to bother me the other day. I smirked at him - _I don't forget that easily_ \- and he smiled, laughing in pleasure while I picked up my cup by the handle.

I inhaled deeply. _Mm._ I blew over it to cool off before I tried drinking any and burned my tongue. "Thanks. So, on the record, I _cannot_ condone you violating your perimeter." Here I started to violently nod my head, contradicting myself by gesturing _yes, yes, great job, exceptional work._ "Off the record," I stopped, "That was a great move. I've protected you legally. It's all listed as a case thing."

He tried to pass it off as nothing, but I saw the tilt of his lips as he reigned in joy and satisfaction. _What does it mean when a conman can't hold a straight face? … It means he's not trying,_ I realized, and smiled more warmly.

"Aw," he teased. "You're protecting me, Kenna? I thought I was the one everyone else needed protecting _from_."

I shook my head. "I'm actually trying to trust you, alright?" He looked terribly shocked, so I glared, knowing that he was exaggerating. "It's been pointed out that I don't really know that I can trust you… and that's fair." Professional liar, con artist, convicted felon. I kept reminding myself of these things - it was time I let myself see beyond them, too. "But what's _not_ fair is for me to expect you to prove that I can without ever giving you the opportunity to do so." He stuffed his hands in his pockets, elbows bend back slightly, and I added, "Don't call me Kenna."

"Does that mean you're going to be nicer to me?" He wondered aloud, tipping his head back like he was asking a rhetorical question to the sky. "Because it's either that or the whole turnabout-being-fair-play thing."

_Don't even think about it, Caffrey._

"It was the soulmate thing, alright?" I said bluntly instead of a threat.

"The-" He looked back quickly, his face adorably confused for just a second before he figured out what I meant. I thought his eyes were going to bug out of his skull for genuine shock. "Wait, _that's_ why you've been annoyed with me? This whole time, because of that stupid line?"

_"Hell, you can fuck whoever you want. If it's consensual, I don't give a damn."_

_"My mate might."_

_"You've met them?"_

_"No. Point stands."_

"Yeah," I confirmed, refusing to feel silly. "I know it's stupid. It just really bothered me when you used your mate as a piece of the argument." I knew myself that if _my_ mate used my existence like that, I'd be pretty pissed off. I'm not an objection, I'm not an excuse, and I'm not a piece of an argument, especially not one that I am in no way involved in. I guess I transferred that over to feeling offended on his mate's behalf and let it get under my skin. "The argument was between us, and they had nothing to do with it. Not only did you bring in a third party, but you brought them in for the principle of being your soulmate. It always irritates me when people do that."

"Because they're not just _there,_ right?" I was going to try my Italian roast coffee, but damn - I was caught in his eyes again, struck by the intensity he wasn't even _trying_ for and flailing in the gorgeous color. His voice interrupted again before I could get distracted, strangely understanding and unusually serious. "Because they're your _soulmate._ " The way he said it was reverent. "Not an object. They deserve respect and compassion, and it's not fair to use them as excuses any more than it is to blame decisions on other people. They're precious," he finished.

I swallowed, sucking up my pride (and status as a non-romantic) and nodded slowly. "Yeah," I admitted, looking down but then peeking up at him through my eyelashes. "I didn't think you'd get that."

"Hey, we're both romantics here." He replied loftily.

I drank some coffee before I habitually denied everything and made a noise of appreciation that was probably more suited to a pornography than an actual conversation. Caffrey coughed his throat pointedly and I blinked.

"Sorry," I said, but was totally unashamed. My caffeine addiction needs to feed off of something. It's either this or cigarettes.

He leaned against the table. It was strong enough to support the little bit of pressure he was putting on it, and it pressed into his upper thighs. "I love my soulmate," he said honestly. "As much as it's possible to love someone you've never met. So… maybe it's not love, but there's a devotion that I feel." I nodded. I could understand that.

"I don't think I should put my life on hold until I meet them, because if I meet someone I want to share things with? That should be okay." I definitely got that, too. My phase of going on dates and making out with as many boys and girls as I could was me proving to myself that I didn't have to be with my soulmate to be content, and I didn't have to save every first in my life for them. We get our own lives; we just share what we want, when we want. Commitment, but by choice, not by force. "Just, let's be honest here - they're already going to have to deal with an ex-con with an ankle tracker and an FBI babysitter, if they want to deal with me at all."

"Ha!" I laughed, putting down the coffee up on the table and smiling at Caffrey. "I know the feeling," I promised. "I mean, with other things, not the criminal record, anklet, or babysitter. I have other baggage." But that was not a part of the conversation, or necessarily something that I felt like he needed to know. "I just wanted to tell you that… that was my problem with you."

He nodded, both for courtesy and gratitude, and went to his coffee again.

I thought haughtily that if _he_ had made an inappropriate noise in regard to his coffee, I wouldn't blame or judge him, so maybe he should keep his mouth shut next time.

He _did_ make a content sigh after he swallowed, but that wasn't nearly as socially unacceptable as what I'd done. He looked down at me, at the gloves that were clearly visible paired with my short-sleeved shirt. It occurred to me that this was the first time he'd seen me in civilian clothes; I was wearing snug skinny jeans and a white button-up blouse with cuffs that cut off just a couple of inches down my upper arms. My gloves today were long, knit turquoise that cut off at my elbows and palms.

"I had figured you hid your soulmark with the gloves _before_ you told me, you know," he said, looking at my gloves critically.

I shrugged. I never made a big deal out of trying to hide that I wore gloves, because it was pretty hard not to notice in the middle of summer. To fit the weather, I just used different fabrics, colors, and styles. They were a trademark accessory as much as they were a convenient means of keeping my privacy.

"Most people do. It's not hard to guess." I modeled the gloves by holding my arms out in front of my and crossing them at the wrists.

"Why do you hide it if you're such a romantic about it?" He asked, not looking like his curiosity had been sated.

"Because a lot of people want me dead or suffering, and the last thing I want is for my soulmate to be dragged into it and hurt because they have a matching mark," I responded, rewarding him with my own truthfulness. For that matter, I didn't look at mine much, either - I kept it covered even when I slept, and now it feels strange and uncomfortable not to wear something snug over my arms. I adore the gorgeous design and contrasting colors, but it's a personal, intimate thing to me, and I want it to stay that way. "What about yours?"

"Ah, I'm not hiding mine. It's just not in sight." He winked at me promiscuously.

"Okay." I said flatly, not taking the bait.

He sighed, rolling his eyes. "You know, it's nice to tell someone that and them not automatically assume it's in an inappropriate location."

"You get that a lot?" I asked, snorting as I imagined how those conversations must have gone.

"You have no idea," he chuckled.

"My sister's is on her hip, so pretty much always covered," I shared, then picked up my cup and drank almost half of what was left, since it had been given the chance to cool down. "Well, thank you for the coffee," I said, licking my lips. "I guess you can enjoy your relative joblessness for the next… however long it takes for me to get called in again."

I was just about dying in anticipation. _How long will it take you to ask, damn it?!_

"Wait," he said as I turned to go back to the door, cup in hand. I figured I'd somehow find the kitchen and then maybe manage to escape the labyrinth – oops, I meant mansion – before midnight. I stopped and looked over my shoulder inquisitively. Caffrey fidgeted uncomfortably and looked away. "I have to ask… did they make a decision?"

"Finally!" I exploded, turning around to face him again and rushing to put my coffee down. "It's about damn time!" I reached around to my back pocket and felt the bulge of the newest badge with my fingers. "Your arresting officer was consulted," I informed him, now with a straight face. "He doesn't like it. They also checked with me, and… I told them we would _not_ have gotten this one without your _invaluable_ assistance."

I smiled kindly and pulled the CI badge out of my pocket, then held it out to him. His eyes widened and he gave me a breathless smile, taking it and flipping it open to see the inside.

"I figured that if we didn't, you'd forge your own," I quipped. "But I didn't mention that to them."

He laughed brightly. "I'm official!" He turned it around so I could see. It didn't look the same as mine, because I was an agent and he a consultant, but it was still definitely and unmistakably an FBI badge.

"You're a consultant for the bureau, and…" I stepped forward again. He moved his arms like he was prepared to hug me if that's what I was going for, but instead I smirked up at him and poked him in the chest. "I own you for the next four years." Until his sentence was up and the anklet came off, his custody laid with me. "You okay with that?"

"Yeah," he nodded enthusiastically and lowered his arms. "Yeah, I'm great with that!"

I wasn't all too flattered, since the alternative was prison, but at the very least, I was definitely pleased to have such an eager reply.

"Great," I said, feeling like the satisfaction was glaringly evident from my face. "I have places to be, a hockey game to catch, grown men to watch assault each other, so if you need anything, you call me or go to Johnson." Calling Derek by his last name came just as easily as by his first, because I used surnames when I was scolding and because we'd met professionally. I paused, bit my lip, and asked, "You'll be here when I get back?"

He held out his arms again, but this time straight out to his sides, indicating the rooftop. "Where else am I gonna go, Kenna?"

Waving goodbye, I picked up my coffee cup to take downstairs and treaded back to the door. Cinnamon's ears perked up as I approached and he rolled off of his back where he was sunbathing (weird dog), collar jingling as he ran to catch up. I held the door open for the pup and then stepped through myself, laughing as he jumped down each stair individually.

I hoped Neal caught on that I didn't correct him for calling me Kenna.

* * *

**I know I mentioned the time we got fakes, but I was busy talking about that damn party and all the misery that came out of it. Actually getting the fakes wasn't too bad. Remember that? We made a friend. The guy who took us to get it done was a sleaze, but the one who made them was pretty clever. We liked him. He knew stuff that most people didn't, and he wasn't a complete jackass to us.**

**We kind of relied on him, didn't we? He got really important to us after that. For about a month, until we made other contacts. If not for him we'd have been so bored, stuck at home all the time. I use the word "home" very loosely.**

**Anyway, I guess when I was rereading the other letter, it occurred to me that I wasn't being very fair. Now, I'm not going to change or take back what I said. I said it and I meant it, and it feels like it would be dishonest to wipe my real thoughts and feelings from the record when that's the entire point of doing this. But those two, those people that spiked our drinks and got us drunk, they weren't pathetic because they were criminals. They were pathetic because they felt the need to hurt teenagers in order to feel good about themselves. They were pathetic because they were going to take advantage of us because the semi-attractive college frat boy couldn't manage to score a date who actually wanted to be with him. I know that not everyone who commits crime does it to do harm, and some of them don't even have a choice. Prostitution is a crime in America, and I'm willing to bet that the majority of them do it because they have no other choice.**

**Be fair. Give people chances. … And if they let you down, then hit them in the face,**

**Zarra L**

* * *

 


	3. You Toss Love Around Like a Juggling Act

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Their newest case drives them into the world of high-end fashion. Neal feels right at home, but McKenna just wants to catch the bad guy... even if that means throwing a party. Katie helps organize an event to lure out their killer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Lucy Hale's "Runaway Circus."
> 
> For a while I had trouble figuring out the editing software on AO3, but now that I understand it, I'm uploading every part of Lie a Little Better that's been uploaded to my other profiles on FFN and Quotev.

**_Chapter Three – You Toss Love Around Like a Juggling Act_ **

My criminal consultant and I had spent the last ten minutes walking down an avenue and trying to hail a cab after the lunch break that we more often than not took together. Because he was in my custody, Neal and I typically spent at least eight hours a day in each other's company, from the morning, lunch, and into the afternoon. That's disregarding extra times when he dropped in or we ended up working late on a case.

"I hate this!" I yelled, ignoring that dozens of people aside from Neal probably heard. I was almost walking sideways to get to my destination, thinning myself out as two-dimensional as possible and _still_ getting feet at my heels and toes, arms and shoulders knocking into my body. "I hate it, I hate it, I hate it!"

I didn't get a response from Neal, though I could feel his hand on my shoulder, fingers flexing into the muscle over my clavicle. I'd put his hand on my shoulder myself to keep track of where he was. When I was little, my parents had made me put my hand in their pockets in crowds, so that they were still free to use their hands while we were out. After I hit puberty, I had to hold onto their shoulders or wrists because we all suddenly realized how awkward it was. Now I was making Neal do the same.

"This happens every year," I ranted, knowing very well that Neal knew this. Neal spent only a fraction of his life in New York, but the way he acted so at home in the city, he could have passed for a born-and-bred Yankee. "You can barely breathe! You get more bruises walking down a street than you would playing hockey!" If I'd been shot or kneecapped or had a heart attack, it would have been impossible to fall down for all of the people. "It's _impossible_ to get into any public transport!"

"Kenna, Kenna, Kenna." Neal tutted disapprovingly behind me, voice almost drowned underneath the chatter of people on cellphones and the music being played from speakers in the stores along the block, the honks of car horns, and the rumbling engines. "It's Fashion Week! Embrace it."

I usually love to live in glorious New York City. It's big, it's famous, it's scenic, it's got pretty much everything I can want. The problem is the traffic in certain times of the year. New Orleans had a huge tourist boost during Mardi Gras. In New York, Fashion Week was like Mardi Gras - but less fun. There's no stripping on Bourbon Street in New York.

That would probably be remedied if there _was_ a Bourbon Street in New York…

"That's easy for you to say, Mr. I-Wear-Thousand-Dollar-Devore-Suits," I complained loudly enough for him to hear without looking over my shoulder. I wished that I was shocked that Neal liked Fashion Week, but the classy, sophisticated guy he liked to pretend to be really _did_ know his way around clothes. In spite of that his talents usually went towards crime, he truly did know art, music, and style. "You know, we were supposed to be interviewing our witness _twenty minutes ago._ Do you _see_ how this week is an absolute nightmare for me?"

I stopped at the curb at the end of the block again, reached up to my shoulder, and wrapped my fingers around Neal's wrist. With my free right hand, I lifted my bureau badge into the air and waved it at the street, still furiously attempting to hail a taxi. What the hell kind of respectable city doesn't even have available transport for its civil servants? The foot traffic was horrific. There could be a hostage situation just across the street and I probably wouldn't get there until SWAT already had half of the hostages out and a bullet through the heart of the perpetrator.

"This is crazy!" I huffed. Most of the taxis that were driving past had windows that I could see through pretty easily, and a good portion of them didn't even have passengers! "At least a third of these cabs don't even have anyone in them!"

"Here, let me." Damn him; he sounded so amused by my problems. I looked back around at him, glaring. He thought he could get a car better than I could? He withdrew a small collection of American bills from the pocket of his designer pants and held it up. He didn't even make a motion to wave it around to get attention. "Relax."

"Oh, _that's_ not going to be more effective than my-"

 _Badge,_ I meant to say, because what did he think was going to happen? They'd see some money and stop, but no cab driver in New York had any regard for transportation for the members of the Federal Bureau of Investigation? Except before I could finish even telling him what a stupid idea that was, a low horn blasted near us and a taxi skidded down from thirty to five miles an hour, swinging out of the lane to sidle up by the curb and hit the brakes.

Neal looked down at me smugly and grinned, letting go of my shoulder to step forward, open the back door, and gesture with his hand for me to get in.

"I hate Fashion Week," I reiterated darkly.

* * *

When we finally got to the White-Collar Crime Division, I felt worse than I had after not sleeping on a fourteen-hour trans-Atlantic flight, flying in economy, with turbulence. Okay, so that may have been an exaggeration, but I still felt pretty bad. The traffic had taken forever, I had a headache from all of the noise from both inside the car and out, the inside of the upholstery had smelt like smoke and soured dairy, and it didn't help that the whole time, Neal was obliviously trying to engage me in some sort of human interaction. Ick.

With heavy hands, I dragged my fingers through my hair behind my head, making sure that I looked presentable as a respectable investigative agent to meet our witness, and now that we were in a well-lit place that didn't smell like it had held some questionable substances, I felt more in the mood to speak with Neal about what was going on.

"This week, we're going after an Israeli counterfeiter." I spared a look to the side at Neal, who suddenly looked fascinated by the cuff link on his jacket. I shook my head and looked forward again. Working with someone who had allegedly counterfeit, stolen, and forged many, _many_ things was advantageous most times, but it still sometimes threw me off-kilter to think about. Neal had the respect to not look at me in the wake of being unrepentant. "He goes by the name Ghovat."

He looked up, apparently having decided that he had done enough of the head-down, _I'm-sorry-that-I'm-not-really-sorry_ act. "We're going after the Ghost?" He questioned, as if maybe he hadn't heard me right.

"We're going after the Ghost," I confirmed. Ghovat's chosen alias translated to "Ghost" in English. I was a little bit surprised that Neal knew his lesser-known Czech title. "You're familiar with him?"

"Not _personally,_ no," he clarified defensively, putting his hands up like I was hinting at things a little too strongly. _What did you expect?_ "This guy is nefarious. Counterfeit treasury bonds, dollars… he's rumored to be the first guy to crack the microprinting on the euro," he listed. I swore I heard a bit of admiration.

"Yes, it's real impressive," I said dryly. Of course it was, but I didn't feel like it warranted praise. "And now he also has first-degree homicide on his rap sheet." We entered the white-collar offices. Across the bullpen, the blinds to my office were pulled up. A pretty foreign model was seated by my desk with her head looking over her shoulder at the agents passing through, her hands pulling nervously at the skirt she was wearing. "And there's our witness."

* * *

Tara Amit was a gorgeous model who looked somewhere between Russian and French, her hair straightened down into a flat brunette curtain, wearing a short-skirted dress with no sleeves and a green strap that went around her neck and then back in front of her. Her heels looked daunting, and nylons were pulled tight over the creamy expanse of her legs.

"Are you sure he called himself Ghovat?" I asked her, leaning against the side of my desk instead of sitting down on the opposite side. I wasn't quite tall enough to just sit on it without pushing myself up, and to save myself the dignity in front of a witness, I just pressed my hip into the edge.

She swallowed and raised her eyes to me, the color an expressive brown that looked deeply upset. Most people don't see murders very often; sometimes I forget that normal people don't see as many corpses in a lifetime as I've seen in a span of days. "Yes. I am positive," she asserted. Her accent had clued me in to her foreign origins, but her English was well-practiced.

"Okay." I said softly. It would be pretty stupid for a criminal to claim to be a notorious name that didn't belong to him. It would attract attention from both criminals and police, and that was too much heat for someone who had to hide behind someone else's reputation. "Can you tell me what happened?"

Tara looked away from me. "I was at a party," she started to say.

"Why?" She looked back up at me with her eyebrows furrowed, either offended at the interruption or lost on why it mattered. "Due diligence," I explained, prepared to elaborate if she didn't know the phrase. I know firsthand that learning every term in a foreign language is difficult, if not impossible, and traveling models often have to learn enough to get by in more than one country.

"It is Fashion Week," she offered earnestly, as if that was its own explanation. To be fair, it was, but it took effort not to let my lips fall into a scowl.

Neal, who had remained quiet up to then, chuckled. "Don't remind her," he advised lightheartedly, casting less of a shadow over what was _trying_ to become a recount. He leaned against the wall, as comfortable as if he were in his own home. Was he really that comfortable, or was it an act? I could never stop questioning his actions when it came to what was real and what was fake.

Tara looked over her shoulder at Neal and seemed to make her own decision about him, ultimately deeming him as no one to be concerned about, and she looked back at me. "Many models were invited," she explained. "It happened as I was leaving. When I went for my coat, I was in the back room when the two men came in. They were arguing."

"But they didn't see you?" Neal asked, a hint of concern touching his voice and reminding me why I actually didn't mind him sitting (or standing) in while I questioned people. Even if he wasn't sincere, he sounded like it, and that couldn't hurt.

The model shook her head. "I made sure to keep out of sight, hid in the closet," she said directly to him in answer. Then, to me again, she continued. "They started shouting at each other. Then, everything suddenly went quiet. The man who called himself Ghovat – I heard him leaving." I wondered for a moment how she could tell who left without hearing them, but then reasoned they'd probably had distinct footsteps, or maybe he'd been muttering as he left. "When I walked out, that's when I saw the other man. He was lying on the floor, already dead."

"You came straight to the police after this?" I honestly tried not to seem too anxious when I asked that, but it was so much easier and safer for everyone when law enforcement was told right away.

She nodded her head immediately. "Of course."

Internally, I was pretty relieved. The lack of hesitation meant that she didn't feel threatened by or unsure of the way that we approach crime and the safety of our citizens. I know that America, and American law enforcement, isn't always looked upon kindly internationally, but thankfully our witness had at least some level of trust in the system.

"Okay. Well, I'm not saying it's likely, but just in case Ghovat found out you were there, I'm going to have an agent stay with you for a while." Tara probably didn't like the idea of being followed by an agent, but if she was smart enough to come straight to the bureau, she was also probably smart enough to understand my reasoning. I reached across the side of my desk, stretching for my computer monitor to the little stack of cards next to it. I pulled one off the top, accidentally messing up a few underneath it, and gave the business card to her. "If you need anything else, at any time, call me." It was just my name, title, email, and phone number, but it was all she would need to get in touch. "If you heard this man again, do you think you could identify him?"

She looked straight up at me, almost like she was staring through my eyes at my soul. "I will never forget his voice," she swore solemnly. "As long as I live, I will remember."

_Yeah, I've definitely been underestimating the trauma of finding a dead body on a normal person._

* * *

My mouth watered from the scents of the ground coffee beans. Although the good coffee was more money out of pocket, we in the white-collar division needed our coffee to do our best work, so we usually took turns stocking up the break room with coffee. Although most of the agents were still a little leery of Neal being around, no one questioned him when he was in my company, so I took him with me into the small, far-from-luxurious kitchenette to get drinks.

"Do we have an ID on the dead guy?" Neal asked, reaching into the refrigerator for a quart of coffee cream.

I added French vanilla creamer to my ceramic mug from the fridge. Mine had the Roman Coliseum on it along with an Italian phrase that translated to _beautiful Italy, home of Roman gladiators_. Steam rose over the side. "A foreign national from the Republic of Turkey, a known associate of Ghovat." I sighed. "Kind of makes me sad, actually," I almost mourned. "It's an incredible country." One dead politician wasn't going to change that, but now I associated Turkey with the case, and I didn't particularly want to associate vacation spots with homicide.

"You've been?" Neal asked, his voice politely surprised. He looked up from fixing his drink.

"A few times," I nodded absently. It's not like I was actively trying to hide my past, so I didn't care if he knew about my adventures and long list of trips to foreign countries. My passport looked less like a passport and more like an ink stamp collection.

Neal put the top over a cardboard cup from one of the cabinets that we kept for when we were out of mugs. Although there were still some in the cupboard, he was thoughtful and didn't try using someone else's. We shared coffee, but used our own dishes.

"So they had a falling out over business," he guessed.

I turned around with my coffee in hand, heat soaking through my mug and probably turning my palm a light pink. "Derek thinks so, too," I contemplated, leaning back into the countertop as the edge pressed into my lower back. "I'm thinking this probably has something to do with Fashion Week. Fashion Week date, Fashion Week location, Fashion Week party, Fashion Week models." 'Fashion Week' was sounding less like a legitimate thing and more like an odd collection of syllables.

Neal copied me, standing with his back to the counter and his coffee in his right hand, left behind him against the edge. "Well, assuming the Ghost's got something to sell, Fashion Week's a great cover." He raised his cup to his lips and took a drink, making a face when it burned his tongue.

"All of his buyers are in New York with him and no one can link it to any activity, because they came out for Fashion Week," I agreed. It was a great excuse to be here, if you cared about that thing. "Nothing strange there." Nothing that would have held up in court, at least.

The door opened. A female agent from the department stepped inside, glancing at Neal and I. I nodded respectfully, took his elbow, and nudged him out of the way. We could have stood in front of the coffee all we liked when we were the only ones there, but I preferred for my throat to remain intact.

"We've also got someone who can identify his voice… oh!"

"Hm?" Quickly, I looked up at my consultant. I wasn't alarmed, exactly, but curious at what he'd suddenly realized that elicited a reaction like that. He sounded excited.

True to his tone, he grinned. "You're going to think I'm insane," he warned. It was hard to take him seriously through the bright smile and the sparkling of his eyes that just _begged_ for entertainment and challenge, but most of his ideas seemed pretty silly anyway, yet he was a very smart man.

"You say that as if I don't already," I commented, walking through the door he held open for me back into the main bullpen of the unit. Although Neal sometimes seemed more than a little off his rocker, what I called insanity was more typically him choosing to be facetious or extravagant.

He looked so proud of himself, too. I almost wanted to ruffle his hair and call him cute. "We throw a party!" He proposed, holding his hands out, elbows at his sides, prompting a response.

_…_

Yeah, he was right; I thought he was insane.

"... Is it your birthday?" I asked tentatively. If there was a reason for wanting the party, I didn't want to be mean and shoot it down. I knew when his birthday was supposed to be, but I also knew that at one point he'd changed his name, so it was entirely possible that that was falsified, too. Then again, even if he responded positively to the question, that _still_ wasn't going to help us catch the Ghost.

His face fell to confusion. "No."

"Some… obscure holiday?" I was _fairly_ sure I wasn't forgetting a holiday. _Ninety… okay, eighty-five percent sure…_

"Not that I know of?" He frowned, enthusiasm slacking.

I shut my eyes for a minute, forced myself to take a deep breath, and plastered on a thin smile as I opened my eyes to look at him again, chasing an explanation. "Then… _why_ … would we throw a party?"

Neal sighed. He stepped out of the way, moving his heel from in front of the door and allowing it to start to swing shut. I headed back towards my office across the bullpen and up the mezzanine, my CI following at my side while trying to talk to me.

"We have him in Monte Carlo, Cannes, Ibisa, Rio. This guy likes to have a good time. We put women, booze, and fashion all in one spot-"

That seemed far too easy, and was unlike any approach I had ever taken before. I was, understandably, wary of considering that a simple party would let us catch our bad guy. What about the actual investigation? The bugs? The paper trails? The legwork?

"And he RSVPs with as _Ghost plus one?_ " I predicted, finishing his clause for him and rolling my eyes. I scoffed audibly. "I really don't think it's going to be that easy."

"No," Neal disagreed, stubbornly not letting go of his idea. "We bring _him_ to _us_." I stopped on the top of the mezzanine stairs and turned to look at him. Thanks to the stairs, for once I was looking _down_ to meet his eyes. He pressed clasped hands against the short banister. "We have Tara there in the room. She can ID his voice."

Carefully, he set down his cardboard coffee cup on the stairs. Hopping up the steps in two bounds, he planted both feet on the mezzanine, held one arm out, and poised the other in front of his chest, balance fluid and movements graceful. Practice gave me the advance warning needed to take a step further away and hold up my mug to him threateningly.

"I will throw my coffee on you if you even _think_ about dancing in my office," I growled.

* * *

I was worried about taking Neal's idea to the boss to have it considered, but my worry wasn't based on _will I be laughed at_ as much as it was _how long will it take to live this down._ It was no secret to anyone in the WCCD that I was one of Hughes' favorite agents. I was given more trust and leeway in making decisions he wouldn't have approved of coming from someone else, he sometimes sent me home if he thought I was too tired or injured to be healthily working, and I'd seen a couple of times his willingness to defend me if I was brought under professional question. I knew I won his respect by my accomplishments from my previous rank, and especially with the _reason_ that I was demoted by the bureau, so those combined with my work in the WCCD ensured a place as the favored underling.

I brought Neal into the office and made sure that the door was closed so no one walking by would hear. The unorthodox idea had its merit, in a sense, but it was still laughable. If it weren't my case, I'd have been giggling.

Then, while making a point of repeatedly mentioning that it was Neal's idea, I pitched the suggestion and stood with my arms in front of me, trying my best to look as if I didn't think it was one of the stupidest, most ridiculous causes for bureau spending I'd ever had the misfortune of speaking about.

"A… party." Hughes looked between Neal and I carefully, surveying us for the signs that it was a joke, and the way he said it sounded like he was praying he'd heard me incorrectly, despite the repeated use of the word.

"The witness is adamant that she can identify Ghovat by his voice," I reiterated, trying to focus on the positive aspects before too much light was shed onto the, um, less becoming parts.

"Huh." I was still waiting for the not _kind_ , but not _cruel_ taunting. Hughes had a way of making me feel like a teenager asking my dad for something when I was taken to his office. It was really no wonder why I didn't like asking for things that sounded less than totally reasonable. "How do you know he'll show up?" Nevertheless, he was listening, and seemed to be actually entertaining the idea, which was more than what I'd expected.

Neal's lips turned up in a smile and he gestured with both hands, holding them out towards me as if making an example. "We fill it with beautiful women."

Hughes' eyes narrowed at Neal and his voice became hard and cold, just like steel. "I was _addressing_ my case agent," he informed lowly, making Neal's smile fall as he realized that he really wasn't one of my boss's favorite people. He lowered his hands and laced his fingers behind his back obediently.

That was like my dad trying to "protect" me from being objectified, which was pretty strange, considering my mom was always proud of me for getting visual attention, but unlike with my parents, I trusted that Hughes was looking out for me as a coworker, not as a controlling supervisor.

I smirked at Neal, enjoying that someone preferred me over him. Even my own sister had told me that Neal was more sociable. The bureau was _my_ house (metaphorically), and he'd better remember that.

"Ghovat's file suggests he has a thing for classy parties, and a penchant for sexualizing and objectifying women." I said, looking back to Hughes and explaining cordially. He'd ignore my smugness as long as I kept doing my job. "A modeling party for the flashy and privileged has his hallmarks. Also, as much as I hate that I won't be allowed to get drunk during this party, I'm willing to take Caffrey's word on it."

That right there was the first reason I was thankful to have Hughes as my boss over someone else. Very few people in the bureau would have been inclined to believe Neal, and I could think of several whom would be unwilling to trust me if I made decisions that were at all influenced by my consultant. Hughes, on the other hand, would consider what I said regardless of who gave me the advice, because he knew I wouldn't pitch it if I didn't think it was worth the effort.

"Especially if we invite models our witness remembers from her party last night, we'll rake in the same pool that attracted Ghovat already," I summarized.

That wasn't the first time Hughes had looked at me like my mental status was dubious, and it certainly wouldn't be the last, I contemplated, as he propped his elbow up on his table and rubbed his forehead with three fingers.

"You want to throw out government spending on a Fashion Week party for the sake of a small chance that your guy comes, made even slighter by the odds that your witness can hear him at all, let alone identify him." I grimaced when he summed it up with emphasis on all the flaws in the plan. That was his job, though – no matter how little I liked authority figures, I appreciated Hughes for everything he'd done for me, and couldn't bring myself to be upset. He lowered his hand down to the desk, flattening his forearm across the top. "And you're willing to do this because your convict says to?"

I shot a look at Neal, who was looking back at me inquisitively to see how I responded to that. If nothing else, this better have proved to him the repeated leaps of faith that I was making every day just by keeping him out of prison. The tracking anklet symbolized a leash on him, yes, but it also signaled the effort I was making to keep hold of my end, even when he pulled it tight.

"Caffrey and Ghovat are criminals of the same class," I said slowly, trying to keep profiling as simple as I could. There wasn't room for that there – the question itself was yes or no, but saying 'yes' wouldn't have proved that I was thinking for myself, and saying 'no' would have indicated that I didn't trust Neal. When it seemed like even I didn't trust him, why should anyone else? "Their differences are their specialties and the violence Ghovat is willing to commit. Caffrey's going to know him better than I will." Hughes nodded slightly in acknowledgment. That wasn't a refutable point. "We've never been this close to him before," I sighed, shaking my head. "Is this really an opportunity you want to claim responsibility for passing up?"

Maybe it was low to pose the question like that, but if I was being completely honest about the stakes, that was the best thing to say. There was no way to approach the situation rationally without considering how long we'd been after him and how we'd never come so close to the counterfeiter before. It would have been irresponsible not to try a new approach with a higher likelihood of succeeding.

Hughes realized that, too, and he sat up straight in his chair. "I'll authorize five grand for this party," he grudgingly permitted.

"Fifteen would be better," Neal advised, sounding helpful.

I reached out without looking and covered his mouth with the palm of my hand. I smiled brightly at Hughes. "Five works," I corrected him, blinking. "Thank you, sir."

 _"_ _Yes,"_ Neal took the hint and agreed, nodding his head a little. His voice came out muffled by my hand. Since he wasn't pushing his luck anymore, I uncovered his mouth. "We'll get Katie to help us!" He said once he was free to speak, his posture changing and getting excited, enthusiasm growing.

 _Wait, wait, wait._ Neal didn't know any of the Katies that worked in the bureau, so out of the only reasonable suspect left, he was trying to drag my sister into this? "My _sister_ Kate?" I clarified, giving him a look as if telling him _don't you dare._ I try so hard to keep work at work and Kate at home so that she doesn't have to deal with the results of my job stress any more than she absolutely has to, and now Neal wanted to not only _cross_ that line, but practically light it on fire and play hopscotch over it?

"She likes event planning," he answered, totally missing or ignoring the slack set of my jaw and the warning in the rest of my expression. "She told me so." _How the hell have you two been talking so much and having so many conversations I don't remember? Did you trade phone numbers or something?_

Huh. Actually, knowing Katie, that's probably exactly what they did.

Hughes didn't seem very concerned with my obvious dislike at the suggestion. Instead he was looking out primarily for the finances. Understandable, but irking. "She'll work with us on the price?"

Hughes might as well have approval-stamped it. "Oh, for God's sake," I whined, turning to the side and pinching the bridge of my nose tightly between my thumb and index finger.

"Absolutely! I'll ask nicely."

"I don't believe this. She is _my_ sister, you know," I told Neal, about to get on him and ask how he'd like it if I invited Kate Moreau to help go after a dangerous, homicidal counterfeiter, but I never got the chance, since Hughes turned my argument back to me.

"Precisely why we can allow it," the older man interrupted over his desk. "She is familiar with the course of your investigations, and will be easy for you to communicate with."

My consultant bounced overexcitedly and he turned to me, happily smacking my upper right arm with the back of his left hand. He was smiling widely, all bright blue eyes and unacceptably cute dimples and the excitement that didn't seem to match up with my preconception of a felon, and he looked at me like _hey Kenna, come on, this is great, be happy with me!_

I shook my head at him, refusing to let him rope me into sharing the infectious grin. "Don't even start," I flatly said, pointing at his chest and trying _very_ hard to stay annoyed.

"I'm sorry," he lied blatantly, not even trying to calm down. He looked over at Hughes pleasantly and then back to me as if sharing a note on how cute I was when I was mad – because that was the kind of observation he'd make, I was certain.

"No, you're not," I called him on it and punched him in the arm. Maybe it was a little bit harder than he'd smacked mine.

* * *

 _Letting Katherine Anderson and Neal Caffrey loose on a seizure locker,_ I reflected twenty minutes too late with my phone in my hand and Mahjong on the screen, _Was not my brightest idea._ Other than being genuinely concerned for the safety of the evidence still in here and the expiration of whatever it was they were finding, I was thoroughly disturbed by the thought of them "recycling" from evidence storage units on the principles of seizure and holding. These things were locked up for a reason, and party throwing? Not that reason.

"Eck!" My sister voiced in complaint. Something heavy moved, and something like a box was shoved. I kept my eyes plastered onto the screen of my phone, intent on making all of the matches without reshuffling the cards in order to get the final star on this level. "Royal Osetra Caviar." I expected another noise of disgust. Instead, she excitedly chimed, "This is good!"

I bit my tongue as I failed. Instead of shuffling, I restarted the level. I wouldn't get the star for not shuffling if I shuffled. "Since when do you like caviar?" I asked suspiciously, raising my voice to be heard by both of them. Neal was further into the locker than Kate.

"I don't," Kate reminded me. I hummed. Good to know my memory hadn't failed me. "But a lot of people do." I made a noncommittal noise.

I was the kind of teenager who called music, lighting, warm bodies, alcohol, and chips a good party. Kate was the one who wanted to make sure there were tables of food and refreshments, both alcoholic and non-spiked, a professional to play the music, the lighting managed by people who knew what they were doing, and colored napkins at least not clashing too horribly with the paper plates. Of course, she wanted the red plastic cups, too. I'd suggested event planning for her at one point, but really, Kate had a different job that she liked perfectly well, and she didn't think she had the patience to handle catering to the whims of strangers. I couldn't blame her.

She let out an excited cry of Neal's name a minute later. "Neal!" I was okay with them being pals now, but sometimes it still struck me that my little sister had made friends with my convicted consultant before I was done even wanting to wrap my hands around his throat. "I found Spring Bank!"

"Whiskey!" He sounded delighted, and his voice changed locations as he moved, stepping out of a small trap of boxes, tables, and stacks all of confiscated and tagged goods. And trash. "Perfect. I've got a Garioch scotch over there." He held his hand up and indicated behind him with his thumb.

I perked up like a dog who heard the food dish. "What year?" I asked, almost ashamed of my appreciation for unhealthy drinks. Coffee, liquor, milkshakes – I never said no.

"Fifty-eight," he replied brightly, in a pretty good mood for someone who was sifting through what a lot of people had considered too worthless to claim after the investigations had been completed.

"Grab the entire case," Kate instructed him, immediately becoming his boss. He raised a hand to mock-salute her quickly and turned around. I looked up from my phone at them for a moment instead of just watching through my periphery; Neal had ditched his blazer and rolled up the sleeves of his white button-up, and he moved back to where he'd been to haul out the scotch.

 _He's enjoying Kate's help as much as I'm not._ I still wasn't sure if it was a good thing that they'd decided to be social buddies or not. I love Kate as much as the next person – actually, what the hell, I'm her sister, I love her _more_ than the next person – but I wasn't a big fan of the idea of her being involved in my cases, much less one where we knew the criminal had already killed at least one person.

Neal came back into better lighting from the outside world when he was carrying the cases of scotch, a case in each hand. I nodded appreciatively, eyes raking over his bared forearms before I figured I had met the maximum amount of time permitted to spend eyeing a coworker before it became a yellow light behavior. Or an "I'm never going to let you live this down, McKenna" behavior.

"You realize we have to itemize these things, right?" I asked, looking over my shoulder to the van's back door. It was slid open and Derek was sitting just on the edge of the booth behind the driver's side, his shoulders and upper back bent so he wouldn't hit his head when he looked up, doing something on his phone and likely not itemizing. Not that I could judge, since I was playing a game.

Neal lowered the bottles to the ground and set them by the van, where they were easily seen and accounted for. "Twelve bottles of scotch."

The scratching of cans grinding against a plastic table stopped. "Thirty-six cans of Osetra," Kate supplied helpfully.

I rolled my eyes and looked back at the part of Derek's legs that I could see. "Booze and caviar," I told him flatly, making a mental note of the amounts in case the actual process of itemizing ended up falling to me. Then I nodded towards Kate and Neal. "Help me?"

Derek's phone clicked as he closed it and he leaned further out the open door, twisting his neck to look at me. "You released the wild ones on a storage locker with five thousand dollars at their disposal for a big Fashion Week party," he accused, laughing like I'd asked him to climb trees rather than do his job. "If I stand in front of them, I risk coming to harm. I'm not fool enough to do that."

"Then what do I keep you around for?" I whined. Sure, Neal could probably pack a punch if he actually cared to be violent, though from what I knew, he was about as violent as a puppy – deliberately adorable to get his way, sweet most of the time, but would only really get mean when he felt threatened. Kate, sure, I could understand being wary of; she _had_ threatened to take off her high heels and beat Derek with them once, but the situation had been a… _unique_ one.

I looked over at them both again, albeit a little bit fondly, until my eyes sharpened when I saw Neal holding up something shiny. "Neal," I snapped, locking my phone with the press of a button and crossing my arms expectantly. "Down with the jewelry. This isn't a shopping spree."

"Not for me," the conman protested. Whatever he was holding, I couldn't see very well, but my command got Kate's attention. She stopped closer to him while carrying an armful of canned caviar out to the van. She looked at what he was holding and smiled. "For you," he specified, smiling at me and trying to be cute. And being entirely too successful for my tastes. "Look, they match your eyes."

"Are those real sapphires?" Kate asked with wide eyes, admiring the jewels.

"I think so."

"I don't need new earrings," I established, speaking very clearly to allow for no room of objection or miscommunication. The dangling blue piece from Neal's hand at least let me know what kind of jewelry it was. "I especially don't need new earrings from a seizure storage locker. It is _definitely_ not your priority to be finding me jewelry," I added to Neal sternly before he started thinking I was cool with him getting me jewelry at all. There were three people I'd have appreciated presents other than coffee from, and they were Kate, Derek, and Diana. I trusted them enough to be willing to blur boundaries between colleagues and friends, and I knew that they wouldn't try using gifts to manipulate me.

Kate sighed. A can of caviar shifted and wobbled, and she held her arm up higher to stabilize it. "What's the point of having all of these things locked away in the dark where no one's ever going to use them?" She asked, her lips pouting and her eyes kind of saddened as she looked around.

There really was a lot in here, but what did she want me to do? None of it belonged to any of us. "Legality," I replied dryly.

Neal put the earrings down where he'd found them, thankfully, but patted Kate's back and went to go help her gather some more of the remaining cans. "There's nothing wrong with enjoying the good things in life," he assured her, and maybe he was trying to tell me something, too.

"If there's nothing wrong with it, then why are all of these good things in seizure lockers?" I asked, prompting for an answer that I didn't think he could give me. "Hm?" The sad fact was that most of what was locked up here and was actually worth money probably had to do with crimes that their previous owners had committed.

Kate must've had a warning radar implanted in her brain that let her know when we were about to get philosophical, because she interrupted as she put the last of the caviar collection into the back of the vehicle. "Guys, we've got alcohol and food covered, between this and our caterers." At some point when I wasn't paying attention to him, Derek had lifted the scotch and put it in the back end, too, along with what else the two treasure hunters had scavenged. Kate stretched and pressed her hands against the small of her back as she arched her spine. "Now we need a venue so we can work on the decorating."

I straightened up a little bit. I may not be an event planner, but I can be useful. If I'd had wings, I would've been preening. "I've already gotten a place," I informed smugly, nodding when Kate looked skeptical. Neal sighed, and I shot him a glare.

* * *

I tossed the photographs from the folder I'd recovered onto the table in the conference room. It had really only been meant to be a quick stop at the office to get the file. After placing a call, I'd gotten someone to take it out and set it on my desk for me. The pictures inside were Polaroids initially taken after a CSU team had done their thing and catalogued evidence, and while it didn't look like a rich persons' hotspot, with some decorations and a little bit of staging, it could have been suitable for a party, especially one with five grand supporting it.

"It's a loft seized in a bust last year," I rolled my eyes, already anticipating negative reactions from the skeptical raise of Neal's eyebrows and Kate's cynically crossed arms. She was reluctant to lower her eyes to the photos, expecting to be disappointed. _This is real great for my confidence, guys._ "Since it's still under our jurisdiction, the bureau doesn't have to pay to use it for the operation."

They were both quiet for a few seconds. In my head, I permitted myself to imagine that it was because they were amazed by my resourcefulness, and I waited almost impatiently for them to pop that bubble before I put too much thought into it. I wasn't disappointed.

Neal pointed at one of the pictures. "Is that a chalk outline?"

"I'm sure it's been cleaned by now." I actually wasn't entirely sure of that, but at worst, we could have just had it quickly painted over. "It's got the space and location." And those were the priorities, weren't they?

Neal snorted. "Until half a dozen drunk frat boys show up."

 _This is the real world, Caffrey,_ I wanted to sharply lecture. _And in the real world, we working-class people have to take what we can get and make do. In the real world, we don't get to steal what we want and pretend the world is our oyster, because by the time we've grown up, we've realized that it's not._

As a result of the frustration that was brewing thanks to this very tense exchange, I testily asked, "Aren't you supposed to be lining up supermodels to be ogled and objectified?"

Just then, his cell phone pinged in his pocket with a notification alert. "Sixty-four and counting," he smugly returned, enjoying being able to match my wit and make me look lesser.

Kate looked down at the table, stunned. "How? We've only been planning this for hours. _How?"_ She raised her eyes back up to him in bemusement and something worryingly close to awe, and _great_ , it wasn't bad enough that he was making me look bad, but he was making me look bad in front of my sister.

Neal was already checking his phone. "Oh, no, sorry, my mistake." He probably thought he sounded humbled; he sounded self-satisfied. "Sixty-five. Two of them are twins." Pushing his luck, the conman winked at me suggestively.

Kate took one look at me and recognized all of the signs pointing towards impending violence. She moved between Neal and I and put her arms out defensively. "If anything, this is proof that he actually does know how to have a party, so maybe wait on the strangling thing," she advised, both sympathetic and mirthful at the same time. I gritted my teeth together harder until my jaw started to ache.

His phone made another noise that tested my patience. I graduated from thoughts of strangulation to thoughts of property damage. "Let me guess. Sixty-six?"

 _"_ _Actually,"_ and he was way too pleased that I was wrong, and there we went, I was back to strangulation, "That was just a friend. He's got a place we can use." He pushed his phone away and looked at Kate, not taunting or annoyingly flirty to her like he was to me. No, instead he treated her kindly, like a friend, and meanwhile, he was making me feel competitive and inadequate.

_Story of my God damn life._

"Of course," I said, disguising my temper as a loud, exasperated sigh. I put my arms up helplessly. "Of course," I repeated. "Because you need a fancy, expensive, extravagant venue rather than one that saves money and effort for the bureau. Why don't we just offer airfare and lodging for a party in _Hawaii_ while we're at it?

* * *

When Neal said "place," what he _meant_ was "vacant rooftop." When I had learned that five minutes prior, I had scoffed. Now that I stood on said rooftop, I realized that that was a gross understatement of exactly what it was. On the roof of a building whose business had been moved and was still on sale was one of the most scenic views for a New York party I could have dreamed of.

The rooftop was huge, easily large enough to safely hold a couple hundred people, and as a safety feature, walls had been built up around the sides, not too unlike June's penthouse. The roof had been turned into a garden, with small plots of blooming flora well-tended to in bright colors and eye-catching arrangements. Using my imagination, I filled the place with people in suits and model-worthy clothing lines, placed some speakers around, and set up flashing, colored lights like the ones in the party stores. There was space enough for the majority of it to be a dance floor with enough room leftover for people to mingle without being elbowed and stepped on.

Really, a venue this nice for a party would lend credibility to a ruse, but… "I hate when you win an argument," I muttered to Neal, grudgingly giving in.

It was like his penthouse lodgings all over again; I work my ass off and give a hundred percent of my effort at work, and I have these things that seem nice, but then I compare them with the things that the dishonest and convicted felon has, and suddenly they not only seem small, but also inadequate, and it's a horrible feeling. It makes me wonder what I'm doing wrong, or what he has that I don't that gets him so far with so little actual effort or spirit put forth.

Kate stood awkwardly between Neal and I. I hadn't truly expected him to treat her with anything short of respect, but I hadn't expected them to become friends, either, so on Kate's insistence, I had had to learn to deal with having Neal in our house at least twice a week. Given that we had started to get along, too, it wasn't that much of a sacrifice, but I wanted to keep up appearances.

"Does this mean that you forfeit?" She asked delicately. If I didn't know better, I'd have said she was embarrassed for my sake at how badly that seized loft compared to the rooftop that offered a five-star view of New York.

I chose not to reply to Kate. I felt like I'd already made it pretty clear without having to say it with words. Who knew if she was recording with her phone? "How much is this place?"

"Well under five grand," Neal assured me, although I still didn't have an answer to my question. I figured that I could trust him to do the budgeting, and I could always get back at him in petty means if he went over it. Being in charge of his custody means I have his leash - I can loosen and tighten my grip as I see fit.

"I'm impressed," Kate said honestly, smiling widely as she nodded. "How did you get a friend who can do this?" My sister sounded amazed. Like me, she was impressed by Neal's history; unlike me, she didn't have the legal responsibility to condemn it quite so much, and would happily ask questions. Although careful to never outright admit to anything he hadn't already been convicted for, more often than not, the convict humored her.

"He has a source," I answered before he could. I wanted to get the rug back under me in light of failing so miserably at coming up to par with location. "But don't even try to pry it out of him, it's harder than pulling teeth without Novocain." I had my very strong suspicions that this "friend" was the same one that had given us the cigarettes while working the Dutchman case. Despite having promised to take me to meet him, I hadn't seen him since, and Neal cited that he'd promised under the pretense of not having enough evidence to convict Hagen in order to weasel his way out of it. "I'm going to have fiber optics here. I want cameras on every single plausible entrance and exit, and several on the crowds, too." Cameras weren't my area of expertise, but I could mark where I wanted a team to put them up. "Caffrey, come help."

Though now on a first-name basis, I still used his last name when I was less than pleased with him, and I realized a second too late that if he hadn't already known I was feeling a little jealous, then he definitely would have cottoned on then.

Thankfully, he's a more tactful person than that when he wants to be.

"And the leash is yanked," Kate sighed, giving Neal's arm a sympathetic pat.

Sometimes I wondered if I should have been concerned that Kate made so many verbal comments about me having Neal on a leash. I made them in my head often enough because it reminded me that I had control over the situation. Given that he constantly has to wear a waterproof and tamperproof tracking anklet, I'm sure Neal never forgets. Then I remembered that, on the day I picked him up from prison, I'd said on FaceBook that I was picking up my new pet from the pound - or something like that - and realized with a sinking feeling that, if anything, I had fostered that habit.

Now on much better and steadier ground with Neal, I decided I should probably get online soon and delete that post in case he ever decided to look at my social media, and I hoped he hadn't already. Callous humor was a definite part of our relationship, but that was a little harsh.

* * *

If I were several years younger and less generally world-weary, then I would have _loved_ this party. Before getting into the bureau, I'd been a bit of a wild one, and while I still liked to be a rebel, I didn't go out late to parties, flirt with boys, and kiss the pretty girls in closets. (Yes, I meant girls.) After leaving my old life, I changed my ways by both necessity and a desire to not remind myself of what I used to have.

Meeting Kate reinforced that. We clicked instantly, and before long, we were moving in together. Most people, when they heard how long we'd known each other yet how close we were, assumed that we were mates rather than just strangers that had gotten along. Kate turned out as the one that liked being social, and I gradually recognized that she did it for fun. I had done it for the sake of being wild and uncontrollable, and more than I liked making out with people whose names I didn't know, I liked spiting anyone who tried to predict or contain me. I decided to stop being irresponsible and focused on my work. I was the responsible agent and the protective older sister. For years since, I'd been in the FBI in an exciting job where I tracked killers… that was, until I ended up transferred unhappily to white-collar crimes.

"Damn, Caffrey knows how to throw a party!"

Derek pulled me out of my thoughts while we danced. While roaming the party, the few agents who were undercover as guests made sure to check in with each other. I was trying to keep an eye on Kate and Neal while also looking for any suspicious behavior. Instead of having a blast like most of the gorgeous models, I was trying to keep myself together while dancing with Derek. We were pretty close together just so we could talk over the loud music. Bright, flashing lights turned the vivid crimson of my dress into a mix of dark pinks and light purples under the colors.

Derek reached out. I raised a hand with manicured fingernails to take his and he pulled me around, holding my back to his chest, dropping his other hand to my waist, and holding our connected hands out to the right. If Derek was anyone else, it would have felt more sensual, but the bond between us was too platonic and familiar for that.

We kept dancing, swaying back and forth to the upbeat Carly Rae and Owl City music blasting loudly through speakers surrounding the garden with other bodies close and voices loud and raucous. "Where did Kate get that dress?"

On one side of the garden were several long tables, set up and lined with catered food and drink. Kate stood by the end of one with a plastic cup of fruit punch and an attentive, handsome man standing by her side, leaning over with enough space between them to be respectful while he charmed her.

Kate was pretty used to being the object of attention when she dressed up. Even though I was fairly sure she had a specific person in her heart, she liked being catered to. I did, too, but eventually I grew tired of it. She dressed up beautifully with a slightly provocative dress - a black dress cut low in the back and short on her thighs, tall sandals without toes, and her hair piled up in a bun with blonde strands curling down over her shoulders. The pink highlights looked nice, especially when the blue lights flashed over her and made her hair and her dress look like shades of purple.

"Probably the mall," I offered. I didn't recognize it, so it was probably new. I eyed her thighs suspiciously, wondering if I should have reminded her to bring leggings. _No, no… now I'm being overprotective._ She's an adult, she can let people see her thighs if she wants. "You know I hate going shopping."

"Looks like a _David's Bridal,"_ he joked. I laughed, leaning back my head against his shoulder while I giggled. I'd love to see a wedding where the bridesmaids dressed like that.

"If she gets an excuse to dress up and have a party, she's going to take it." I left out the part where I'd had to sit in the car and listen to Neal talk with Kate excitedly about the stores in the mall that would sell clothes suitable to wear to this party. "She's also going to dress me, too, which is why I didn't go."

I had dressed myself, and though I didn't particularly enjoy dressing myself up, I did admit happily that I thought I looked pretty. I had a couple of dresses in my closet at any time just in case I needed them for occasions like this. The one I chose to wear for the event was a crimson sweetheart dress that clung to my upper body nicely but wasn't so low-cut that it became indecent. The end was loose, unlike Kate's, and the fabric fell above my knees. I wore black boots with tan nylons and short heels. My hair was lightly curled and given a dusting with hair spray to keep the heat and figure in.

"You're not having even a little bit of fun?" Derek asked, rocking back and forth and guiding with the hand pressing lightly onto my hip. "You've been approached by a lot of guys." That was true. Although surrounded by sexy models who were dancing sultrily to the music, I had garnered a lot of attention. Maybe it was because my simple and somewhat modest dress was a contrast to what most of the other women were wearing.

"And for all we know," I replied, "Any one of them could be Ghovat." Taking the change in the key in the music, Derek let go of my hand and turned his around, giving me a light push against my waist to cue me to spin. I leaned back and he dragged me forwards again by my arm. "Kate's the one that likes male attention." I liked it some, but I was trying to work, and being chatted up wasn't going to help me. "For that matter, go give her some." We dropped our hands and I stopped dancing. "I'm thirsty."

Derek gave me a look and shook his head, but he didn't at all object to going to see Kate. The two of them had always been eager to spend time together ever since they met. Although I adore Kate and truly treasure my relationship with Derek, I was glad that I was a workaholic sometimes. It meant that I had more to do and didn't feel shunted out when they went off places together. Although they were best friends, they were so sweet to each other that I was seriously waiting for them to wise up and go on a date someday.

I really would've loved for them to get together. I wouldn't have had to worry about either of them, because I knew that they'd never hurt each other. _Still…_ I sighed. _Not my decision to make._ Picking up a plastic cup of fruit punch from the refreshment table, on the other side of it than Kate, I watched the two of them interact.

Kate was the first to speak, quickly asking something, probably about how our surveillance was going. As Derek answered, he said something else, bowed down halfway, and held out his arm like a gentleman. Letting herself smile, Kate took his arm and allowed him to lead her out into the dancing crowd. Derek slid his arm across her back protectively while he led.

Someone touched my shoulder. I turned around, hair and dress swinging and my mouth already opening to politely ward off whoever was coming to me. Instead I came face-to-face with Neal in a snazzy designer suit and blue necktie. "You doing okay?" He asked, looking earnestly concerned.

"I'm fine," I said briskly, turning away from him and looking for Kate. By then, my siblings were out of sight from me in the face of glittering shirts and short skirts and high-heeled stilettos of suede and leather.

Neal wasn't put off. "Come on," he said, lowering his hand from my shoulder to the small of my back. "You're the most beautiful girl here." He complimented, stepping around my side to stand in front of me. "I want to see your smile."

I easily recalled the first time I'd seen him in a suit and considered just how attractive my brain had decided to find him. That was holding true, with all of the black in the suit being affected by the colors of the flashing lights and his bright blue eyes seeming electric. I considered myself lucky that if I was going to be settled with a person whose career I disagreed with, they were so very agreeable with my eyes.

"I don't know what you want, but flattery won't help you get it," I warned. I was still somewhat pleased by the positive assessment from someone who (probably) _wasn't_ looking to get into my pants (or up my dress, rather). I let him walk in front of me and take my hand. Tipping back my cup, I finished my drink and tossed the plastic into the trash bin under the table. He grinned and walked backwards, pulling me with him back into the party.

"I'm getting a dance right now, aren't I?" He gave me a winning smile and pulled me closer. He got away with it since the place was just so busy. Implying he wanted to dance with me almost got him brownie points. Almost.

I hummed thoughtfully. "Aren't you supposed to be keeping an eye on Tara?" I questioned lazily. A slower song was coming on the speakers, the sound so loud that it didn't sound quite so high-quality. He moved his hands down to my waist and held on gently while I played along and rested my hands on his shoulders.

"Tara's with Diana," he dismissed. Seeing as Diana would totally kick ass whenever she needed, I couldn't very much fault that. There was also the problem of not wanting to risk acting conspicuous by keeping Tara surrounded by multiple people. "According to Di, I am far too tongue-in-cheek to leave a poor, defenseless, and traumatized eyewitness alone with."

He sounded like he was quoting her verbatim, except for the shortening of her name, which I doubted she had given him permission to use.

"So she unleashed you on me?" I dryly asked, pretending to be wounded that I'd been betrayed. Truthfully, I didn't mind being in Neal's company as much as I sometimes (often) liked to let on. He wasn't sensitive enough to get mad when I teased, though my teasing was a little too easy to confuse with genuine annoyance. He returned any comments I made with equal wit, which made it fun to go back and forth.

"Everyone knows you can handle yourself," he said, knowing better than to take me seriously as I complained.

I let Neal lead for my lack of experience with actual dancing. I was good with dirty dancing, but not so much the more decent kind that we were doing now. Although I wouldn't have expected to be dancing with him, I wasn't at all surprised that he knew how. It seemed like the kind of thing a classy, stand-up conman would know.

He spun me out and I twirled, dress whirling up around my knees. My lips stretched into a small smile, and I tried hard not to laugh, getting pulled right back. I felt eyes on me, but before I could look around to see, I was being whirled back into Neal's arms. Much closer than before, his arms settled around my sides while my I lightly laced my fingers over the back of his neck.

"Keep an eye on the guy to our left," I said quietly, grinning up at him cheerfully with flushed cheeks. "Black Westwood tux. He's been watching us pretty carefully." I didn't look directly at him, but figured that Neal would know better than to do so without having to be told.

"I have no idea who he is." Neal took the cue and kept his eyes on me, smiling softly. My stomach did a flip and I told it to calm down, attributing it to the punch which may or may not have been spiked (spiked punch is a staple of parties, right?). "Should we go see?"

It depended, really. "You think he could be Ghovat?" If he was, then maybe approaching should be held off until we had someone else alerted.

"We'd have to get Tara to talk to him to know," Neal responded reasonably.

I nodded, sucking in on the inside of my cheek. "Okay, here's what we're going to do."

Neal spun me around again, dress ruffling around my legs. This time, instead of holding me out, he dipped me down, leaning over me as a hint. He kept a hand firmly pressed into my lower back and held me up, and I trusted him not to let me fall.

I lifted my hands up to his face, resting my fingers lightly on his cheeks. The soft shadow of stubble along his jaw pricked on the heels of my palms in a comforting drag. To anyone else, it would have looked like he was kissing me while he held me up. To us, we were talking in some measure of privacy.

"I'm going to go get Tara and Diana," I said quickly while we couldn't be overheard. "You cut in and dance with Kate. Tell Derek what's going on."

"Understood," he said, blinking, his face so close that I could feel his breath on my cheeks. Then he smirked. "Any chance we could make this more convincing?"

For a split-second, I imagined doing exactly that; hands on his face pulling his mouth to mine, pushing my fingers back past his ears and into his thick hair. It would've been nice to mess up his hair, make the unflappable Neal Caffrey look human, smear my dark pink lipstick over his lips and mark him as mine in a way much more obvious than an anklet hidden by his pants. Maybe if I kissed him hard enough, pushed my tongue into his mouth and held the back of his head closely, I'd have managed to _shut him up_ for once.

But that was all kinds of bad ideas, and Neal's lips and hair were strictly off-limits. He was a pain in the ass, but not the kind that was resolved by angrily making out. Before I hesitated noticeably, I tightened my lips and glared. "We're supposed to be strangers, Neal. There's nothing in this performance that we need to sell."

His lips looked soft and very kissable from this distance, but he took my 'no' at face value (which just made me appreciate the tentative but strengthening bond). He nodded in acceptance and picked me up, helping me to gain back my balance before he let go with a courteous kiss to my cheek. My skin tingled.

_Now that's chivalry I can get behind._

* * *

We moved like we'd been rehearsing, getting all of us somewhere near the man who'd been watching Neal and I around five minutes after we'd noticed him. His attention was still lingering on me, even while I entertained Tara, pretending that we were just casual friends at a party, dancing together in an excessively friendly, though PG-13, way.

Tara and I were together strategically; I was able to fight well and protect her if need be, and she was right next to me to hear the voice of whomever I ended up speaking with, in order to identify Ghovat if the man watching was, indeed, our counterfeiter. Although I couldn't see them, I heard from both Derek and Diana in my earpiece that they were close by to Tara and I in case we needed assistance. Even Neal was somewhere around here, probably keeping his eyes on our stalker in case he chose to slip away.

I knew exactly where Kate was, too – standing by the tables and snacking on mini-quiche, out of the way and out of any potential danger, which was exactly where I wanted her to stay. She put up a bit of an argument on the principle, but she was happy enough to eat the quiche and listen to what was happening through her earpiece.

"Ready?" I asked Tara, smiling while I moved my hands from her lower ribs down to her hips, playfully digging my fingernails against her dress. Never let it be said that I didn't enjoy some of the acting I did – and Tara was plenty giggly about it, too.

"As I can be," she replied, turning around in my arms while her hands found their way to my shoulders, and at the same time, I got an affirmative through my earpiece from Derek and Kate simultaneously.

Almost immediately after, Derek told Kate that it didn't matter if she was ready because she was staying out of it and not getting in the way of a dangerous criminal, to which she sarcastically said "yes, Dad," and I rolled my eyes because really, those two are a handful sometimes, and apparently tonight was going to be one of those times.

I dropped my hands down from Tara's waist and reached for her arm, gently running the pads of my fingers up her forearm until I reached her wrist, then laced the fingers of my left hand through hers, turned around, and started to pull her towards our mysterious man. I heard Tara laughing softly, not giving away her nerves – for not being one, she was a good actress.

When we came closer, he looked away, doing a good job of pretending that he hadn't been watching us fairly intently for a while now. I did my part and pretended that I didn't know he was only pretending not to see us, touching his shoulder lightly with my hand and a bright, almost party-happy smile on my lips, feeling as light and carefree as a teenager again.

"Excuse me?" I said, making sure I had his attention as he turned his head to look at us. I didn't let go of Tara's hand. "Hi!" I said brightly, speaking loudly over the music. "I saw you looking around earlier. I recognize about every face here, but I'm unfortunately missing a name to go with yours, Mr…?" I asked, prompting with my tongue bitten gingerly between my teeth.

He didn't smile back. "Dmitri," he said, filling in the blank for me.

"Dmitri," I repeated, smiling flirtatiously, really just restating his name to be sure that my earpiece had picked it up.

"I'm just, uh, admiring the view." He had an accent, I noticed – it sounded Middle-Eastern, but I couldn't quite put my finger on the country. Very intentionally, he looked at me – and his eyes weren't completely focused on my face.

Normally I'd have made a point about how my eyes were not to be confused with my breasts, but since that would've defeated the purpose, I forced a giggle out of my mouth. Thinking back to an embarrassing memory of acting like a complete moron while on painkillers – and Kate's refusal to stop teasing me about it – made my cheeks heat up in a corresponding blush, and I pulled at a lock of my hair, twisting it idly around my fingers in a tight curl.

After averting my eyes like I was shy about being checked out, I looked back up, blinking my eyelashes slowly. "Well, it is quite a line-up, isn't it?" I asked, still with the hot pink coloring to my face.

For all the charm that I was trying to lay on him, he remained short and brisk with his responses, and it almost made me mad. _What the hell? Am I not being suggestive or pretty enough for you now that I'm actually paying attention to you?_ He was the one staring at me for the last however long he'd been at it. The least he could have done was act like I was engaging.

"Quite stunning," he said simply, agreeing but not really with any emotion behind it. He might as well have been lying. "Excuse me." He turned his back to me without waiting for any kind of reply, and once he wasn't watching, I glowered irately as he held up a cell phone.

Trying to tell myself not to be offended that he wasn't flirting back, I turned back to my accomplice and cocked my eyebrows at her. Tara had been watching while biting very gently on her lower lipstick-painted lip, but she shook her head surely.

"Relax positions," I said, not loud enough for Dmitri to hear over both the music and his own voice as he talked on his phone. I was still miffed. "Not our guy." _Oh, well._ This party could still survive another few hours.

I shrugged. A bust is a bust. Keeping hold of Tara, I turned my back to Dmitri, intending on pulling her away and back out to dance for a while longer until we could shift our positions around again and continue surveilling, but Tara didn't budge when I gave her arm a pull, and when I looked for the problem, she was staring at Dmitri in concentration.

"Wait," she said needlessly, seeing as I had already paused. "He's speaking in Hebrew."

 _"_ _Can you translate?"_ Derek asked us.

I didn't know whom he was asking, but although I could listen in and identify the different syllables, I had never studied Hebrew. "My Hebrew's a little rusty," I sarcastically replied before giving Tara a questioning look. She's the one who identified the language, after all – maybe that meant she was familiar with it? "Tara?"

"He's saying…" She really looked deep in thought. Was it because of all of the background noise, or because Hebrew wasn't a first language for her? "… _I'm waiting,_ " she slowly translated. " _Where are you…?_ " Abruptly, she jerked as if startled and looked around wildly, hair swinging. I tightened my grip on her hand to calm her down, remind her that she was protected. "Ghovat, he's here, he's watching him. Ghovat's here."

"Did you guys get that?"

 _"_ _What do you want me to do?"_ Kate asked on the frequency, sounding curious and energetic. At least she wasn't bored. I didn't have an issue with her showing interest in what was happening, so long as she remained safely out of the way.

I told her as much yet again, for probably the dozenth time. "Stay out of the way. You're a civilian."

 _"_ _Kenna, back me up."_ Even through the earpiece, Neal's voice was quieter than anyone else's. He must've been near someone whom he didn't want overhearing. I looked back towards Dmitri and saw Neal, focused on his mark, and within earshot. _"Get back Dmitri's attention."_

I pursed my lips tightly. I really didn't like flirting with the guy the first time, but it was a work thing, so I couldn't just say no. I plastered on another of those sweet, innocent smiles like I'd been wearing and I held onto Tara again, pulling her forwards and touching Dmitri's shoulder, this time leaving my hand on over his jacket, even as he turned around and my hand wanted to move over the shift of his muscles.

"I'm sorry," I apologized, biting down lightly and slowly releasing my bottom lip from my teeth in what I thought was an enticing manner. "I just – you seem really familiar." Dmitri snapped shut his phone when I kept talking to him. Then – _bingo_ – he placed it back in his pocket. "Is it possible we've met?"

Neal came from the direction in which Dmitri wasn't looking and bumped lightly into him. Quickly, he stepped away, and since I was looking for it I saw that one hand was still close to the man's pockets. Although Neal was apologizing and holding out his other hand with his palm open, I still worked to distract him, rolling my shoulders back and subtly pushing out my chest. The sweetheart neckline wasn't the sexiest thing I could've gone with, but it seemed to do the trick, and Neal slipped aside, holding up the phone over Dmitri's shoulder for me to see.

"Which agency?" Dmitri questioned, suddenly sounding a lot more interested in communicating with me while he was staring at my chest. If it weren't a work operation, I'd have slapped him.

"Oh," I said, putting my energy into looking meek. Neal opened up the phone and looked over the buttons, searching for the recent call history, and I decided it was time I dismissed myself. "I'm not a model," I answered him, lifting up my shoulders as if to ask what I could do. "You just kind of reminded me of a photographer, I guess. I'm sorry."

I moved my hand from his shoulder with a little more caressing than was strictly necessary, but turned my back to him happily and led Tara a few paces away until there was enough space for oblivious partygoers to get in between the two of us and Dmitri, giving us a bit of a cover. Once we were away, Tara looked visibly relieved, like she'd expected it to blow up in our faces.

While I was glad she was more relaxed, I strained my ears to listen through the blasting music and raucous voices, trying to tell apart the strains of any sort of ringtone, looking around us, too, trying to see if, in between the gaps of constantly teeming people, I could see anyone answering their phone.

It took a moment, but I faintly picked out the noise of a generic ring coming to the right and away from the refreshment tables. I stood up on my toes, stretching my neck to look over other peoples' heads, and saw a European gentleman pulling a cell out of his back pocket, looking at it curiously as his brow creased.

 _"_ _There he is!"_ Neal announced loudly. I heard his voice even without the earpiece, and the same applied to Derek, who gave the order right afterwards.

 _"_ _Move in, move in!"_

A couple of people shrieked. Out of nowhere, several men were sprinting through people, pushing their way between rather than taking the time to go around, Derek among them. Crowds started to part in order to keep out of the way of the chargers, and voices sprung up, fearful and indignant at the same time, in various languages.

The European who had the phone didn't stay upright for very long. He didn't even seen to realize that he was a target until he was being tackled violently by two people, one after the other, and being dog piled on the cement floor. I made a face at how hard he fell down – _that probably hurt_ – and the phone he'd been holding skittered.

Furious words in what sounded like a Germanic language ensued, but between Derek and the bulk of our extra manpower, the man wasn't able to get up. I heard the German word for 'bastards' and I pouted my lips, offended on my brother's behalf, but I was content staying out of the fray while I was wearing a dress.

"I'm surprised you didn't jump on him," Neal said, looking at me with amusement and expecting to get an entertaining reaction. I looked right back at him to see what mood he was in. His lips were quirked, eyes alight. He was trying to tease.

"I'm wearing a skirt, genius," I scoffed. "Just because I can kick his ass doesn't mean I need to show mine." I don't fight with those modest half-kicks – I go full-out roundhouse kick or heel-up-to-my-chest kicks for the most amount of force, and just because I have no problem with my body (aside from some scars) doesn't mean I wanted to flaunt my panties to so many strangers. As previously stated, this wasn't Mardi Gras. "Kate, you alright?" I asked into my earpiece.

The man on the floor finally stopped trying to get up, realizing that he wasn't going to succeed. Too many people were pinning him down. He started to speak in English again, raging against the way he was being treated. Derek was being a sore agent and snapping back at him in response to the insults.

 _"_ _I'm okay,"_ my sister cheerfully replied. It was still sort of strange to hear her voice through only one ear, but at least it meant that she was still well out of the way of the fight and commotion. _"Hey, this pizza is really good. We need to get dinner at this place, okay?"_

 _Oh, yes, a chaotic event interrupts a party and she's still far more focused on the food she's eating._ I smiled affectionately, despite that she couldn't see it. "Yeah. Whatever."

"Get _off_ me!" Yanking at his wrists to try to free his arms and roll over, the man being held down stared at Derek hatefully. "This is madness!"

Tara's hand had kind of become a secondary sensation, something I had gotten used to and didn't notice, but it tightened suddenly to the point that it actually hurt. I winced while she tightened her hold, and then her other hand was higher up on my arm, and I thought there would actually be bruises.

"The voice!" She gasped, shaking her head violently. "It's not him!"

I looked at Neal, who became a lot more disappointed, and I exhaled deeply, all of the air whooshing out of my lungs.

"Son of a bitch…" I groaned, while Neal went to approach Derek and try to do some damage control before we ended up with angry conferences from other countries' officials on our plates.

"Derek. Derek! We got the wrong guy!"

_There's a reason I didn't like this idea._

* * *

Neal arrived after Diana and Derek had already taken off to do their jobs. Given the late hours the night before, I'd given him eight off of the clock before I called him in again. I had no idea what his sleep schedule had been like before he'd gone to prison, but my job was to give him work to "pay" off his sentence – not run him into the ground. He's my consultant; I can't hold him to the same expectations that I do other agents. He doesn't have the training or experience, so it's not fair.

I met him in a conference room where a projector screen was already pulled down, and a frozen snapshot from one of our planted security cameras had been placed onto the screen. Most of the faces were a little blurry, but none too indistinct to have recognized by our technological software, which had already done us favors today.

"We picked up the man that slipped his phone to the diplomat." As I waved the cursor on the keypad to indicate the man with his face half-turned away, sliding past the frame without a pause, I reached up with my other hand to pull at the ends of my ponytail. "By the way, we officially owe Austria a formal apology."

Neal made a noise that sounded like he was trying really hard not to laugh, and when I looked up, he was biting his lip.

I shook my head. "Facial recognition software identifies the Ghost as Zidel Hazeva, a thirty-nine-year-old Israeli citizen who entered America with a legal passport four days ago."

Neal slid his hands into his pockets and leaned back on his heels, looking at the bigger image blown up on the projector. "What else do we know about him?" He questioned, eyes narrowed in thought as he committed the face to memory.

"Not much," I sighed, looking down. While not entirely a bust, that party was not as successful as I had hoped it would be, by any means. Still, we had more to go on than we had ever had before. "Lodging and expenses since arriving in the country must've been paid in cash or with a fake card, and he has no watches out for him internationally."

"And your pal?" Neal looked away from the projector and at me. I couldn't have been imagining the smirk that was playing its way slowly across his face, barely controlled but present in the mischievous glint in his bright eyes.

 _Hehe._ I smiled sarcastically back at him and wondered if he had the guts to actually bring up my friendliness with the suspect. "Dmitri gave us his last name," I said, prioritizing working over baiting my CI. "His first name is Andre. He's a thirty-two year old from Uzbekistan, with links to crimes ranging from arms trading to pharmacology fraud."

He frowned and raised one eyebrow archly. "So not really the kind of guy you'd expect to show up at Fashion Week."

"Not even a little bit," I agreed.

"But he still thinks he got away clean, right?" Neal looked to the image on the screen. Dmitri wasn't in the photograph still, but he'd been captured on several other cameras, and he had a tail on him at the moment, so there was no way he was going to be getting away. "So he might still be staying to finish his business."

"Derek's stalking him right now," I responded primly. As if I wasn't already entirely on top of this. I was the boss of this operation. I knew what I was doing. I'd been in the office hours before he got there. "Thank God for public security cameras, right? We're going to have him follow and see where he ends up being led."

Neal withdrew his hands from his pockets and sauntered – yes, _sauntered_ – closer to me while I closed up the lid of the computer. The projector went dark. "What was that thing you were doing last night?" Neal asked, his voice somewhere between teasing me and taunting me, and I wasn't sure if it was a good mix or not. "You were all…" he wrinkled his nose and looked at me as if he could hardly believe what he was about to say. I raised my eyebrows and put a hand on my waistline, daring him to finish his sentence. "… Girly and giggly," he filled in.

I smirked. "It's called _flirting_ ," I answered with the obvious.

"You know how to flirt?" He looked shocked.

I bit back the first answer that I wanted to give. _I'm not falling over you, but that doesn't mean I'm oblivious. I can flirt._ "I know how to _act_ ," I emphatically amended for him. I wouldn't consider it flirting as much as pretending to flirt. Despite having what I consider a healthy libido, I very rarely actually feel the desire to flirt with anyone. It doesn't feel like I'm just employing a practice – it feels like I'm fulfilling a role. "Believe it or not, playing up a role goes a long way in the bureau. The difference is that your entire career is based off of it. For me, it's just an embellishment."

He inhaled like he'd been hit pretty hard and canted his head. "Getting some pretty strong vibes of disapproval here," he said, sounding like he was trying to be honest and share his feelings.

To which I just snorted, because I'd given him enough touchy-feely things just from the few conversations about soulmates when we met. Whether or not he realized it, he'd gotten more touchy-feely stuff out of me in a matter of days than most people managed in months. "You had it coming."

With a solid tug, I pulled down on the bottom of the projector and let go. It retracted and rolled up into itself by the ceiling. After rubbing my hands together as if brushing off dust, I cleared my throat to signal a job done and went for the door, walking out of the conference room.

Despite the banter, Neal followed behind me and, after a few steps that were faster and heavier, he caught up, holding himself up in pride like I hadn't just sent all of those disapproving vibes crashing into him. "Where are we headed for lunch today?" He asked with a content lilt, like he enjoyed the back and forth and was genuinely just happy to be where he was.

I forced my shoulders to drop. No matter how strange it seemed to me, I couldn't really be upset if Neal felt comfortable, could I? "Sorry, but I have to pass on lunch." I hoped it sounded apologetic, because I really wasn't in the habit of cancelling last minute. When I made arrangements, I usually saw them through, especially if it was with someone who could handle my temper and snark and not be bothered enough to even flip me off. "Katie wants to have lunch together at that pizza place we got the catering from last night. She swears by it. We may have found her new favorite restaurant."

Although I called her Katie pretty frequently, Kate didn't like the nickname. She'd just learned to accept it from me on occasion. Between Neal and I, though, it became a way to distinguish our sisters – his sister was simply Kate, while mine was Katie, and that way we didn't have to say their last names or specify whose Kate we meant.

"She knows you're working a case, but she's still stealing you away for pizza?" His footsteps didn't falter, remaining in sync with mine when we went down the few stairs from the mezzanine to the level bullpen. "Does she do that often? I thought she just kind of let you do your work and then dragged you to the outside world when you were finished."

"That's usually how it works," I shrugged, because he wasn't wrong. I looked at him over my shoulder. "Do you think I should be concerned?"

"Did you do something wrong?" He countered.

"I usually have," I admitted shamelessly.

Neal stopped walking, and when his footfalls were no longer echoing mine, I stopped in place and rotated around, swiveling on my ankle with the soles of my flat shoes sliding over short carpet. Neal placed his hand on my right shoulder. I looked down to his fingers as he tightened his grip as if in solidarity. It was way too serious to not be considered melodramatic.

"Show no fear," he advised, holding himself at attention. "She'll be able to smell it."

I snickered before I could stop myself and tried to recover. "She's my sister, not a shark," I reprimanded. Kate would've smacked us both if she'd overheard this.

His posture relaxed and he lifted his shoulders, looking to the side playfully. "Sisters, sharks – same difference."

I rewarded his cheer with a smile and lightly punched him in the arm. He rocked back. "Oh, thanks, now I feel endangered," I jokingly accused. "I'll text you when I want to see you again."

His hand tightened again reflexively and I stopped moving when I'd been trying to step away, instead looking to him inquisitively. He looked down and let out a breath. "Hey, Kenna, before you go, I need a favor," he requested, not meeting my eyes.

The part of me that thought rude things at almost everyone was tempted to ask if it had hurt him to say he needed something from me, other than the key to his tracker.

"Hm?" I asked instead, playing along, because really, he knew that he wasn't going to get a lot of special treatment from me, so it was probably nothing like wanting his tracker's key or a trip to a tropical island.

"The last time Kate visited me… in prison, before she disappeared…" His eyes flashed to his hand, still settled over my jacket. The warmth was almost comforting, but he moved his arm back to his side, offering me personal space. Or was he granting _himself_ the space, distancing himself from me in case I said something he didn't want to hear? "You saw that security tape?"

 _Well, this can't be going anywhere good._ Still, a relationship founded on lies wasn't one that was going to last very long, so I just made sure my face showed that I was cynical towards the direction this was pointing in and hummed an affirmative response.

"I'd like to see it," he followed up with, blunt and to the point.

Reasonably, I figured, there wasn't anything wrong with him seeing the video. It's wasn't like it was some secret exchange – he had been right there the whole time when it had actually happened. Yet with Neal, nothing ever seemed quite as simple as it seemed, so I had to question both his intentions and my rationale when I found myself leaning towards agreement.

"Think this through," I said slowly, trying to be tactful. Unlike making jabs about his criminal career, Kate was a subject I didn't want to be crass about. I knew how I'd have felt if my sister went missing, and for as long as we were being friendly, I thought I owed him my sympathy. "Is that really going to be a good idea?" Last time he'd found a digital record of her, he'd pushed his luck trying to get to San Diego to chase after her.

His shoulders fell, but there was no way he could have _not_ seen that question coming. "It was the last time I saw her," he said quietly, looking at me through his eyelashes as imploringly as possible. "I just want some closure."

I tilted my head to the other side. "You're sure it's just about closure?" I asked delicately, meaning to pick my way to whatever the real root was.

Just like that, Neal stopped looking at me like he was begging, and instead he just looked bare, like he'd taken away the masks and facades to show as much honesty as he was capable of displaying. There was a certain rawness to his eyes that gave him away, and the sag of his shoulders that hinted at the frustration he must be feeling.

"Have I ever lied to you?" He asked intently, his eyes roaming over my face to see if I doubted his truthfulness.

"No," I said upfront, because I believed that no, he hadn't. I'd shown him the trust of being willing to take him on, and the trust of not further pursuing his less-than-legal friend that gave us the information to catch the Dutchman, Charles Hagen. In return, he'd been giving me the benefit of the doubt, and the respect of not lying to me. "But you _have_ given me half-truths," I added when I saw him start to look pleased that I believed him. I raised a hand up to him and unsurely patted his upper arm. "You help me to close this case, and I'll get you a copy burned to a disc," I promised.

After all, what was the worst that could happen? It was just a tape. If I were him, I'd have wanted the closure, too. If I didn't give in, he would have either continued working at or around me or taken the internal frustration out on himself or the quality of his work. I'd consider it a gesture of good faith.

His eyes filled with relief, and then the masks started to go back up, and the change was so surprising but so subtle at the same time that it was no wonder it was hard to tell when they were there and when they weren't. "Thanks. I really appreciate it." Now, although not sounding by any means less heartfelt, when I looked at his face, he might as well have been asking me for some coffee.

"Yeah, well, what else are arresting officers for, huh?"

 _Burke was right about one thing,_ I thought to myself when he gave me a grin with a hint of teeth. _Even harder than getting the truth from him is knowing when I'm getting it._

* * *

"Mm. I don't even want pizza, but this is good," I praised, looking at the slice of pizza I was holding possessively over my plate.

"That's because it's made with alfredo sauce and white cheeses," Kate replied, eating her own cheese, pepperoni, and tomato-sauced pizza meal. "You'd probably like it more if you blotted the grease," she then suggested, reaching for the fruit punch.

"You didn't," I shot back at her. I was sure that it was a good idea, so I set down my pizza and picked up a napkin, folding it up and starting to dab it over to soak up the warm greases from the cheese.

Kate swallowed and pushed her drink away. "Yum yum yum, give me the carbs, I will eat them all!" She declared melodramatically. In emphasis, she tore into her pizza with her teeth. Grease dripped on her chin and the crust audibly ripped. I giggled, shoulders shaking, and she took her own napkin and rubbed the grease off of her face while she chewed. I put down my napkin and took another bite to silence my laughter in the small but warm pizzeria. My face got a lot less grease on it that time.

Although the pizzeria had catered to the party, they were a relatively small local place. They didn't charge as much as the larger businesses for their services. I hadn't eaten at the party the night before, but now I found myself wishing that I had. The small corner restaurant had a warm, red glow from mood lighting, and although it was packed pretty tightly with tables, Kate and I weren't crowded because there weren't a lot of people.

We kept eating together mostly in silence. Meals weren't usually as social for us as they were for other people. We both like food too much to talk over it when it's right below our noses. Meals during my cases are really more to communicate important things and make sure we're both still unharmed.

Kate was the first to eat all the way up to the outer crust on both of her two slices, and she pushed her plate away. We were supposed to bus our own table, but that could wait a couple of minutes. "You can stop acting like I'm going to give you a death sentence," she said with a roll of her eyes. Muscles that I didn't realize were tense relaxed. "You're not in trouble."

"Oh thank God," I blurted, relieved, then blushed. Maybe Neal had been onto something - sisters could be scarier than great whites.

Kate narrowed her eyes. "What did you think you had done?" She asked suspiciously, wondering if maybe I'd been expecting to get scolded for something she wasn't aware of.

"I dunno," I hastily said. I wasn't going to admit to something that I hadn't done. "Maybe I forgot to do the dishes? Laundry? Cleaning?" I sped up my suggestions as I worked myself up into concern. My eyes widened. Although the household chores were important, there was something else that I knew I could be flayed alive for. "What if I'd forgotten to pay the Netflix account?!"

Kate laughed even harder and underneath the table, she kicked at me with her shoes. "For an agent, you sure do get panicked by the prospect of no Netflix!" I looked fearfully at her and swallowed, only exaggerating my reactions a little bit. While I would hate to be left without any _Supernatural_ or _Criminal Minds_ , I was more afraid of what Kate would get up to if she was bored or unable to watch her television when the mood struck her. "I just wanted to pay you back for letting me go to that party. I know you feel a lot less like strangling him than you used to, but Neal still drives you up the wall sometimes, so I thought I'd give you a midday break from him."

Personally, I thought that, although I did feel like ripping my hair out or wrapping my hands around his throat sometimes, Neal was still a pretty good lunch partner in that he never took me to any restaurants that served less than exceptional food… even if he did whine when I wanted to go somewhere fast and simple like Arby's or McDonalds.

"I had to let you go," I replied, frowning. "I mean, you're the reason it went together so well. If it had been left to Neal and I, we'd have probably forgotten all about catering." I knew music and lighting and Neal knew guests and alcohol, but pizzas, shrimp, quiche, and caviar probably wouldn't have occurred to me. "What kind of party doesn't have food?"

"You could have still asked me not to go, or had me followed more closely by a personal bodyguard," she argued. It was a pretty weird turn of events that we were debating how much freedom I'd given her and I was fighting against while she was fighting for. Usually when this conversation was brought up, she complained about me being overprotective. "Sure, you made me keep an earpiece on, but that's much better than sending me home while you're out doing God-knows-what and maybe getting shot at, so, thanks."

"We're adults, Kate." I shrugged my shoulders, moving my plate away from my body. I didn't feel too much like eating anymore, either because my appetite had been sated or because getting reminded that I get shot at had quelled it. "Risking my life is my choice. Risking yours isn't one I'm going to make for you, but it's not like you were alone. And you were far from the only civilian," I added. None of the models and the majority of the male population of the rooftop had been anything more than businessmen, businesswomen, designers, and modelers.

She shook her head. Now I was pretty sure that she was getting sick of trying to defend it. "Okay, you're pointing out the reasons it was less special than it felt five minutes ago, so either shut up and enjoy your lunch or else." She put on an ominously threatening voice that made me snicker.

"Okay, okay, Joker," I smirked. "No early graves for me." My phone started to vibrate in my pocket. I stopped smiling. With the tips of my fingers, I pulled out my phone just enough to see the screen. It was an incoming call from Diana. I looked up at Kate apologetically, wishing we hadn't been interrupted, and took the call. Kate waved it off understandingly and listened in. "Anderson."

 _"_ _How quickly can you get here?"_ My probie asked. In the background of the call, I heard a lot of other voices. It was the familiar hum of a busy room, but she was trying to keep them out of the conversation.

"What's wrong?" I straightened up. That sort of question was usually followed by _get your ass here, there's trouble_ or something along those lines. My mind immediately went to my CI. "Is it Neal?" My head first suggested his anklet had gone off, but secondly I considered that maybe he'd been hurt.

 _"_ _He's fine,"_ Diana assured me. _"It's Tara. Hughes knows that Ghovat knows you talked to Dmitri, and he's ordering her to be moved to protective custody."_ In all honesty, I should have put her in protective custody the moment we'd failed to get Ghovat, so Hughes was making a responsible decision. _"She's refusing to go with any agents without talking to you first."_

I leaned over the table in the clear spot in front of my space, rubbing my fingers hard into my temple. "Okay," I said, squeezing my eyes shut for a moment. Just what I needed - a witness not trusting other agents. "Okay, yeah, I'll be there as soon as I can." I mouthed a _sorry_ at Kate, whose shoulders slumped. I grabbed my bag from where it was draped over the back of my chair. "It could be anywhere from twenty minutes to an hour with the public transport nightmare."

 _"_ _Just hurry,"_ Diana advised before she ended the call herself, hanging up on me.

"Work calls?" Kate guessed knowingly, looking up at me sympathetically. "It's not Neal, is it? He's alright?"

"It's Tara, our witness."

"Oh, yeah!" Kate brightened. "I talked to her last night. What's going on?"

"The director wants her moved to protective custody, but she wants my opinion," I explained with Cliff Notes. I liked that I was evidently a trustworthy agent, but sometimes I wished that my job didn't have so much power over my schedule. I wanted one meal with Kate when I wasn't contacted for anything to do with crime. Hell, I'd even take it if it had to include Neal sitting at the table with us. I just don't like having to dash off early. "I'm sorry."

I stood up from my chair and looked down at her, hanging my head guiltily.

"Don't be." She reached out and knocked her fist against my hand, then looked up at me with a happy expression and bright eyes. "Go kick some ass and take some names."

I practically melted. It was amazing how well Kate adapted to the odd hours, always so understanding that this was my passion. My job wasn't just my career – it was my hobby. I leaned over at the waist, reaching to the light of my life, and pressed my lips to her forehead.

"I'll bring home take-out if I get off early enough," I swore, promising to make it up to her. "If not, just make whatever. Don't worry about me."

* * *

Although I did hurry to get there, I almost didn't manage to arrive before Tara left, being escorted unhappily by two agents who would manage getting her into protective custody until this case was closed. The model stepped down from the mezzanine with one bodyguard behind her and another in front of her. I made my legs move faster, jogging across the bullpen.

"I'm sorry this is happening," I was saying with a worried expression before I had even stopped moving.

Tara stopped at the bottom of the stairs. The agent behind her was paying attention and stopped on the second step so he didn't crowd her. She smiled sadly at me. "It isn't you to blame," she assured me. I didn't really need the assurance, but it was nice to know I wasn't being faulted. "It is Ghovat."

"Yeah," I noted, reaching up and running my hand through the long piece of my hair which had come out of my ponytail. I twisted it around my fingers. "But I'm still sorry you're caught up in it."

"So am I," she agreed, looking at the agent in front of her, who was waiting patiently for us to finish our exchange. I liked having respect around here – but then, once you've established you can do your job, you typically don't get disrespect unless you fuck up. "I came here to get an agent, make contact… not this."

 _I know._ But then, I don't think many people who end up in protective custody start out with that intention, so what could I really say? "I'm serious," I said instead. "Any time you feel the need, call me. Especially if you feel unsafe for any reason."

She nodded to me and held out a hand after a moment of indecision. I don't know why she hesitated, but I shook her hand kindly while the agent in front of her gently took hold of the elbow of her other arm. She let go, her fingernails running down my inner wrist.

I massaged the back of my neck where I felt the tension around my spine. That wasn't supposed to happen. How long would she have to be in custody? Did she have other obligations, other places that she wanted or needed to be? Was Ghovat aware she was even our witness? Could she have been completely safe if I'd just told the agents to let her refuse their custody? Either way, now I felt like we were on even more of a time crunch.

Neal came into the bullpen, summoned either by someone else or just having returned of his own will. He saw Tara being led by someone he didn't recognize and he looked surprised. "Hey, what's going on?" He asked, stopping in front of her.

The guard that was walking behind Tara looked at me and pointed at Neal. I nodded affirmatively and waved it off as unimportant. _Just let them talk,_ I figured. Neal could be reassuring when he wanted to be, and Tara seemed to like him well enough.

"They're moving me now," she answered him, looking at the hand on her elbow meaningfully. The man wasn't paying attention to where her eyes were and didn't realize that she probably wasn't comfortable with being led around bodily.

"To protective custody? No one's threatening you," he pointed out. His eyes left her and looked over her head, wandering the room. He found me quickly and raised his eyebrows in question. I just shrugged my shoulders. Just because she wasn't threatened at that moment in time didn't mean that it wasn't our job to make sure she stayed safe. Not everyone would give warnings or notices before taking hostile action.

Tara knew that, too. "They're not taking any chances."

Neal sighed and touched her shoulder, rubbing the fabric by her collar with his thumb. "It's going to be okay, alright?" He swore calmly. Tara nodded. In spite of the certainty that was in Neal's voice, I don't know if she really believed it. "If anyone can catch Ghovat, it's her." He nodded with his head in my direction.

"Agent Anderson," a custody agent prompted, holding up a clipboard from my left with a pen attached.

As Neal's and Tara's eyes both fell on me, I pretended that I couldn't hear the vote of confidence from my consultant, forcing my cheeks not to heat up as I looked at what I was signing. It was just my notice that I was aware my witness was being moved. I picked up the pen to sign.

"Really?" Tara asked more quietly.

Neal dropped his hand from her shoulder. "She's the best," he vowed. I paused before picking up the pen from the last letter of my surname and clipping it back to the board. Hearing the praise from the criminal who I'd caught was both flattering and confusing – was it a testament to my abilities? Empty reassurance to a nervous woman, or genuine faith in me? Or was it him subtly saying that anyone not as good wouldn't have been able to keep him on a leash?

Neal and Tara said their goodbyes while I handed back the signed clipboard and shook hands with the other man. I couldn't have guessed his name, but his face looked familiar – I'd probably seen him around. Then, before I really processed it myself, they were filing out with Tara going with them into the hallway, and Neal was stepping slowly across the carpet, walking backwards with his eyes still on the ruffles visible on Tara's clothes.

"In other news," I said to him, trying not to feel like Tara's movement was an indication of defeat. "I heard from Derek. Dmitri has a model friend whom he took to the show. No hits on her yet, but she was picked up near Ghovat on our cameras last night. We didn't make the connection until now. Dmitri's hiding out at a fashion show."

When Neal looked at me and let me see his face again, he didn't seem as bothered by Tara's predicament as he had been when he'd come in to see what was going on. "Lucky him!" He exclaimed with a grin, knowing that the only reason I'd have told him was because that was where we were going.

I rolled my eyes and reached up, smacking the back of his head soundly. He complained with a loud 'ouch!' and rubbed over his hair where I'd hit. "Wherever your mind's going, fish it out and put it en route to my car," I commanded sternly.

* * *

Neal and I could have taken a seat. Despite being a high-profile place, there was a surprising lack of people filling it up. What it lacked in population it made up for with models on a catwalk, showing off everything from their breasts to the gorgeous, ruffled blouses that flared by the hips to emphasize how tightly the skirts clung. Although I appreciated that show, I also really liked the more modest outfits that looked less like sex and more like _look, I have pretty clothes!_

Anyway, even though we could have taken a seat, we didn't. The few people who were there were seated at tables towards the front of the catwalk. When we looked closer, we found Dmitri easily, sitting in one of the most obvious spaces.

I grabbed at Neal's arm and he looked at me curiously, taking his eyes off of Dmitri. Oddly enough, I was more distracted by the models than he was. "How did you convince the bouncers to let us in without my credentials?" I asked.

Maybe a while ago I'd have been irritated, but tonight I was just honestly curious. I got that flashing my badge around would have gotten the wrong kind of acknowledgement. Sometimes I was a bit envious that Neal had so much ground to stand on, no matter what the situation, while I was stuck with my first option being the legal way of showing my ID.

He made a face, frowning, wincing, and refusing to look directly at me. "You may not necessarily want to know." I matched his expression. Yeah, I probably didn't.

"He's waiting for something," I said, steering the conversation to a less sketchy subject and nodding over at Dmitri, who pressed his cell phone against the table and looked at a passing model like he was barely seeing her. The luscious, curvy brunette looked like she was enjoying being there, giving her hair a flip over her shoulder with an extra sassy sway in the back-and-forth of her hips.

Neal followed my eyes back to our target. "How can you tell?"

"He's not paying attention to the models." I replied. Even I was paying attention to the models, so it seemed like Dmitri definitely should've been. Unless, of course, more dangerous things were on his mind. "He's checking his watch. Maybe waiting for Ghovat?"

Neal canted his head while he thought about it. Obscured by the dark relative to the flashing spotlights on the catwalk, he looked far more darkly enticing than I cared to admit. "He lost his phone last night. If that was his only connection-"

I interrupted to finish making my own point. "This would be the next best place to reconnect," I concluded knowingly.

He shifted his shoulders and settled his arms more comfortably, hooking his thumbs in the fronts of his pockets. "I can buy that," he nodded, pleased. I rolled my eyes. _Sooner or later, he'll learn that it's whether or not_ _ **I**_ _buy it that counts._ "Want to go check it out?"

In response, I looked right back up at him, shocked. "How?" I demanded, commanding him with a gesture to look around and remember where we were. "Get too close as a civilian and security escorts us out. Wave around my badge and they'll all start to skitter off!"

Before I got too exasperated, Neal stopped me. The conman pressed his hands into my shoulders, turning to face me and acting like I was jumping up and down.

"Do you trust me?" He asked seriously. I felt like he'd asked before; if not in words, then in actions.

Still… "Not in a modeling club," I stated, eyeing him warily. What was he thinking of that involved first clarifying that he had my trust?

He rolled his eyes like he'd expected as much. Then he rephrased. "Do you trust me to talk to Dmitri?"

That time I answered a lot more fluently. Neal had more at stake than I did with these cases - if the solution rate went down (though it seemed very unlikely that it would do so), he would be booted back into prison.

"More or less," I said with a flippant levity that I applauded myself for seconds later. "What are you planning?"

Instead of explaining, Neal looked at me and lifted his hands from my shoulders. "Do you think you can just-" at the nominalizing word, I made an unhappy noise that I'm sure he heard. "-Just stand there and look menacing?"

 _Am I supposed to look threatening or like I'm threatening you?_ I wondered. Suddenly I was more okay with playing the cop standing around. "Like, _my sister didn't videotape Doctor Who_ menacing or _I'm going to murder you slowly and chop your body into tiny pieces menacing_?" I queried, totally serious.

His eyebrows furrowed. "You only have the two extremes?" That felt like he was missing the point. "You really don't do anything halfway, do you?"

I let my irritation carry over into the menace, rolling my eyes and crossing my arms. I pushed my elbow back far enough to show the holster at my waist from under my blazer and fixed my eyes on Neal, glowering furiously.

In response, he raised his arms defensively. "Whoa. Okay. Kenna, not _that_ menacing." _Well, I gave you another option._ Instead of changing how I stood, I narrowed my eyes to show that I wasn't kidding around. "I know I told you to be menacing, but that's _too_ menacing."

I rolled my eyes. Sooner or later, he was just going to have to accept that feigning anger at him came far too easily.

He reached to the top button of his black blazer and slid off the sunglasses caught on the fabric, unfolding the legs. He lifted them up and I stayed still while he put them on my face, resisting the urge to snap at him that I could put them on myself and _why did I need them, anyway?_ But they were polarized and made the lighting look really cool, so whatever. That was a plus.

"Good," he decided, grinning. I raised an eyebrow, but I'm not sure he saw due to the glasses. "Now, say you'll be back."

For me to say that, I'd have to follow it by leaving, and leaving him alone with Dmitri, which was where I put my foot down. "Not a chance."

Neal's shrug was graceful and halfhearted like he'd known it was a long shot before he'd asked. At least he took it well. Lifting one leg and swinging around on his heel, he went straight to Dmitri's table.

_How are you still alive?_

I watched him carefully, prepared to intervene if I thought his safety was jeopardized at any point. I put up a fuss about being responsible for keeping him safe, but in actuality I don't mind that much. As long as they're not bigoted jackasses, I actually like taking care of people and protecting them. It was part of why I chose to join the bureau to begin with.

The conman slipped into the booth on the other side of the foreigner, grin on his face and the ease in his movements of someone confident and comfortable in their own skin. His arms came up to the table, sleeves of his blazer between his wrists and the top of the table, and he offered a bright, white-toothed smile.

"Hey, Dmitri, right?" He oozed charisma and charm dripped from his voice. _Damn,_ but it's so unfair that he could charm the leaves off of a plant.

The Uzbekistani, however, made a vaguely repulsed face, appearing more like a caterpillar had appeared in front of him. Neal didn't waver - and that was sometimes a shock, it hit me again, _when did he go from Caffrey to Neal_ \- and listened with bright, mirthful blue eyes as Dmitri raised his head to look straight at him.

"I never got your name," the Middle-Eastern man said, a hint of annoyance mostly covered by skilled nonchalance and barely-broken tolerance.

One of Neal's eyebrows quirked. "No," he agreed readily. "You didn't."

Dmitri leaned back. I was ready to spring, but he took the dismissal at face value and made no aggressive motion - unless he was kicking Neal under the table, in which case I could hardly have faulted him for something I threatened to do pretty often.

"What are you doing here?"

He lifted one shoulder, fabric pulling over his arms, and let the shrug drop. "Same thing you are," he replied a little too airily. "Just waiting for a chance to talk to our friend." He paused like he was sizing up competition for just long enough for Dmitri to notice. "You enjoying the party?"

The man made a slight grimace. Maybe parties were Zidel's preferred hideaway, but this clearly wasn't his idea of a paradise. "A little too much excitement for my taste."

"You know what they say," the forger laughed mischievously. "It's not a party 'til the police break it up."

I had a bad feeling that those were the kinds of parties he was more used to - and, even more so, got the sense that he was usually the reason the police were there to begin with.

"Yeah." That was calculated, and Dmitri was far less subtle than Neal about the whole 'competition' thing, looking over what of Neal's body that he could see as if my consultant was the steak laid in front of an enormous and hunger-pained bloodhound. "Your little event may have attracted a rogue element. As a matter of fact," his eyes focused with laser like intensity, unlike any of the attention he'd sent to either of us all afternoon. "My phone got stolen."

To his credit, Neal kept up an amazing poker face, not even twitching to give himself away. "That can make it tough to contact people." He leaned forward just the slightest to drop his voice in the lull of what sounded like reggae and snapping at the intro to another song about touching and sex. "But there are always ways to get in touch with someone, aren't there?"

The sly encounter made me remember being undercover. I _liked_ playing the part. Neal got to do it professionally - I got to do it occasionally. I could be _good_ at acting for information, but specifically to this case, Dmitri already knew I wasn't in the trade, and more generally, I wasn't sure how much faith I was willing to put in Neal. Probably not enough to feel comfortable branching out and living lies at the spur of the moment without any backup.

"Alright." Dmitri looked at Neal closely and I wondered if he was armed, or trying to consider how easy it would be to beat Neal in a fight. Though tall and fit, the conman was a master of words, not violence. "Let's cut the act. We both know why we're here. I don't know who _you_ are, but you're way out of your league." I amused myself by rhetorically asking (silently) if he was threatening my consultant or rejecting him. "This game takes way more than money."

I practically felt a sparkle catch in my eyes, and if I knew Neal at all, then the terms intrigued him, as well. _A game, huh? I do love to play._

Mine didn't even pretend to be intimidated by the challenge. He leaned over the table, stretching his back to hold himself further, and laced his fingers together, forearms down flat on the tabletop. "You're not the only buyer interested in what Ghovat is selling," he informed, with dark implications in his voice.

Dmitri pretended to consider before conceding. "I am the only one that matters." _Oh. Well, not quite conceding, I guess._ "You and your friend should take a walk."

 _That_ was more like the kind of threat I was around to respond to, and I locked eyes with Dmitri over Neal's shoulder. The Uzbekistani leaned slightly to the right and nodded. Standing beside the catwalk in a tailored, expensive getup was another suited person who could have passed for a fed if it weren't for the context. He easily passed as a visitor, since he clearly had the money to be involved with an exclusive place like that particular venue.

Then Dmitri's own personal bodyguard pulled out the left side of his blazer, showing off a belt holster like the one I wore with the handle of a sidearm sticking out. I rolled my eyes.

Even if there was a chance I could have had him arrested for not having a permit, the chance of him calling on diplomatic immunity or just straight-up shooting me made it not worth the effort for such a small and temporary satisfaction.

Neal must have been thinking something like that, too, because after he noticed the gun, he made a noise like disapproval for the blue-collar methods and slid out of the booth, adjusting his sleeves.

* * *

Neal's decision to wait until we were further from the building was probably a smart one, giving us more time to get away from anyone who may have been inconspicuously seeing us out before he started to talk, giving us away as law enforcement.

"He is _definitely_ here to buy," he recapped for me. Of course I had heard the whole thing, but then, for all I knew, there was some criminal code that I didn't know about, or a signal Neal could have picked up on that I couldn't.

"I'll make sure that Derek keeps following him," I promised, as if it had ever been a question. We couldn't let Dmitri hit the wind when he may have been looking for Ghovat right at that moment. "Subtly," I added, glancing sideways at Neal.

"For the record, Kenna, I stepped out for practicality." He held his hands out in front of him in loose fists and mimed something like a boxing action. "If it came to a fight," he mimed some weak punches, "You're _much_ more menacing than that other guy." I couldn't tell if he was serious or if he was trying to play. The problem with playing with Neal was that it's hard to tell how far this 'playing' goes.

My eyes almost hurt from how hard I rolled them. "I'd say thanks, but I feel like at least part of that sentence should have been offensive," I replied mostly under my breath, repeating his words to myself as I tried to figure out what the ulterior meanings might have been.

He had the decency to look a little bit cowed and put his hands down.

* * *

**Buckle in because I'm about to blow you away with my backwards, dysfunctional household again.**

**I'm getting emails from colleges ever since I took the PSATs and got my scores back. I'm happy with them but no one else seemed to care. The happiest person (aside from myself) was Maddy (she doesn't like being called that) and she works for my mom. How twisted is that? Anyway, one-star parenting aside, Dad opened up my mail today when he saw my name on it (felony!) and found a recruitment advertisement for the University of Milan. Suddenly college is all that's talked about.**

**When they talk to me, I can't have a full conversation without them discussing college. Dad thinks I should go to a nursing school, Mom is unsure that I need college (** **_look at me, I was never in a communal hall and I turned out fine_ ** **) but if I insist on going, then she wants to micromanage the choices. She doesn't seem to understand that it's my choice, and she gets furious whenever I point out, even as politely as possible, that if I go to university, then there are laws that would protect the of-age student from being controlled by their parents. In fact, no college I know of would let her have any access or authority over my academics or personal information; I'd have to share it with her myself. She just has a hard time understanding this.**

 **I don't even know for sure what I want as a career, aside from that I want one that isn't reliant on having a family and then dragging them across the continent. I mean, sure, I'd be hard-pressed to find a kid whose knowledge of foreign languages rivals mine at this point, but I still don't want to subject anyone else to this. I've been miserable for** **_years._ **

**I do know that I don't want to go to nursing school, though.**

**Rock those SATs,**

**Zarra L**


	4. I'm Scared and I'm Brave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When another victim is struck, the WCCD ups the stakes to catch Ghovat. McKenna ends up paying for it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Lucy Hale's "Nervous Girls."

**_Chapter Four – I'm Scared and I'm Brave_ **

Kate had long since gone to sleep by the time that I'd gotten home, and I didn't feel like waking her up. Sometimes I felt guilty about my odd hours and her seemingly infinite supply of patience for my near-obsession with my job. Even before I was sent to white-collar crime, I'd had strange schedules, and she had never once complained. She'd stayed with me and adopted a new, unfair schedule for herself to keep me assisted when I needed it, and then remained calm and supportive while I transitioned to an entirely new unit. Even though she'd been thinking she'd have more of my time, she hadn't once expressed a serious grievance over the late nights when I'd come home or the mornings when I'd already been gone.

I didn't know how long it would be until I was given a phone call. I can usually sleep, eat, and take up hobbies with semi-normal timing, but when I'm on a case, that comes second only to my sister's wellbeing. Derek, Diana, and I all throw ourselves entirely into our work, which is what makes us the best team in the division. So, knowing that I may have only had a limited time, I set my Keurig machine to start heating up the water and trudged up the stairs, keeping from stepping on the spot on one stair that I knew creaked.

In my bedroom, I turned on the light and looked at myself in the mirror. I didn't look too bad, just a little tired. After a moment of thought, I decided to keep my bag with me and grabbed some concealer and eyeshadow out of my bathroom, taking them downstairs with me to hide the discoloration under my eyes if I was called back before I could sleep.

Then I turned on the television, lowered the volume, and activated Netflix. It looked like the last thing Kate had been watching was one of her favorite TV shows – while I liked it well enough, I'd grown out of it about the time that she started watching it, and so I put on a police procedural instead. Kate doesn't like many of them. Despite living in one, I quite appreciate them; I opted into a silly one with a fake psychic instead of a darker or more violent series, and went to the microwave to heat up a fast and easy dinner of macaroni.

I was picking my way through my "dinner," if my food could really constitute a meal, and had gotten to about two thirds of the way through the episode I'd selected when my phone started to ring. I was glad I'd put it on vibrate, because my ringtone for Derek happened to be pretty loud. I picked it up, left the television playing, and answered after putting my fork back into the plastic dish.

"Anderson."

Derek's voice greeted me. _"It looks like our boy's going into a hotel on Madison Avenue,"_ he commented, speaking as if making a note on the weather. At the same time, one character started whining about his shoes and another became harshly acquainted with the ground.

"Stupid jackass Argentinian," I remarked snidely at the TV, reaching for the remote to pause it. I couldn't remember his name; he was an archetypal corrupt cop, and not by any means dynamic or recurring. "Do you think he's staying there?" I asked, shifting my legs and stretching out my calves.

 _"_ _He's not bringing any luggage with him."_

I finished stretching my legs and moved my macaroni off of my lap in order to stand up. If he wasn't taking luggage, he was meeting someone – probably Ghovat. "Lock down, put someone on each exit," I instructed, glancing up to the ceiling as if I could look through the flooring and into Kate's room, making sure she was still asleep. "I'm on my way. Call Neal to tell him we're on."

I really could have called Neal myself, but while he was my responsibility, he was also part of our team. I couldn't expect him to trust Derek and Diana if they never communicated, so why _not_ have them interact sometimes? It was nice if he trusted me with his safety, but in my experience, it's always been best to learn to appreciate and trust through experience rather than by proxy.

 _"_ _Got it covered, Mick,"_ Derek assured me before the phone beeped as he hung up.

I turned my eyes to stare mournfully at my macaroni dish. Now that I was having to leave, I was even hungrier than I'd been five minutes ago. "I guess I know what I'm having the next time I get around to eating," I sighed reluctantly, responsibility winning out over my stomach.

* * *

The hotel on Madison Avenue wasn't a new building; rather, it was pretty old. It had occasionally been remodeled and renovated to keep it up to code and modern for the guests that chose to dish out the money to stay there, but it still had the feel of older architecture, even when it loomed over the street in the dark.

Across the road from the entryway, I pulled my van up to the curb, turned off the headlights, and almost jumped out, enthusiastically taking the keys out of the ignition. A smaller car was already down the road, and around Derek's van were three people – Derek, Diana, and Neal, who must've taken a taxi and still managed to get there before me. Then again, he lived closer.

"News?" I called, holding my car keys over my shoulder and pressing down on the lock button until I heard the locks go down on my vehicle.

Diana flashed me a quick smile when she saw me. Derek held up a radio that he was carrying around in one hand.

"Nothing interesting has happened since I call you," the senior agent reported. "He's been in one room for the last two hours. Agents are on every exit." _Good._ What were the odds he was just meeting a friend? In the privacy and seclusion of a hotel room, at that? Seemed pretty unlikely to me, given the rest of his agenda.

Neal almost didn't manage to refrain from speaking until Derek was done, but he held his arms out as if inviting me for a hug. I eyed him more like someone expecting for their wallet to be pickpocketed. "Hey, Kenna, I missed you!" I didn't go to hug him and he dropped his arms. "Look, about that 'menacing' comment earlier, I totally meant for it to be a compliment." He made a gesture that was meant to indicate that it was a hands-down, one hundred percent praise. "But, just in case it was taken the wrong way, I can also definitely see you being a cuddler. Balances it out a bit, right?"

 _Why were you imagining cuddling with me_ warred against _fuck off_ and _let it go, Caffrey_ in my head, but instead I just shook my head tiredly and held up a hand to stop him right there. There was very little I wasn't prepared to handle, but this conversation was rapidly becoming one of them.

"I really don't need to deal with that right now," I told him honestly.

The noisy static from the radio went down, but it wasn't because Derek had adjusted the volume. Someone tuned into the frequency. _"Just got a report,"_ it said through a quiet crackle in the connection. Derek raised it up again so the sound was as clear as it could be. _"Two men arguing loudly on the fifteenth floor."_

Derek looked up sharply and reached behind him to shut his car door. "That's where Dmitri is."

I motioned to Diana and then raised a hand to the police cruiser parked in front of the building. "Move in!"

* * *

I held up two fingers on one hand and my gun in the other, standing to the right of the door with the doorknob on the left. Derek was to the left of the door and Diana behind me, with Neal further behind all of us for his safety. I ticked down one finger, mouthing the word 'one,' and when I lowered the second, I grabbed my gun with the other hand and kicked at the door, slamming my heel against the wood. It slammed open, having not been locked.

"FBI!" I shouted, Derek rushing into the room first and covering the right side. I went in watching the left. There was no one moving in the room, but a man was lying on his back in the middle of the sparsely-furnished area. "Clear the room," I instructed my two other agents while I dropped down next to the man lying down, pointing the barrel of my gun at his abdomen. His face was covered up by a large piece of sewn fabrics, but his suit was unfortunately the same as Dmitri's, yet with a large bloody stain on the front, over the chest and through the heart.

Derek and Diana both went off, Diana towards the bathroom and Derek to the large, almost walk-in closet to pull back the doors. The footsteps behind me told me that Neal was coming in through the doorway. I pushed harder against the pale throat, but couldn't feel even the faintest indication of a thumping heartbeat.

"Damn it." I moved both my fingers and my gun, clicking the safety back on effortlessly while I picked up the edge of the fabric with my fingertips and pulled it out of the way. It was Dmitri hidden underneath what looked like a dress of dark reds and purples, his jaw held wide open and part of the dress stuffed in his mouth like a gag.

Diana stepped out of the bathroom and catalogued the scene with her eyes, pushing back her jacket and sliding her gun safely into its side holster. "Sex games gone wrong?" She asked, raising her eyebrows at the dress. I dropped it before I disturbed the crime scene any further.

"Hm." Neal, when I looked up at him, looked dissatisfied by the hotel room, and he frowned at Dmitri's corpse. I glanced to his feet. He moved around the body to get further into the room, keeping his shoes a certain distance away. "It could be a message," he suggested thoughtfully. "Maybe he was trying to shut him up."

"Yeah, it _could_ be symbolic, but maybe the dress was convenient and he was just suffocated." I shrugged my shoulders and looked at the stab wound, shifting my hips to move my balance as I crouched down. "This was made by a knife and it's an angled penetrative trauma. Just like in the coroner's report on the foreign national killed by Ghovat."

"Well, same injury, I'm gonna go out on a limb here and say it's the same killer." Derek already had his firearm holstered when I looked up, making me the only one with mine still out. All three of them looked down on Dmitri with a range of emotions – Neal, for once, serious and grim, Diana slightly surprised, and Derek a bit annoyed.

"Maybe stabbing is a signature. Until the ME gets here, we won't know for sure how he died." I looked down at Dmitri again, moving my eyes from his head and down to his feet. "Either way, probably not a sex thing. All of his clothes are still on… and rigor mortis hasn't set in… the blood is still spreading." It was subtle. I hadn't noticed it until I'd looked away and then it had changed, but the blood was covering more and more of the shirt. "He died minutes ago. Probably right after we came inside."

Keeping my balance, I stood up from my crouch next to the body. I didn't use the floor to help me up so that my fingerprints and DNA would stay away. Then I walked backwards, stepping behind me to put some space between myself and the immediate scene. I almost felt guilty that Dmitri had ended up dead, but that was the kind of emotion that was best to distance myself from in a job where a lot of people ended up in a morgue.

"Do we know how Ghovat got out of the building?" Diana asked, looking at me as if she expected me to have the answer. Hell, forty minutes ago I'd been watching idiots treasure hunt on TV and eating macaroni. It wasn't like I was studying building plans.

Derek answered for me, running a hand up over his head and down to the back of his neck, where his palm stayed. "We found a service elevator down the hall that wasn't on the reconstruction blueprints," he answered, kicking his foot against the floor angrily.

_That's the problem with older buildings. Blueprints have some things left out._

Neal looked far too knowing. I wondered if he'd used the tactic before to get himself out of sticky situations. "Which was exactly why he picked this place."

"The guy's good," I scoffed, almost incredulous. We'd been so close to him and yet not nearly close enough. It was the same feeling of frustration, of doubt in myself, of uncertainty of the end result, that had wound up with me getting Neal out of prison to begin with for the Dutchman case. "Not morally, but…"

And I hated this feeling.

"That dress… what's the significance of it?" Neal looked at me. It was like everyone expected me to have all of the answers. Did they think I'd spent the last few hours seeing a palm reader?!

I shrugged. "How should I know?"

He gave me a look, almost patronizing like he thought I should know better, and I huffed, going back to the body and dropping down into a squat. I picked at the edge of a fold in the fabric, almost but not quite falling on a seam, and pulled it down. The arms of the dress were around Dmitri's throat, like he'd been held back and they'd been used to force the neckline into his mouth. I grimaced and pulled it tighter, looking for anything identifiable on it.

"There isn't a tag," I announced to the three behind me. "It's not retail. It must be a couture product." I looked up over my shoulder to tell someone to call the coroner's office, but instead saw Diana looking like she'd half-expected it and Neal staring at me in surprise. I threw him a bitch face. "WCCD gets a lot of knockoffs. Don't ask me about my extensive handbag knowledge. I hate that I even know half of it."

He smirked, but it left his face too quickly for me to make anything out of it, and he breached his own perimeter around the body in order to come kneel beside me and get a better look at the dress – arguably the murder weapon, but not for sure.

He was less cautious of not disturbing the scene. I figured, hell, it was already pretty disturbed now, but it was a pretty straightforward thing – murdered, most likely by Ghovat, in which case we already know the who, when, where, and what, and soon enough we'd know the how and why. Neal picked up the back of the neckline with deft fingers and pulled it back to show the inside.

"Look at this," he murmured, running his thumb over something in the collar. I looked more carefully. There was a shading difference. "There's a slit here on the back."

He moved his hand out of the way when I reached for it and I moved out of my own way, allowing the light better access to illuminate the dress. It was so small I hadn't seen it, and if he hadn't pointed it out, I doubted I would have. He must've been looking for it specifically. It wasn't even wide enough to slip a quarter into.

"It's about the size of newer security strips," I said, thinking through the case. Although fashion didn't have much to do with counterfeiting – Zidel Hazeva's trade – there sure was a hell of a lot _about_ counterfeiting that could be stored on a security chip hidden innocently inside an inconspicuous dress. "A lot of designers in more modern countries are starting to build them into their clothes. If nothing else, it works as a GPS tracker in some capacities if their works are stolen."

Footsteps were soft on carpet while Derek and Diana looked around, but Neal just looked up to my face, blocking them out. "So, basically, it's an electronic flash drive, but smaller?"

"In theory, yes." I touched the tip of my finger to the slit. It was well hidden. "I think the maximum storage space on the common ones is around four gigabytes."

Neal pursed his lips and looked about ready to whistle, impressed by the new development. Why Ghovat was around during Fashion Week had just become a lot clearer. "That's enough space to smuggle all kinds of information worth killing for," he said, sounding almost admiring in the innovation of the plot.

I ignored that.

I twisted my torso around, looking for my agents. Neither of them were facing me – one was looking under the bed and the other was starting to pull out the drawers and look through for anything incriminating. At least they were showing initiative.

"I want a photobook of all the designers who had or have a show scheduled this week." I said loudly. Unlike when I'm with Kate, when I say that I want something with these two, they usually have to fill that want. It's a very nice power to have. I took a brief pleasure in exercising it. "I want to find out who made this dress. If information on here was wanted by the Ghost, then the designer probably knows about it."

* * *

I couldn't say that my agents worked for anything less than results. They went through all of the photobooks, had the dress released from evidence as soon as it was combed, and before the clock even reached noon, they had arrested and moved Avet Moayed into an interrogation room held specifically for our usage.

Moayed was a registered clothing designer from Israel, the same country as Ghovat. He had registered for a visa into America for a time span of two weeks, including Fashion Week, and had passed through Customs and TSA without incident, just bringing his clothing with him as his carry-on luggage. Even though I expected his first objections to be in regards to being arrested and what that might do to his public reputation, he was rather cooperative. Derek was almost disappointed by the lack of fight he received.

I sat on the edge of the table and leaned towards him, bracing myself with a hand held open against the table. He leaned back in his chair, elbows close to his sides and hands in his lap.

"I don't know who this Ghovat is," he said, but something about the way he said it seemed strange. He may have been good at staying calm, but he wasn't as grade-A when it came to lying.

"You don't know his name?" I raised my eyebrows skeptically, but went along with it to humor him. I figured I might as well ask some more questions before I just attacked on the basis of the answer to one. "Not even by a rumor or whisper?"

He looked up at me solemnly. "My world is fashion," he said simply. I did notice that he didn't deny having heard of him this time.

I looked down on him and took a deep breath in. "I think we both know that fashion isn't exactly the topic here."

Avet looked down from me and fixed his eyes on the table. He looked at a specific spot with focus and didn't so much as glance back up to my eyes, even when I leaned over some more and then shifted how I was sitting so there was less pressure on my thighs from the edge. "I have a show this evening that I must be prepared for," he said, mentioning his own plans for the first time, and not out of indignant protest, but rather using them like an excuse.

I smiled plastically. "Don't worry," I assured him sarcastically. "I've had it postponed."

"You have no reason to do any of this." He looked up earnestly.

"Incorrect," I disagreed quietly. The lack of fervency or rudeness in his answers made me a lot less inclined to be angry and tense. If I weren't so close to the edge of the table, I'd have pulled my other leg up and sat crisscross. "Why has one of your designs showed up at one of _my_ crime scenes?"

"You're the police," he replied, looking up at me. I'd have been annoyed at the argument I'd heard many a time if not for the ill-covered anxiety that I was feeling coming off of him, practically in waves. "You tell me."

I leaned back, tipping my neck all the way back and looking up towards the ceiling. _One, two, three._ Calmer, I leaned to my left, taking some pressure off of my right hip, and pulled a wallet-sized photograph of the dress as it was stretched out over a table from my pocket. I pushed the little slip down onto the table and sent it sliding over to the designer as proof.

"Whatever it is that you did with this dress has resulted in two fatalities so far," I informed. Wasn't there the chance that he didn't realize how much damage he'd caused? Sometimes unintentional accomplices started talking when they realized the extent of the harm.

It seemed like this was one of those times. Very quickly, Avet tore his eyes from the image of his dress and stared at me. I just lifted a shoulder, and his sagged. "And if I didn't do it," he said sadly, voice dropping down in either shame or disappointment. "My son would be dead, also."

I moved around a little on the desk. _His kid. Oh._ Damn it – I hated when the bad guys used children as threats. What the hell did kids ever do to them? Children couldn't fight back. Children couldn't always tell when they were in danger until it was too late. If you want something from someone, then get it in a way that doesn't involve threatening little humans who aren't old enough to drive.

More understanding and far less interrogative, I looked at him sympathetically and beseeched, "Tell me what happened."

Avet sighed. He inched one of his hands slowly up from his lap, tentatively placed a finger on the photograph, and then pushed it further away from him in disgust at what it now represented. "A few hours before my team and I are to leave Tel Aviv," one of the largest cities in Israel, "My wife calls, tells me that they have my son."

"He kidnapped your child as leverage," I murmured, quiet and considerate while inside I was beginning to seethe. The threats against children had always pissed me off a lot more than crimes against adults. I'd considered working specifically in the Crimes Against Children Division for a long time, but had decided when I joined the bureau that I didn't approve of crimes of any sort, and would much rather stop all the criminals I could rather than just the ones that hurt minors. Rape of an eighteen-year-old is at least as bad as the rape of a seventeen-year-old, right? "What for?"

"I was told to clear my shop and wait for instructions. And then he showed up, told me I had to smuggle something into the States for him." Moayed didn't have a lawyer present, and maybe that was something that should have been corrected as he admitted to smuggling, but not only had he turned down the offer to call a district attorney, but any jury would be sympathetic to what he'd done to protect his child. And besides, it wasn't like he'd heartlessly killed some people – just slipped a little microchip into America.

"And that something was…?"

Even if it was a little microchip, there was still enough damage that could be done to any number of facets of facilities or sources in the United States.

He shook his head, declaring that that was as far as his knowledge reached. "All I know is that it was in the dress," he vowed. "That is it." He paused for a moment and then said lower, "After we had cleared Customs, I heard from my wife that our son is returned to us."

"I get it," I said softly. If he were American, I'd have reached out and patted his shoulder, but the social boundaries in Israel were vastly different. Visitors from some countries wouldn't appreciate if a woman touched them, no matter how friendly or professional the context, and I wasn't going to risk putting either of us in an uncomfortable or tense situation when I needed him to trust me to keep talking to me. "Really, I get it, but that doesn't change that two people have been murdered because of whatever you helped bring into the country. Is there anything you can tell me about what it was?"

He cocked his head. "Well," he said slowly, blinking owlishly. "I can show you the real dress." Avet offered.

My lips parted. I wasn't sure if I had honestly expected him to know any more – no one gets as bad as Ghovat without knowing to keep some things close to the vest – but an innocent, untrained, threatened fashion designer from Tel Aviv was not someone I'd have expected to pull a trick on a smuggling operation, much less on a feared and violent criminal with operatives near his son.

"… I like you," I decided, pointing at him informatively, because _damn,_ that was a kind of cleverness I could totally get behind.

* * *

"This is it?" Raising my eyes from the dress, I looked across the table at Avet, daring him to lie to me. "This is the one he actually wanted?"

The real dress was a gorgeous piece, even to someone who didn't like dresses. The fabric was soft, treated, and smooth; warm and silky, with a soft, velvety feel. The colors were warm, a mix of light pink, soft burgundy, and gentle purples, with a dark green crest moving down in a V-shape over the hips. The material of the skirt was ruffled stylistically, gathered up deliberately throughout the dress, and the top half had a low dip between the breasts. Underneath the main body of the torso was a thinner, light pink, satiny piece that rose above the neckline, closer to the color of skin, so while it was modest, it was suggestive at the same time. The shoulders were padded, and the long sleeves were made from black lace.

"I always make _two_ dresses." Avet confirmed, touching the back of the dress's neck affectionately. "I did not tell him that he took the wrong one."

Neal nodded. "That makes sense." He stood closer to the corner of the room, away from Avet and me. He didn't tear his eyes from the dress. "Dmitri shows up to get the dress from Ghovat and finds out it's fake, they struggle, Ghovat manages to make it out alive."

"But why kill Dmitri and bring all this down on him?" Diana wondered, looking over Avet's head where she stood behind him like a guard. Even though he was helping us, we still had to operate on the precedent that he was a person of interest.

Except that question was one I could answer on my own, thanks to the insight I'd gotten from listening to Neal and Dmitri. "He wants to salvage his original deal," I explained. "But he couldn't do that if Dmitri met his buyers first and told them the tech was useless."

There was a small slip in the back collar, in the same location as the one in the faux design given to the criminals. I reached across the table and picked it up, pressing my fingers along the neckline and feeling the material between my fingers. It only took a couple of passes before I found a small rectangular piece that didn't bend with the fabric when I held it.

"What do you think's going to be on this thing?" Neal asked me. I kept one hand holding onto the electronic chip through the dress, and with the other I picked it up and folded it forward so that I could work it out of the slip in the fabric without stretching over furniture.

"Who knows?" I remarked flippantly, pressing and coaxing the chip out towards the small cut. "Could be weaponry codes, fake IDs, formulas for drugs or currency inks." There was a lot of information that people would kill to get their hands on. The grey corner of the chip became visible through a slit of burgundy velvet, and I pulled it out and held it up to show Neal. "I'll have it sent to a lab. Forensics will have it back to us by the morning."

Diana looked at it but then dismissed it. It looked like a totally normal computer chip; nothing conspicuous or unusual about it. "If it's something that's so valuable, there's no way Ghovat's going to be willing to pack up and go home after all the trouble he's gone through to sell it."

"So if he's still around, we need the grounds to arrest him," Neal figured. "I mean, whatever this is, we probably don't want his buyers getting their hands on it." He moved forward, walking slowly from the corner and towards me. I handed the chip to Diana, partially to free my hands, partially because I didn't want to be responsible for taking it down to the bubbly goth girl in forensics, and partially to get it further from Neal.

"Let's go fishing," I decided abruptly, a small smile creeping onto my face. I surveyed the dress thoughtfully. It looked like it would go past my knees, and it might be a little snug through my shoulders, but… "You know where the parties are, right?" I turned to Neal, hair falling in front of my face. I pushed it back behind my ear. "And the models?"

Neal smiled, bemused. "What do you mean by fishing?" He asked as though his reply to the question was conditional, based on whatever I responded with.

I reached down to run my fingers over the lace sleeve. The lace was delicate; no fabric under it, thin layers of lace cut out and handstitched together, making simple designs of thin black material loosely attached to the dress.

"If Ghovat wants the dress so badly, he's going to have to get it from us. I say we go to another party that he would attend. Say I'm there with a significant other rather than a bureau partner, and flaunt the dress long enough to make sure we're noticed and caught on camera."

I happily beamed in excitement. I usually loved to go undercover. I got a thrill from lying about who I was and falling into a new role - sometimes similar to aspects of my real behavior, other times completely opposite. In some cases I became meek and quiet, pretending to be shy and abashed. In others, I got to be the opposite, forsake the control and unleash the wild attitude that I usually kept inhibited for various reasons.

"It… _could_ work," Diana slowly said. Avet looked between Diana and I, unsure what was going on. He was carefully keeping an eye on my hand as I ran my fingers over the lace sleeve. "But he could also be very angry," she added logically, looking at me intently. "It may not be smart to invite more pain than we already have."

"He's gonna attack somewhere else," I factually informed her. There was no getting around that. Ghovat was a violent man. Time for my martyr complex. "I'd rather he comes after me than someone who doesn't know how to defend themselves." Looking away from Diana, who was nodding her head uncertainly to agree with me, I then turned to Neal, turning my toes in and swaying on my feet. "What do you say, Neal?" I asked, blinking cutely at him and batting my eyes. "Wanna be my undercover partner tomorrow?"

* * *

Supervised by Neal, Diana, and I, Avet was given his cell phone and told to contact the last number he'd had for Ghovat. Soon enough, he connected with a man who spoke a Middle Eastern language, the sounds reminding me of Farsi, although I couldn't pick out any words I understood. I had very limited experience with Persian, and what little I did know was from a scientist I met who had immigrated to America.

Thankfully, Ghovat answered the call redirected to him and spoke in English when Avet started the conversation in our language. He looked over his shoulder at Diana uncertainly while he explained in somewhat choppy English what had happened… with a twist to suit our needs.

Ghovat was not at all pleased. In fact, he sounded homicidally enraged. _"How could you be so stupid?"_ He rumbled through the phone. Avet grimaced. Even if the phone hadn't been connected to the Bluetooth speaker, I probably would have been able to hear his voice for the volume.

Avet started to look up for a cue of what to do next. Neal rolled his hand, rotating his wrist to indicate for him to continue. Avet looked down again, staring at the speaker in the middle of the table. "Ghovat, please, you must believe me. I didn't know what you wanted me to do. You did not want me to know."

Diana looked at Avet carefully while I listened to the speaker, careful not to make a sound. If Ghovat heard us and realized it was a ruse, then more people could have gotten hurt, or our plan could risk not panning out. Someone hissed. It sounded like something crashed to the floor and shattered. It reminded me again of why I preferred Neal to other criminals I had arrested - he may be crafty, but he avoids violence.

 _"_ _Where's the dress now?"_ We heard after some heavy, angry breathing.

"It's gone," Avet reported, shrinking down into his seat. "I sold it."

 _"_ _You sold the dress?"_ I noticed that the designer was almost shaking and bit the inside of my cheek sympathetically. We didn't have the grounds to call for international agencies to protect his family unless they were directly threatened again, but I hoped that Ghovat would realize that, at this point, it would be a fruitless adventure. _"My dress?"_

"Someone made me an offer ahead of the show. He bought it for his fiancée." He kept his eyes down except for a second when he looked at Neal like he was making sure he'd gotten the story right. The con artist nodded encouragingly.

 _"_ _How much did he pay?"_ The Israeli demanded.

"Fifty thousand dollars." I had gone over this with him several times; it was one of the few things he said with confidence when talking to the counterfeiter.

 _"_ _Who did you sell it to?"_

I looked to my right and Neal to his left, and both of us met eyes and grinned. There was something exhilarating about getting so deeply under the skin of a homicidal sociopath, and I couldn't be sure if the adrenaline was from knowing I'd be risking being shot at or from knowing I'd have to pretend to be Neal's fiancée.

* * *

Letting Diana dress me up was a bad idea. I sighed. _I should have asked Derek._ All I meant for Diana to really do for me was zip up the back of the dress and get me some shoes that went with it. I could have put my makeup on and styled my hair on my own. I just thought that it would be nice to have the help from the one woman I knew who could actually apply eyeliner without prodding its wearer in the eye.

And that was a mistake. A ten-minute process became a half-hour one. Now I understood why she'd wanted to start early. To be fair, it wasn't because she was being stereotypically girly. It was just because I really just planned on putting my hair up in a ponytail, but Diana wanted to crimp and curl with a hair iron, which took longer just because of the effort that had to go into it.

"Is this really necessary?" I asked again, skepticism obvious in my voice. I turned my body slightly to the left to admire my arms in the mirror. The paleness of my skin made the lace sleeves stand out even more. Gentle, soft material rubbed lightly against my arms, almost like feathers warmly brushing over my body. It looked really cool. The one thing I _didn't_ like was the attention that the dress drew to my bust and hips - the V-shaped dip at the waist drew the eyes to the swell of my hips, and the breast was snug - but I could put up with it. Thanks to the inner lining that was much higher than the royal neckline, no cleavage was actually visible.

" _Yes,"_ Diana replied emphatically, pressing her hand hard into my back, telling me to stop moving. She had a curling iron in her hand, after all, with pieces of my hair tangled around it. "If you're going to play the part of the fiancée of a rich bastard, you're going to have to dress up like a rich woman. Now hold still! I don't want to burn you."

"This looks really nice," I said to the reflection of my probationary agent in the mirror, her straightened black hair hanging down like a curtain over the dark olive skin of her face. My hair took in the heat and held itself up in bouncy curls that wound around like rings. Somehow, Diana was managing what seemed impossible and making the pieces even.

Encouragingly, she replied, "You could do it yourself if you tried. Don't you have a curling wand?"

 _Yes, I do._ "Yeah," I admitted slowly and reluctantly. I don't usually use it. I like to shower at night, sleep with my hair damp, and let it dry overnight. By the time I wake up, my hair's dried out. Once I brush out the snarls and get it to lay right, it kind of keeps the wavy figure from being pressed into my pillow. Neal had assumed I'd had to style it with a hot iron to get it like that, and was impressed that I didn't. My hair was just naturally voluminous. "But I lack the patience and the ability to see behind me."

She hummed, relaxed, and she must've hit the right number in her head, because she pressed the tab and pulled the wand down and away from my neck. Hair that sprung back felt warm, even through the dress. "That could make it more frustrating," she allowed, picking up another section, dragging her fingers through to straighten, and clamping it into the iron. "Run it down with me again," she instructed firmly, as if she were the agent and I the probie. "You know what you're doing?"

I rolled my eyes. I typically couldn't stand being treated like I had short-term memory loss, but I knew it was just Diana being worried. She didn't like to show her concern as much as she liked to drill it into my skull until it was just ridiculous to think that I wouldn't remember something important.

"I'm a civilian, I'm Neal's fiancée, I am wearing the fake dress in case I'm attacked." I recited monotonously. "I have a handheld strapped to the inside of my thigh just in case, and if nothing else, I can take off my shoes and stab them with the heels."

"Right," she snorted. The sad thing was that she probably had no trouble imagining me going after someone with a shoe. "Keep your phone on you. That way you can be tracked. You're sure you want to do this?" She released my hair from the wand again, carefully put it down to the side of the wiped-down sink, and reached past it for the can of salon hairspray, shaking it up and down vigorously while the ball inside rattled.

"It's not the first time I've played bait," I reminded her. She may not have been with me as long as Derek, but she was far from the point where I could call her "newbie" and play harmless but annoying practical jokes.

She paused, taking off the cap and holding it in her hand. She looked at me over my shoulder, just about my height with both of us in different-sized heels. "It's the first time you've tried to sell it with Caffrey."

"How hard can it be?" I airily asked. Going undercover was like being an actress. Being an actress is like being a liar - such a good liar that you trick _yourself_ into believing it. If there's one thing I am, it's a good liar. I didn't have to want to snuggle with Neal on the couch to make it seem like I did exactly that every night.

And, speaking practically, Neal was the best choice to go with me. Like I'd told Hughes, he and Ghovat were similar in ways that would be advantageous to the case, although different in the ways that mattered to me. It would be far too uncomfortable for me to pretend to be in love with my brother, and I didn't want to explain that to Kate, knowing how smitten she is, even if she doesn't like to talk about it. I was sure Diana and I could pull it off, except for that Ghovat was from the Middle East and may not look too kindly upon lesbian relationships - or women, in general, so it was better to play it safe. Neal was someone I trusted, at least in the context. He couldn't betray me without being sent straight back to prison, his own personal hell, and even if I didn't have the power of the anklet, although he had hobbies I didn't approve of, he was a very stand-up guy when it came to people being hurt, which I had to respect.

Diana shook her head, covered her nose with one hand, and started spraying my hair with the hairspray to hold the curls. I grimaced. I knew that my hair would feel a little stiff if I touched it, but dragging a wide-toothed comb through would improve the texture greatly without messing it up.

"Remember the irritation you felt chasing the Dutchman when he flirted with you?" She asked. I made a huffy noise. Of course I remembered. I no longer felt the need to shoot him when he passed a cute line at me, but I remembered being so furious, between his facetiousness and my internal struggles with getting over his conviction. "Well, you've got to find a way to get over that. If you're engaged to him, flirting is almost to be expected. Just let him flatter you some. Act stupid in love, and no one except Ghovat will know something's up."

"Yeah, yeah." I might as well have been saying _blah, blah, blah._ "Hugs, kisses, hand holding, flirting, dancing, generally being sickeningly cute." I wasn't particularly looking forward to being treated like his significant other, as I wasn't looking for any kind of real relationship, but I'd be lying to myself if I said that I was opposed to the kissing or hugging. I love hugs - they feel so safe and secure - and I've known I'm attracted to Neal since I first saw his photograph.

Something else occurred to me. I smirked in the mirror. I looked so elegantly done up that I could be going to the party as a princess, not an undercover agent. "Is Derek giving Neal the shovel talk?"

Diana giggled behind me. "Pretty sure I heard him say that if his tongue left his mouth, he would drag him out of his radius and shoot him under the excuse that he was trying to flee."

That was just so typically Derek that I genuinely smiled. Trust him to be laying down the law on what was passable. As far as he knew, I didn't care to be physically close to Neal, so setting a boundary between what counted as undercover and what counted as harassment was a very Derek-y thing to do.

"Yeah, that sounds like him."

"You're all set!" Diana announced proudly, as if I was her masterpiece. She looked over the top half of my body visible in the mirror. "Damn, I wish you were going on _my_ arm." I smiled back at her reflection, taking the compliment. She dropped her hands down, touching the top edge of my gloves. "Are you sure you want to keep wearing these?"

"There's no way they're coming off," I stated flatly without looking away from her in the mirror. I wasn't mean, just… _no._ No way was I giving Ghovat, a violent criminal, the chance to see my soulmark. What if he tracked it down to its other owner? I never wanted any other regular people to see it, why would I want Ghovat to?

"Okay." She backed off without a fuss, having expected to be declined. I'd never had to explain my reasoning to her because she had never asked, just seemed to understand. I figured out why one time when we'd gone jogging together and she'd worn a short-sleeved tank top. There was a neat piece of henna with the center filled in and a fractal pattern dyed around it on her upper left arm. The henna would wash off every few weeks and have to be replaced. It lasted so long because she bought quality dye.

I didn't need to be told to know that it was her way of protecting the privacy of her own soulmark. Sometimes it hit me that soulmarks seemed to be the most pivotal part of my social life. For the choices I'd made not to let my soulmate alter how I lived my life, there sure were things I did out of my way because of them.

* * *

Butterflies felt like they were dancing in my stomach, like a teenager on her first date again. Although I'd felt like a doll when Diana had dressed me up, the people around me now made me feel less porcelain and more beautiful, between the seemingly undivided attention of my "fiancé" and the men I ended up dancing to songs with when they wanted to cut in, who sooner or later noticed the silver band on my ring finger, gave my hand or cheek a kiss, and backed off.

This venue was fancier than ours had been - where ours was all lights and noise and dance, this was as much a mingling event as a party. There wasn't really a dance floor for pop music, and the music was so much quieter. I could actually hear myself thinking this time. Most people were socializing, and Neal and I were no exception, but we kept going out and slow dancing in the center of the room, consequently becoming the center of attention.

If Ghovat didn't recognize us and the dress, it was a complete waste of time, after all.

The party was held in a wealthy woman's mansion, larger than June's and much flashier, too. There's a limit to how big I think a house can be before it crosses a line from unbelievable luxury to unbelievable tediousness, and this one had crossed that line. I doubted anyone here _wasn't_ working for an agency, part of a designer line, or boasting lots and lots of money to their name.

It was such a strange place to be in; the sort of party I would've been in had I stayed in my social and financial status before joining the bureau. I made a point of living in the middle-class. Upper middle-class, yes, but I still wasn't going out and buying sports cars and bras that costed upwards of a hundred dollars.

"How long do you want to stay?" I asked quietly, smiling softly, doing as Diana said and putting on an attitude that suggested Neal was all I cared about.

It really wasn't as hard for me as she had seemed to think it would be. Attraction aside, Neal and I had been getting along so much better in the last few weeks that I felt safe and secure enough with him to not be fidgeting or nervously looking over my shoulder every second. I trusted him to watch out for me, too. I'm a very tactile person - always have been - which Kate thinks explains why I'm so physically needy even though I like to "repress my emotions" or whatever she said in the last half of her sentence. I like hugs and kisses and hand holding and dancing, even though I'd told Diana they were disgustingly cutesy couple things.

I had my arms wrapped loosely around his neck, and he was caging me with his arms gently - one wound around my upper back, the heat of his body soaking through his suit, and the other pressing against my lumbar spine, holding me close. My left hand rested close to the back of his neck, so I had started absentmindedly playing with the longer hair at the back of his neck. The height that he had on me seemed like less in my heels, but we still weren't quite at eye level.

Neal dipped his head down and playfully nuzzled at my cheek. I was taken by surprise, but let myself giggle, because it did feel silly, if ridiculously affectionate. It was just a guise to get his mouth closer to my ear so that he could give me a reply without anyone overhearing.

"Just long enough to be noticed," he said. I turned my head slightly to the side like I was encouraging the nuzzling, rubbing my cheek against his jaw. "Let's not push our luck."

"Works for me," I agreed easily. I thought we'd been there for a while, although I didn't have a watch to check the time. "The sooner I'm out of these heels, the better," I joked while he leaned back, and as he moved, my hand was dragged from his upper back to his throat. I let my right hand cup the back of his neck possessively without pressure.

He shut his eyes and sighed contently. "You really do look fantastic," he earnestly praised, opening his eyes and looking at me again fondly.

A rush of warmth moved through me. I blinked and started to smile. The endearments and kindness I was being bestowed with were _fake._ They felt so sincere that I had to remind myself that none of it was real - it was all for show. Of _course_ they felt real. Neal was a conman, a professional liar.

"You're pretty sharp yourself, Caffrey," I returned with a wink and a grin, not missing a beat. "The fake children from our fake marriage will be absolutely adorable."

Neal laughed softly, voice a low chuckle, and moved his hand up from my back, sliding his palm over my shoulder slowly. The dragged heat was curious, and made me wonder exactly what it was about him that made it so hard to remember it was an act. From my shoulder, he brought his hand over my neck, brushing his knuckles across the hollow of my throat, and up to my face, gently cupping my jaw.

He leaned in slowly, leaning his head to the side. We had already discussed this, decided that it was just a role and it was okay to play, but he was still giving me the opportunity to tell him to stop - before he held my jaw in place and slanted his lips over mine, bright eyes falling shut.

My breath would have caught if he didn't have it already. His lips were as soft as they looked, plush, breath fresh like mint. I pulled him in tighter with the hand over his neck. Neal wasn't my first kiss, not by a longshot, but he was the first person I had kissed ever since my demotion and the events leading up to it. It wasn't a feeling I had forgotten, but the sensations had faded, and my artist reignited them with fire and life. We stopped swaying as he kissed me chastely, but it managed to _feel_ passionate while staying rated PG. Neal broke it apart and opened his eyes, surveying me carefully. His own expression was indistinguishable, yet not unkind.

"Do… you feel like we're being watched?" I whispered, faces still so close I could feel his breath on my lips. My eyes darted from his eyes to his lips. My knees were _so_ close to trembling as he brushed his thumb over my chin, rubbing the pad of his finger close to my mouth.

"I've been getting a bit of that feeling, yeah," he replied in the same hushed tone, like we were conveying intimate affection rather than sharing secrets about our undercover operation.

"Good." Being watched meant that we had been noticed, and that we could leave sooner rather than later. I swallowed and moved my hand from his neck to his shoulder, putting more space between us. "I burned that CD for you," I told him casually, putting back some forced boundaries to the blurred lines between us and our characters.

"You did?" He sounded almost shocked. I wondered what that said - that he hadn't believed me when I'd told him I'd help him. "Thanks. Really."

"Yeah, well, consider it an engagement gift," I murmured, quietly sarcastic. "Just be careful, okay? The last thing I want is you getting tempted." I really couldn't go without reminding him to be attentive to what he was planning and how it might have consequences.

Neal sighed. "We've been over this a thousand times, Kenna." The tone of his voice was resigned and disappointed. In me? In Kate? "Kate's gone. She left." I looked at him, frowning and biting the inside of my cheek. "I don't have anything to remember her by. No pictures, no videos - not since the feds starting closing in the first time."

Neal never really gave me the opportunity to forget his criminal history. I couldn't figure out yet if it was because he was proud of it or if it was just his way of keeping me at arm's length.

"All I have left of her is that Bordeaux bottle," he mourned. 'I don't want to forget what she looked like the last time I saw her." He raised his eyes to mine imploringly, meeting my gaze.

I empathized with him again, put myself in his shoes. If I were possibly never going to see my sister again, I'd want evidence proving she was real, proving I hadn't made it up, giving myself a relic to remember her by. Judging by the few conversations we'd had about the wine bottle, it wasn't the happiest souvenir; Neal associated it with how he thought of himself as a disappointment.

"I'm sorry," I said quietly, both for bringing it up and for starting along the threads of an argument that we'd been having since we met. Apologetically, I pressed the crescents of my nails into the back of his shoulder, rubbing into his skin through his blazer and shirt. "I wish she hadn't left you like that."

His face shadowed. "So do I." I pursed my lips. There wasn't much else to be said when he played a note like that. He leaned in quickly and pressed his mouth to my forehead as if reassuring me that he was okay. In five seconds, he had gone from somber to cheerful. "Can I get you a drink?"

"Please," I answered without thinking, throat feeling dry and wanting now something to distract me from our kiss, something to help me forget the taste of his lips.

Neal took my hand and led me forward to the front of the room, chandelier glinting tiny spots of light over the walls and floor. On a refreshment table was a set of cups at the side next to a tall, mostly-full water cooler, and rows of champagne glasses were topped off with some kind of amber alcohol. He picked up the thin handle of one of the glasses to the front and handed it to me with a little flourish. I smiled thinly when our hands brushed as I took it.

Disregarding the safety tips I had used since I learned about date rape and drugs, I tipped back the glass and drank from an open container. The liquid was a kind of wine, and it filled my mouth with rich but somewhat bitter flavor, a small burn racing down my esophagus as I swallowed.

An employee of the hostess, dressed in a tuxedo and identified by the stainless steel tray he carried, raised his tray so it passed over the shoulder of another patron, eyes locking onto Neal's and coming to us. I lowered the champagne glass from my face, looking between them carefully as the man extended the tray to my partner.

"Excuse me, sir. This just arrived for you."

Neal looked at the tray. On the center was a little cellular phone, a cheap one like a burner cell, and nothing else. Right as he raised his hand, it started ringing.

"Thank you," I hastily told the waiter to be polite before I looked around, searching out the room for someone looking at us. How else would they have known to dial right as the phone came to us?

Neal looked at the front of the phone for a long moment contemplatively before he popped it open (it was an old phone) and held the glowing screen to the side of his face. "Hello?"

In the interest of staying completely in the loop, I held my glass closer to my chest and stepped to the side, closer to Neal. He switched the phone to his other hand and dropped his left arm over my shoulders, the weight warm and solid. I tucked myself against his side like it was a natural, usual action, breathing in the scent of his cologne and feeling the way the suit gave gently into his side while I listened to the low, gruff voice through the phone.

 _"_ _I recognize you from the party."_

Neal looked down at me, made a miniscule nod, and looked up over my head, bending his neck and resting his chin on my head sweetly. I sighed softly, rocking my head against his firm chest. "Who is this?"

 _"_ _I saw you steal Dmitri's phone."_

"Yeah. I was trying to eliminate the competition." Neal sounded like he was smirking. I just resisted the urge to roll my eyes, but it was a close thing. "Guess it worked."

 _"_ _So you know what you have?"_

I felt his jaw shift over my hair. "Oh, I know exactly what I got," he replied confidently, arm tightening slightly.

 _"_ _You paid fifty thousand dollars for the dress."_ I almost snickered. He really thought we were so desperate that we paid fifty grand for a _dress_? Either he underestimated Avet or he didn't realize that his men back overseas had already released the designer's child. _"I'll give you five million."_

I almost whistled. That was a hefty price - and even more reason not to give it, or the chip, over to the killer.

"Ah, but my fiancée loves it so much," Neal teased. The word 'fiancée' was said lightheartedly, thrown around without much meaning. I had to wonder - if acting was that easy for him, had he ever been engaged? Or, more so, had anyone involved with him ever been truly secure in the relationship? How do you trust that you matter to someone so skilled at lying? "How about we make it ten?"

 _"_ _Do you know who you're talking to?"_

Neal feigned confusion. "This is Steve, right?"

I really did giggle this time, turning my head more into his chest to muffle the noise before it reached the phone. Ghovat, for his part, didn't appreciate the humor. There was a hesitation - more like a pause, really - before his tone changed, transitioning to a much darker and callous note.

 _"_ _I tried to be nice. I tried to give you a choice."_ Something clicked, and then a dial tone started to echo.

Neal snapped the phone closed and lifted his head from my hair. "Was that long enough for a trace?" He asked. I pulled my head back from his chest, putting my weight on my own legs again and looking up to meet his eyes.

"Definitely," I said, giving him a thumbs-up and sipping some more wine. "We got what we came for, then?"

"We sure did. And he does _not_ sound too pleased," he warned, looking around and scanning the crowd.

"He can take some Midol and deal with it," I glowered, mood changing. If even Neal was put off enough to conspicuously look over his shoulder, then I wasn't the only one picking up on the threatening vibe in the phone call. No one who bullies others or kidnaps children has my respect. "I fully intend to catch some sleep before the sun starts coming up. A couple of un-uniformed officers are going to drive me home. Do you want an escort or would you feel safe in a taxi?"

I downed the rest of my glass swiftly and put the empty container back down on the edge of the table where a small collection seemed to be gathering. Then I picked up his hand, wrapped my fingers loosely around his wrist, and started to pull, giving his arm a tug that relaxed when he obeyed and came with me.

"Don't worry about me," he said airily, pretending like he wasn't just as aware of the danger as I was. "I'm not what he wants. You're the bait." That was true.

I was glad that we hadn't been far from the doors, because before I came up with a response, I was feeling the cold air from the night outside slamming hard against my legs as the front doors slowly opened grandly for a newly arrived couple. This pair looked like a mother-daughter duo, with the daughter's hair bleached. The nylons on my legs didn't do much to shield my skin from the wind.

"I'm also wearing what he may or may not believe to be the real dress," I pointed out. Ghovat wouldn't risk damaging the actual dress and the chip that was supposed to be inside, I didn't think, so it was enough to make him think twice. Also, it probably didn't help that Neal had mouthed off to him. "He may choose to attack you for being cheeky."

Neal stopped on the front steps of the manor as the doors drifted shut, slowed down by old but oiled hinges. I turned around to face him again when I felt the change in the pull on my arm and I blinked, stepping nearer.

"Don't worry about me," he reiterated himself. He twisted his wrist free from my hand and raised his other under my chin, raising my jaw with a feather-light touch of invitation. I chose to let myself not worry about it. I couldn't have been made intoxicated by the single glass of alcohol I'd literally just polished off, so I couldn't blame it on the liquor, but I could definitely pin it on the heady atmosphere of close bodies and the intentionally romantic ambience lit by the slow dances inside.

Our lips barely brushed, but it didn't feel like more had to happen for electricity to spark, waking me up that much further and making me that much more self-conscious of the chapped spots on my lips where I bit and chewed when I got anxious. His touch on my face was so light that it tickled, and when he moved his hand I had to remind myself not to lean in or stand on my toes to pursue. He stopped halfway through leaning down to plant a short kiss on my nose.

"Thank you for a wonderful night…" he said, eyes flashing first with what looked like genuine gratitude before it quickly changed to mischief. "... Mrs. Caffrey."

I sighed loudly, shoulders slouching. It had felt like a good night until he'd said that. As someone who liked to pretend most emotions didn't exist and who was somewhat known for being adverse to serious relationships, being called by someone else's surname rubbed me the wrong way.

"And the moment is ruined," I stated to him, shooting him a look. I smoothed my hands down the sides of the ruffling skirt, down past the "V" crest on my waist, and started to head off down the front steps.

"Selling it!" He called after me, laughing. He'd known it would bother me.

"I'm nauseated by hearing it out loud," I lied, exaggerating my reaction just a little bit. It didn't feel melodramatic. I felt oddly like Cinderella, rushing down the stairs before midnight to go to the safety of my home.

"Catch you tomorrow, beautiful," was the softer goodbye that I heard.

I warranted it worth turning around. I picked up the sides of the dress in my hands and crossed one leg over the other, dipping down into a brief curtsy while locking eyes with the forger.

"I think we both know I'm the one catching you," I retorted with a spark of fire, not mean as much as with conviction. Neal grinned down the stairs at me.

* * *

My ride back was with a couple of agents, but the car that we were taking was a rental, not a bureau-issued vehicle. It looked like a civilian car; there was nothing special about the dark grey, four-door Honda Civic except for the people who were supposed to be inside it. Hughes and I had figured that while Ghovat may end up tailing me, he couldn't be waiting for us by the car if there was nothing particularly noteworthy about the car that we chose to use.

One driver was already in the car as another pulled open the door for me, having been waiting by the hood and waiting for me to come down. After giving them the signal to go to the lot first, I'd waited a couple of minutes right in the light from the decorations from the house in case they needed to deal with any suspicious people loitering around.

The second agent, not in the car already, pulled open the back door and made a welcoming gesture inside. I felt like I should be hearing _Be Our Guest_ from the Disney movie in the back of my mind, like a dulled soundtrack, but thankfully the song stayed, for the most part, out of my head. I gathered up the skirt of my dress around my thighs so it didn't pull to the side as I got in and sat down, picking up my feet and turning my legs into the car. He shut the door and I grabbed my seatbelt, pulling it across me.

I still felt really weird, wearing such an expensive and valuable dress.

I gave the agent in the driver's seat my home address and watched him take out his phone, putting in the numerical address and then finding the corresponding street name on a list of suggestions. It took about five seconds to calculate the route and then a set of instructions lit up on the screen, and he propped it up by the dashboard.

"ETA ten minutes," he informed me cheerily, in a pretty good mood for someone out at a party at an unreasonable hour.

"Alright." My okay was echoed and slightly overlapped by the closing of the other agent's car door as he sat in the passenger seat and made himself comfortable for the drive. The doors of the car locked, and the driver was reaching for the radio even as the car turned on, smacking the mute button before it had the chance to start playing. "Do you mind if I call my sister?"

He looked at me in the rearview mirror and gave me a smile. I couldn't see his mouth, but I saw the pull around his eyes and the friendliness there. "Not at all," he all but invited, then took his eyes away from me and split his attention, checking in the side mirror and then looking over his shoulder to make sure it was safe to back out of the parking spot. He pressed down on the gas pedal slowly and the car inched backwards. Some electronic started to beep, about once every second.

That was really all of the assent that I needed, and I took my phone from the small bag I'd been carrying. Light from outside the car filtered through the windows and hit my arms, and I took a moment to admire the patches of skin visible through lace patterns over my pale upper arms, in contrast to the stark white of decorative, long-sleeved gloves covering my soulmark that went almost to my elbow. Then I was unlocking my phone with my fingerprint and the last-opened app came onto the screen. I clicked the telephone icon in the top right corner of the texting menu and the screen turned darker, Kate's name coming up on the contact ID and a bunch of call options lighting up underneath it.

"Did everything go alright?" The agent in front of me asked, rocking his neck to the side. I heard something pop, but he just sighed.

"Everything went the way it was planned, yes," I confirmed with a smile and then shot them both a grateful look through the mirrors. "Thanks."

My phone's dial was cut short on the third ring when Kate picked up on her end of the line. After the abrupt end of the monotone note, my sister's voice curiously asked, _"Hello?"_ I heard a TV in the background.

"Hey, Katie, it's me," I said warmly, using her nickname. I could imagine her rolling her eyes in pretend irritation. It used to be real, but she's gotten so used to being irritated by the same cause that by now it means almost nothing, and she gets annoyed more on principle than emotion. "I'm on my way home now."

 _"_ _Neal?"_ She asked before she did any sort of celebration for a job well done.

Her concern for my consultant should have displeased me, but instead I was just feeling particularly affectionate tonight that my baby sister cared so much about other people. That compassion was why she was likable. "Is going back to his place," I informed.

 _"_ _But no one's hurt? Everything's all good?"_

"Nothing happened!" Previously, I'd have assumed that she'd know I'd open the conversation far more urgently if something actually had gone wrong or someone was injured, but apparently not. "We just know that we got the attention we wanted." That beeping from one of the agents' devices was starting to get on my nerves and distract me from my phone call with my lovely sister. "Hang on," I said to both her and the others in the car. "Can you turn off whatever pager you have on? The beeping's getting annoying."

The one in the passenger seat looked over lazily and tiredly to the driver. "I'm not wearing a pager," he said, waiting expectantly for the other man to do as he'd been asked and shut it off.

"My phone is on vibrate." The driver did a double-take and looked away from the road for seconds at a time, continuing to dart his eyes to the passenger's confused face. "I thought that was coming from you."

I shook my head slowly. The only device I had on me was my phone. "No, it's not." _Unidentified beeping?_ Instead of trying to argue with myself over the benefits of paranoia, I reminded myself that it was better to be safe than dead, and so I sat up straighter. "Was this car left unattended?"

The passenger clicked off his seatbelt. I opted to leave mine on, at least while the car was moving. It's not like I could easily jump out, even if worse came to worst. "We were both stationed as a security detail, Agent," he informed, using my title tersely as he leaned forward, reaching down underneath his seat to feel around. As a result, his voice sounded a little odd and muffled. "We left the car parked with the visitors' vehicles."

"Pull over, now!" I snapped before I thought about it. If I thought about it, I'd second-guess myself; when my instincts are telling me I'm in danger, I have to listen to them. If I didn't, I'd have been long dead by now.

Unfortunately, I hadn't ever gotten around to hanging up my phone, so Kate was listening to my side of the entire exchange between myself and the other agents in the car, and I could hear her beginning to panic.

 _"_ _Kenzi?!"_

I didn't answer, too focused on sliding down in my seat and trying to twist lower to lie against the backseat. Throwing an arm over the edge, I started running my hands over the carpeting, and then up along the underneath of the seat. My nose detected a lot of car shampoo and the typical car dealership scents, but nothing that sang of any explosives.

We were moving to the side of the street even when I sat up again, and although I knew I'd feel horrible for ending the call so abruptly, I shut off my cell, ending the connection so that I could devote all of my attention to hurrying. It turned out that it was great timing, because before the car had managed to come to a complete stop, even with the brakes being pushed down, light flashed in front of my eyes, welling up and blasting out from behind me, followed quickly by the shattering of glass and the car violently pitching up to one side, forced to roll over.

* * *

Dizzy and disoriented didn't lend itself to thinking clearly. Neither did being in an explosion, possibly concussed from hitting my head. Smoke burned my nostrils and felt like it was coating my throat, so I coughed, trying to hack it out and breathe.

"Mm."

I wasn't quite intelligible, but I was so sore it hurt to move, and now that I was in the cold – lying down – _when did that happen_ – the dress wasn't enough to keep me warm. _Lying on concrete…_

Someone covered in shadows leaned down. Their face was all… blurry, confusing, and what the hell was wrong with his hand? It was moving in slow-motion.

"St'p that," I tried to warn. "You're all… wron'.'

His eyes moved weirdly _I told you to stop that_ – and he looked away, standing up and ooh, his legs were long. He looked really tall. Like, really tall. Being on the ground or not, it was like standing next to the Eiffel Tower. His height made my head spin and I let my head drop down, whenever I'd lifted it up, and the solid _thunk_ against concrete sent another flash through my skull, so I groaned accordingly and closed my eyes.

* * *

I was less than impressed when I woke up and felt like I couldn't move, but thankfully my memories were all intact. I feigned sleep long enough to figure out what I could discern and then chose to "stir" awake while in my chair, ankles bound to the front legs and arms fastened to the arm rests with ropes at both my wrists and my elbows.

Should I consider myself lucky that I wasn't also gagged?

No, probably not – Ghovat likely knew I wouldn't scream. I had too much survival sense for that. The counterfeiter looked down at me coolly as I woke up, seated in what looked like an uncomfortable position on the front of a desk that I was facing with bleary eyes and an itch on my thigh that was going to drive me out of my mind if I didn't distract myself from it somehow.

We stared at each other long enough for me to count to twenty-seven before he finally decided to say something. In the interim, I wracked my head to figure out anything I could that could tell me where I was or what I could use to my advantage. There was a chilly draft and music drowning out noise from upstairs, blocked and muffled by doors and a ceiling. Possibly we were in the basement of some club. I'd have been sincerely shocked if it was the same club we'd found Dmitri in, but maybe Dmitri hadn't thought to tell Ghovat about Neal or I tailing him before Zidel stabbed him to death. The murderer seemed to be the only one to connect the feds at the party to the dress situation.

"Good evening, Agent." Ghovat held up my badge and the gun holster removed from my thigh.

"Go to hell," I said, resorting to my default response to someone who kidnapped me.

The man chuckled, finding something about me or my demeanor amusing. "One might argue that I am already there," he told me cryptically, slow and calculated. Was he being a confusing jerk to mess with my head, or was he making metaphors? I was thinking clearly, but my brain still felt a little scrambled from being blown up, so I decided it wasn't important. "The devil…" Zidel hummed, reaching up to his face and removing the glasses that he'd been wearing. The tinted lenses revealed his eyes, such a dark brown they could almost be mistaken for black in the iris. "He has such an enticing hand."

 _The other agents. I hope they're okay._ I did a quick catalogue of how I was feeling. Other than that God-forsaken itch, the discomfort and stiffness of being bound, an ache to my head, and a few bumps and bruises that didn't feel too serious, I wasn't really wounded. A car bomb could easily have been fatal, so I could assume it had never been meant to kill, otherwise it would have been much worse. The other agents were probably okay, then, right?

I didn't really want to indulge my captor, but then, I did have questions, and there probably wasn't a better time to ask for their answers than while he felt like he was in control. Biting my tongue and swallowing my pride, I brought myself back down to interacting with him. "What do you want?"

He looked down on me, almost patronizing in how he was searching for me to answer my own question. "You know well what I am after."

"And what makes you think this is the fake dress?" I asked boldly, challenging him even though I really just wanted to sink into a bed. For someone who'd just been asleep an undetermined amount of time, I was pretty exhausted. Could my unconsciousness really count as sleep when I'd been knocked out by physical trauma?

Zidel sighed as if he'd predicted this kind of attitude from me. I resented being thought of as a predictable, petulant kid. "I have already checked your entire person for electronics and metals," he explained patiently. Nevertheless, he was apparently willing to go through all of the typical motions of captor and captive with me. "Your gun and your phone have been confiscated, I'm afraid."

For someone who was 'afraid' to inform me of this, he didn't seem the least bit bothered by it. "Define 'confiscated,'" I implored. I had pretty good phone insurance. Maybe having my phone destroyed by a foreign criminal would qualify me for an upgrade. _Always gotta look for the silver lining_.

"Secured and turned off, respectively." He elaborated.

I sighed. _No upgrade, then._ "If you know I don't have the strip, then why am I still alive?" I felt far more despondent now that I knew my hopes of property damage were unfounded than I had even when we were staring at each other and daring the other to be the first to speak.

"You have such a lovely face," he crooned, stepping down from the desk and extending an arm. I fixed my jaw tightly to feel the muscles tense and clench. His large hand cupped my jaw and slid down my throat. Neal's hands were warm and gentle; Ghovat insistently pushed my chin to my right to look at the side of my face, fingers cold and nails sharp. "Have you been told you have the body of a model?" He inquired, sounding almost indolent in the way that he didn't seem to have any reason to hurry up and no motivation to get through with this discussion.

I narrowed my eyes, telling myself that spitting at him was beneath me. I even almost believed it. "I'd rather be killed than become one of your girls."

"I expected you would say that." He removed his hand before I had to contort myself to figure out how to bite him, and shrugged as if to say _no big deal._ Had he been asking on the off chance or just to ruffle me? "In that case," he exhaled, "Leverage. The department will not make a deal with me if their agent is already dead."

There. That was a much better reason than some stupid, farfetched, fleeting thought that maybe an FBI agent intent on catching him would be chill with giving up her career and home to model clothing and travel around, catering specifically to his whims. I was sure the pay would be good, but I'd like to save the soul-sucking jobs for when I'm in truly desperate need.

"Fair enough."

He flipped open a phone while looking bored and waved it back and forth uncaringly while he brought up the phone number he wanted to dial. Whatever it was, the number was either in his contacts or his recent history, because he didn't touch enough buttons for it to be an entire phone number, meaning it had to be a record on the phone.

"If you attempt to tell them any suspicions of where we are, I will shoot you regardless," he informed me. I nodded dully. That was pretty par for the course, so I shut up and listened.

The phone was answered on the first ring, like the person he was calling had been hovering by the line and waiting for hours for the phone to start to ring. Ghovat looked at me, raised his eyebrows at something he heard, and then took it away from his face to set it on speakerphone while still talking to it.

"I have your girl," he gravely stated. "What is the dress worth to you now?"

 _Okay. Maybe being a smartass wasn't entirely worth it,_ I reconsidered. He was far too smug when he asked that for me to really appreciate any of the humorous qualities to the retort.

 _"_ _I'm not talking any further until I know she's safe."_ Neal sounded both steely and stubborn, and I was almost pleased by how upset he seemed that my safety wasn't guaranteed.

The man lowered the phone and I took full advantage of the properties of the speakerphone enablement. "Hey, Caffrey," I called, speaking up louder to make sure that my voice was going through. "I didn't think the situation could get any worse, but then Bieber started playing."

Before Neal responded, the Ghost shared his opinion. "She is a funny one, isn't she?" He quipped, not specifying if he meant that I was funny and made him laugh or funny in a strange way.

I shut my eyes for a brief moment. Thinking to the bullpen, I could easily imagine Neal pacing or running his hand through his hair, mussing up the style even further and still managing to look great. _"So what now?"_

"You want the girl, I want the dress," Ghovat summarized simply.

 _"_ _Trade?"_ Someone said 'when and where' in the background. Neal echoed it, whether or not he knew that it had been loud enough to hear. _"Where and when?"_

He scoffed. Loudly. Almost offensively, too. "I'm not interested in meeting with you," he informed Neal dismissively. If I were Neal, I'd be affronted that I apparently wasn't good enough for a trade-off meeting. It's not like they were always very complicated.

 _"_ _Then who?"_ Ah, I was proud of him – not being insulted and instead keeping his focus on the actual objective.

"Agent Derek Johnson." I lifted my head to stare at Ghovat. I didn't like that he knew our names. It was too much information for a stranger, much less an international criminal, to know.

 _"_ _Why him?"_ Okay, so Neal may have actually sounded a little fussy.

"Because it's really the FBI that holds the dress." Ghovat very flatly stated, not in the mood to mess around, evidently. I kind of didn't like that he wasn't going to at least inject some more emotion into his voice. It was just plain rude of him to act like he didn't care what he was talking about after going to such lengths to get me here. "Is he there now?"

Neal sounded more than a little frustrated as he handed the phone off. Ghovat walked in a circle around me, and I felt the hair on the back of my neck stand up when I couldn't see where he was or what he was doing.

 _"_ _It's for you."_

 _"_ _This is Johnson."_

Ghovat paused as he stopped walking around, crossing one leg over the other at the ankle and managing to balance himself fairly easily right where he stood. That was a skill I didn't possess, and usually ended up stumbling forward or to either side when I tried it. "I'm sure you heard everything earlier," he pulled out of his mouth slowly, like syrup, looking back at the ceiling. Again, I got the feeling he'd rather be doing pretty much anything but this. I had to wonder exactly how invested he was in my kidnap.

 _"_ _You want me to make the exchange,"_ Derek clarified.

"That's right." I listened in, unsure what I could say even if I was supposed to open my mouth again. And even if I wanted to drop a hint, I could be in any number of thousands of buildings with cellars and PA systems. He sighed, forcing himself to go through the motions. "I won't waste my time telling you to come alone. Just make sure to bring the real dress."

 _"_ _If it's not,"_ my brother's temper wouldn't let him get away without asking, _"Will you make me eat it?"_ He sounded so snide that I smirked, the corners of my lips barely twitching up.

"That's funny," was the reply in the same odd tone that didn't lend any clues to what kind of funny it was. He moved past it quickly, so probably not the funny-ha-ha kind. "Keep this phone on you. You'll meet me at the Central Park Bench in the afternoon at four PM." Wearily, and even less amused, he smartly added, "Plenty of time for you to get your men into position."

I don't know if he thought Derek would try to argue or try to fish for more negotiations, but Ghovat was rolling his eyes like Derek was just so hard to deal with as he was ending the call and taking care of his phone, gingerly pushing it into the front pocket of his trousers.

"Women." I stated, a very simple sentence as the connection was cut and we were again left in a hanging, unsure silence. He looked at me with a single eyebrow raised, not understanding. "And women, too," I elaborated. "We're not a boys' club."

He didn't say anything more about that, and I wasn't sure there was much else I could say to anything relevant, so we ended up quiet again.

 _Four in the afternoon, huh?_ I didn't know what time it as, but that had to be a long time to while away somehow. My internal clock was telling me that it was time to be passed out in bed, sleeping off the day's activities. The itch on my thigh came back with a fervor.

 _There is no way I'm suffering like this all day,_ I decided, mentally breaking.

"Any chance you'd like to play cards?" I asked, feeling my shame go and hide under a rock or something equally small and dark. My dignity was banking on not seeming as pathetic if I made sure to look more unamused than desperate for a distraction. "Because I know this game that's pretty fun, and if you get a couple of henchmen to play with us, we can kill hours with just one or two hands."

He looked at me carefully, squinting and trying to determine if I was yanking his chain, trying to escape, or actually having a legitimate card game that could pass the time. He said a word or two in Hebrew that I didn't understand, but the tone sounded good, even if the look he was giving me was appraising.

"Let it never be said I am not a gentleman," he decided, bowing his head deeply in assent or acquiescence.

"Cool." I nodded my head semi-enthusiastically. Although awkward on many, many levels for many, many reasons, this was a much preferable way to pass time than going back and forth with insults that neither of us had our hearts put into. "So, I get that it would be stupid to let me up, but could you at least cut the ropes on my wrists so that I can play?"

* * *

Someone shaking my shoulder and aggravating a sore knot in my neck roused me from what hadn't been a very deep sleep, and the skin of my cheek rubbed against cold and smooth wood. I blinked my eyes open tiredly.

"What?" I said unintelligently. _Did I fall asleep at my desk again? Damn, that's the fifth time this month._ "What time is it?" The hand left my shoulder when I started talking, and I sat up. My neck protested, muscles unhappy with how I'd uncomfortably slept, and when I tried to raise my hands to push my hair out of the way and back behind my ears, I realized that I couldn't. My arms were tied, albeit loosely, at my wrists, and the other end of the rope was knotted around one of the arm rests.

I looked around more intently, waking up in alarm courtesy of a shot of adrenaline, and as my heart started beating faster, my mind started working better. The dark walls around me and the Middle Eastern man leaning on the wall, eyes covered with polarized sunglasses, reminded me of exactly where I was.

"Nearing fourteen hundred," an Israeli-accented voice from just behind me answered, cool and collected and completely unbothered by that I was restrained and held captive.

"Oh," I said, understanding, and then opened my eyes wider. _Two hours to the deadline._ "Oh," I said again, much more meaningfully. Working out the soreness and tension in my neck, I took advantage of the grace period I was being given between waking up and being manhandled, and rolled my neck around on my shoulders. "This is the part where I'm untied, threatened, and strapped, isn't it?"

In spite of knowing that I should be either really pissed or really frightened, the most that I could muster up was some mild irritation. Was that a sign that this happened too often or that I needed to see a psychologist?

Ghovat moved out from behind me, holding a tobacco cigarette. He cupped the flame of a lighter in his hand and the spoke clicked. "You play the game well," he said in response, holding the stick between his teeth. I took that as a _you're correct._ When he lowered the lighter, the end of the cigarette was glowing orange as paper blackened and a thin wave of smoke started to rise. "Both games."

Now that I was actually alert, I remembered clearly what had happened in the last twelve hours, including several hands of progressive rummy with Zidel, Sunglasses over there, and a couple of other men I didn't recognize. One had been African, but their features didn't really stand out as distinct or noteworthy. Probably an intention choice, since nondescript pawns made it easier for them to sneak around.

"Well, he thought he could stack the deck and not have his ass kicked?" I asked pointedly. Sunglasses turned out not to appreciate being cheated, and once I'd noted that Criminal No. Three was misbehaving and made an offhanded comment, he had received a rather hard punch to the cheek, and then someone else had dealt. I'd been worried I'd accidentally started a fight, but aside from glaring and mumbling, that seemed to be nothing of notice.

Meanwhile, if I even just _threaten_ to punch someone in the face, Kate flicks me and tells me to knock it off and play like a civilized human being.

The Ghost chuckled. Was it funny that I was more agitated by cheating at cards than I was at being restrained to a chair? Although I'd been being held prisoner, they were all pretty courteous, all things considered. They could've been a lot worse, and while Zidel had nothing against violence, he didn't act like he was inclined to harm me without an actual reason. I counted myself lucky for that.

"You aren't attempting to fight, I trust?"

He bent down with a small serrated knife and pulled at the rope between my wrists and the chair. His cigarette still drifted smoke up, and I turned my head to the side so I didn't have to breathe it in while he sawed through the rope.

"You took away my weapons," I needlessly reminded. I felt pretty weak without my gun at my side, but it would be an idiot move to ask for them back, pretty please. Instead, I just slowly raised my hands once they were free and rubbed at my wrists, getting back better circulation and working away the red marks. "I could have Macchio-level karate skills, but that wouldn't stop a bullet."

It only occurred to me after I'd said it that the reference was probably meaningless to him.

He took the cigarette out of his mouth, squinting at me judgmentally. Something like approval seemed evident on his face. "I do like you, Agent," he admitted graciously. Not many bad guys had said that to me before, and certainly not after going to the trouble of putting an explosive on my transport, so I felt a little pleased. "I wish we may have met under a different circumstance."

I nodded in appreciation. "I can't reciprocate," I confessed, at the risk of being a little rude, "But I am strangely flattered."

* * *

The amicability ended as soon as we left the little party club I'd been sequestered into. Any rapport was thrown out the window. Ghovat was taking no chances, and I was playing no games, which meant that neither of us could trust the other. Unfortunately for me, he had the upper hand – a gun on me while he strapped me, at first, and now a phone in his hand that doubled as a detonator for the Semtex wrapped and wired around my abdomen like an accessorized belt, and the bastard didn't even have the decency to make it look less obviously like explosives.

We were in a part of Central Park that I recognized, but it was usually a lot busier than this. Ghovat pulled me behind a largely-cut shrubbery that safeguarded me from the prying eyes of whom I very highly suspected were undercover agents dressed in civilians' clothes. Derek wouldn't let anything happen without making sure the area was cleared of actual civilians in case this went wrong. No one could see me and I could barely see them, under threat not to leave Zidel's side without express permission.

He had me heeling like a dog and I hated him for it.

I swear we were just bird watching for close to five minutes (four, if my silent counting was accurate) before he looked curiously at his phone, raised dark eyes to me, and looked meaningfully down to my "belt." I made an annoyed 'go on' motion and he dialed back the same phone that he'd called last night to get hold of the FBI members actually on my team, and then he put it on speed dial, holding it out tauntingly so that I could hear.

He probably wanted me to talk – proof of life again and all that.

Derek answered the phone call that came in before it had been ringing more than two seconds. Something moved in the background noise like other peoples' voices before it fell dead silent aside from my brother.

 _"_ _You're right on time,"_ he noted, his words civil but his tone a different story. His tone was cold to cover up that he was fuming. It took a lot to make Derek mad, and I knew from deliberately pushing his buttons, but a surefire way to do it was to threaten someone he cared about. After being held by Ghovat for over twelve hours, Derek was probably ready to rescue me, carry me to a hospital, and then beat the counterfeiter's face in.

Ghovat leisurely shrugged his shoulders. "I like to be punctual," he offered flippantly.

 _"_ _That's one thing we have in common."_ I could have jumped in there and told Derek not to bother with trying to make comparisons and garner empathy. No matter how decently I'd been treated, considering the circumstances, that didn't change that he was a master white-collar criminal who dabbled extensively with violent crime, I was bomb-strapped, and he really wouldn't regret triggering the Semtex if he needed to to get out unscathed. _"I don't see you."_

"Of course you don't," Zidel calmly agreed, suggesting with his voice that Derek was being stupid for thinking that he would be within range.

"C'mon, bro," I complained, and would've leaned back against the shrubbery if I thought that it was actually strong enough not to collapse and let me fall through. I was as bored as I was agitated, and found this as dull as it was dangerous. "You think he didn't consider snipers?"

The moment he heard my voice, I knew Derek's focus had left the Israeli and been refocused on me. _"Are you with him?"_ He demanded.

"Yes," I answered forwardly with a bob of my head – not that he could see from wherever he was.

 _"_ _Are you harmed?"_

"Well, my ego hurts from a hand of cards that went particularly badly," I drawled. What did he want me to say? That I was having my life threatened, which seemed pretty obvious? That I was having the time of my life? That I was slowly bleeding out from having been shot in the gut? Sarcasm was the best to go for out of all of the other possibilities. "Other than some bruises from the explosion, I'm okay."

A beat of dialogue was skipped. _"Cards?"_

"I'll explain later."

Zidel rolled his eyes. Internally I presumed that he was jealous that he didn't have such an easy and familiar friendship to fall back into whenever the opportunity arose. Thinking he was envious made me feel a little better, at least.

"Bethesda's the fountain that's three hundred yards." I looked around where I was. The only fountain we were anywhere near was Bethesda Fountain, a neat little structure made of stone to our left, around the edge of the shrubs. It wasn't nearly three hundred yards from us – thirty or forty at most, so somehow he must've found a way to pinpoint where Derek was at the moment. Probably through tracking the phone call. "You've got one minute. If I see any of your agents or unmarked vehicles move, the girl's dead." I felt like I could've been mouthing along – all lines that weren't at all new in real life or in television, just a few terms changed for the context. "Your time starts now."

Not a second was wasted. I was actually honored by the urgency and the immediateness with which Derek started to take off. Someone sitting on a park bench with a newspaper looked up and surveyed the area discreetly, and I only saw her through a slim gap between branches that were holding each other's leaves out of the way in the foliage. Derek didn't respond on the phone.

Out of nowhere came the urge to hum the _Jeopardy_ theme song.

"-everyone stay where you are! Stay down!"

Derek's shouting became louder as he came closer to the fountain. I turned around to try to face where I was hearing him coming from and ended up facing Ghovat again – Derek was coming from behind us, but on the other side of the line of fenced and cut shrubbery, keeping us out of his sight while he sprinted like mad towards the fountain, holding the actual dress from Avet's luggage wrapped up in a clothing hanger's draping plastic, like picking it up from a dry cleaning business.

Derek turned around and skidded backwards the last several yards, looking around, throwing his hand up to his face and shielding his eyes from the sunlight pounding down. He held the dress tightly to his side, but wasn't thinking that much about it, because the edge of the protective sheeting scratched against the outer edge of the rectangular-ish base of the fountain, about three feet off the ground and at a good height for sitting down on top of.

A hand nudged me in the back, oh-so-coercively, and I took a quick step forwards. "Go get the dress," Ghovat loftily ordered me around, raising his phone so the microphone was close to his face. He gave my foot, then, a hard nudge with the steel-covered toes of his shoes. I stepped out from behind the shrubs, half of free will and half because I wasn't sure he wouldn't kick me as the next incentive. My brother saw me immediately and his entire body seemed to relax viscerally at seeing me alive and relatively unharmed in person.

"If you'll notice, Agent Johnson, I've added a little fashion accessory of my own to my beautiful guest here." Ghovat, the coward, stayed hiding behind the leaves. I moved my arms to hold my hands open and facing forward about level with my eye line to show that I wasn't armed. "The belt is lined."

I let my eyes check on Derek's expression. "Semtex," I specified, because I knew Semtex pretty well. Semtex and I have met several times. Ten yards away from the bushes and I still felt like my throat was just as tight as it had been before. I may have had more leash, but my collar was just as tight, and damn it if that didn't make me want to turn around and dig the man's eyes out with my bare hands and roughened fingernails.

Ghovat chuckled. I heard his voice both from Derek's phone and from my own ears behind me at this point. "I dial a number here and she goes _boom!"_ Derek jumped at the threat and kept his eyes glued to me. "Give her the dress."

I stopped in front of the fountain about five feet away from Derek, which was about three strides for him, and stood in front of him expectantly, doing my best to look like I was merely bored. I hated when Derek got all upset and fearful on my behalf. The agent held out the hanger with the designer dress attached and passed it to me slowly, not making any sudden motion, not provoking the bomb-happy Israeli.

"Good." He sounded far too amused on the phone and in person both. I didn't realize that condescension carried so well purely through phone connections. "Now, bring it back to me. Please, don't try anything. I have five bars and free long distance." Squeezing my eyes shut and turning around, holding the dress out across my arms as if I were taking it back to its thief bridal-style, I trudged back. "I can be far away and still cause you pain."

I had carried the dress over halfway back to Ghovat under threat and manipulation when his phone rang again. The sound of the ringing phone had my spine getting all tensed up and knotted, anxious, nervous – what if it was a sign? The first indication? But then I relaxed when I realized that I was still alive, and it was an incoming call, not an outgoing signal.

He answered it as I came close enough to hear, and I only heard what must've been one of Ghovat's weirdest phone calls in his life: _"Hey, is this Steve? What's up, buddy? You never call!"_

My consultant's cheeky voice almost brought a smile onto my face, but I kept my expression devoid as he swore crudely at Neal and hung up the phone, refusing to give him an actual answer with any measure of civil coherence. Ghovat agitatedly took the dress that I offered him roughly by the hanger, giving it a hard, tough shake down to knock off traps and trackers. He started with one hand by the neck of the hanger and then brought it sweeping broadly down the front.

That was when I realized that my CI being nearby was either a problem waiting to happen or a blessing in disguise. I stepped to the side to watch him come running down the park walkway in a sprint, following the path Derek had taken to get to the fountain.

"Hey, we're jamming his call!" He yelled, holding up a phone in case we hadn't managed to tell what he was saying the first time. I looked at Zidel, who looked down at his telephone and realized that he was blowing up (bad choice of words). "Get the belt off of her. Do it, do it!"

I spared a look back at Ghovat, making sure he was occupied with trying to get rid of all of the incoming notices and ringtones on his cellular to work to getting back to the detonation number. I took the chance and bolted, moving as fast as felt humanly possible away from Ghovat, away from he and his chafing and degrading control, to Derek, who held out his hands like he was going to pick me up delightedly before remembering that there was still a belt of potent and lethal explosives around me.

I'd never seen Neal run like that before. I put my arms up quickly for Derek as he worked on the belt, his hands flying down and shoving mine up, out of the way. His hands were more skilled, what with explosives being in his career background, and I had to turn around as his hands at my waistline rotated me to see where the wires were connected and how the two ends of the belt were being held together.

"Hold still!" He hissed, when I twisted myself around trying to look after the counterfeiter, making sure that he was still well and truly distracted.

Zidel kicked his foot incredibly hard into the shrubbery and left a shoe-shaped imprint within the vegetation. "Damn it!" He swore.

Neal waved. "Hey, Steve!" He shouted for the man's attention, since Derek was working to see to getting the belt off of me. He gave the same charismatic smile that he'd liked trying to give to me to get out of hot water. Something snapped on the belt, making me freeze up, but Derek just kept going and I felt the tension pulling it tight around my torso loosen. I almost hunched over in relief that it was actually coming off.

The relief didn't last long. For all the planning, the stealth, the phone and the explosives, Ghovat, it turned out, carried a gun. Quite possibly my gun, at that, I realized, since he had "confiscated" my belongings. He withdrew his from the line of his pants and held it out to aim it right at Neal.

That didn't last so long, either. With Ghovat distracted by the sabotage of his own elaborate plan, Diana crept up on him, sneaking through a gap in the shrubs at the expense of small leaves in her hair and general overall discomfort, I imagined. The probie launched herself at him, taking him down to the ground as hard as she could and using Zidel as a cushion between herself and the concrete. The gun ended up knocked out of his hands when he tried to catch himself on the ground impulsively, and she was mostly just glad that it was too far away for him to reach right away.

"That's it," Derek's thankfulness was almost palpable when he dragged his hand down my back again, this time catching under a part of the belt and dragging it away. The sides pulled the dress back tighter around my body and was reluctant to stray from my person, until it was tossed down onto the ground to be left for the bomb squad.

The result that I felt was instantaneous. No longer did I feel like I'd been caged or collared. Right away I was back on my feet, doing my job and working. I held up a hand to the agents dressed to set the scene in the park, waving towards the nearest street and the van close by on it. "Everybody clear the area!" I shouted, raising my voice until my throat hurt. " _Now!_ Get down, get down!"

Diana, bless her, pulled Ghovat from the ground while holding him at gunpoint, the barrel of hers against the back of his neck, and she walked backwards smoothly without risking peeling her eyes away from him long enough to possibly miss any sign that he was going to misbehave. Still, even with his phone and gun left down for the count with no one manning them, I grabbed both of my boys and took Diana's cue – leading them, and myself, further from the Semtex bomb. Derek put his hand on my lumbar spine and pushed, while Neal was just bolting with me and moving in whichever direction I subtly shoved him in.

Within seconds, it seemed like the excitement was over. It went so fast I was hardly even sure that it had really happened with as much intensity as it had. The three of us hid behind a white van usually used for surveillance, left entirely unmarked and stationary along the curb of a road that wound through, usually used by golf carts and ice cream trucks.

Neal looked down to me, breathing heavily from his sprint, and laughed airlessly. "You're actually doing the whole heroine thing," he chuckled, somehow finding humor in that I was trying to protect them, even after being put in such a risky and precarious position. He slid down the side of the truck, leaning his head back against the tinted black window.

"I'm gonna be a legend," I panted, looking up at him and giggling happily just because all that adrenaline and then the satisfaction of success and relief of safety all added up to me feeling pretty damn good about myself. "There'll be art and music and literature all based on me," I boasted playfully and dug my elbow into his side gently.

He grinned. "Can I call dibs on doing the art?" He asked hopefully.

Derek rolled his eyes at both of us impatiently. Unlike me, after a tense moment, Derek wasn't usually as much for laughing and making jokes – rather, he liked to collect himself, make sure everyone was okay, and maybe then he'd be more lighthearted, but he tended to be more solemn.

"Is it possible for you to shut up for two minutes?" He asked, trying to breathe in deeply. I just started giggling some more at how annoyed he seemed. It's not like we were intentionally aggravating him, just celebrating that no one died in what could have easily gone really, really wrong.

The radio hooked on Derek's shoulder came on as someone tried to patch through to him. That was the only reason I didn't mockingly apologize for being happy that I didn't get tragically murdered. The electronic made a fainter sound of people talking before another person said directly into it, _"Area's contained. Bomb squad on the way."_

"I wish Diana was over here so we could victory group hug," I sighed longingly. Derek groaned, not appreciating my wants.

"Victory hug anyway," Neal suggested. I looked up at him, somewhat surprised, but then shrugged my shoulders, figuring that it couldn't hurt anything. I mean, if we could go undercover and pretend to be in love, why couldn't we victory hug? I held out my arms and he stepped into them, winding his own around me tightly and dropping his chin down on top of my hair.

It didn't even take seconds for me to realize that this wasn't purely an example of jubilation. He was holding on a little too tight, and when he moved his arms, it wasn't to let me go – it was to move his left arm fully around my back to pull me tight to his chest, while the other was raised to the back of my neck. Neal fisted his hand into the extra fabric behind my back and twisted his other hand into my hair, pressing his face into my shoulder.

"Whoa," I said, concerned. I wanted to tease him, but wasn't there a reason he didn't like violence? I had no idea what had happened to him in his past – for all I knew, something that had just happened had been some sort of psychological trigger, and I'd much rather risk being more touchy-feely and handling it with compassion than unintentionally making it worse. I rubbed his back through his jacket steadily. "Relax."

"I'm sorry," he apologized, making my head spin. _What for?!_ His hand left the back of my neck, but only long enough to smooth down my hair before he set it back where it had been. "I should've made sure you got back to your house."

 _Oh, for God's sake._ I'm all for having a coworker who cares about my safety, but this was kind of silly. "You're my responsibility, not the other way around," I reminded him. Even though I didn't like being protected like I'm fragile, I did enjoy being held. I always have. He was right earlier in that I'm a huge cuddler – I'll cuddle anything, it doesn't even necessarily have to be alive – and even though I wasn't expecting to be embraced like he was panicked, I wasn't offended. I just didn't want it getting into his head that it was his job to look after me. My job put me in jeopardy too often for me to permit that to become a trend. "Calm down, or someone might start thinking you forgot the engagement was fake."

Saying that must've been the key, because it reminded him that this whole thing was a result of an undercover job that went a bit off track. First his grasp relaxed, and then he let me go, taking me by the shoulders and pushing me back gently while he stepped away. I nodded, unsure if I should still be concerned.

"So. Cards?" Derek knew how to break up tension before tension managed to get its hands on a moment. He stared at me and I looked at him innocently, feigning complete ignorance to why he sounded so incredulous. "You played _cards_ with Ghovat?"

* * *

**I have detention. I'm writing this… in detention.**

**I punched someone in the face. I guess that means I kind of had the detention coming. He just wouldn't get out of my personal space, wouldn't stop pestering me. Whenever I said something he didn't want to hear, he would laugh and mock me and chalk it up to me "not knowing what I was saying." Italian may not be a language I grew up with, but if I can follow along in a biology class, I can sure as hell say "no" and "go to hell." Since he didn't believe I was fluent with words, I decided to go for the universal "fuck off" body language and hit him. In the face. He bled.**

**I'm so sick of being bullied. Mom said that everyone would want to be nice to me because of who she and Dad are, but she's wrong. Maybe it would work in a public school, but not when I'm surrounded by other kids who leech off of their parents' money. I'm not special to them. I'm some girl who has to take longer reading, who has to ask a lot of questions to understand the class material, who has to attend extra language classes just to keep up to speed.**

**That's not to say everyone is mean. I think that's unfair. Plenty of people are ambivalent, and some are even helpful. When I said** **_non fa senso,_ ** **a girl in my math class politely tapped my desk and explained in rough English that I'd used the wrong verb. A lot of people are learning other languages, too, and those are the ones who are typically the most understanding to my mistakes regarding their native tongues. They understand how hard it is. Thankfully, a lot of those foreign language students are learning English or French, so I've struck up loose deals where I help them if they help me learn Italian. Writing about the things that make me angry is just so much more cathartic than telling about the nice people, so the ratio of mean-to-nice is highly skewered, going off of my letters alone.**

**I just want to stop being an outsider. It would be nice to not be singled out when the teacher plays a video and be asked if I want subtitles. It's thoughtful, it really is, but it only draws more attention to something that's already a target to plenty of nastiness on its own.**

**Don't get me wrong, I love Italy, and I know that immersion is the best way to overcome the language barrier, but it's still… I just can't wait until I'm over it. I want to be the smart, multilingual student; not the foreigner who screws up sentences that a six-year-old could say without difficulty.**

**For the love of God, McKenna, if you want to learn a language like Arabic or Chinese that is radically different from the ones you already know,** **_do not go to a high school to learn it._ ** **Study around mature adults, for Christ's sake.**

**Sincerely (frustrated),**

**Zarra L**


	5. The Cruelest Words About Me Come From My Own Mouth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Bible of a mobster goes missing. McKenna decides to sneakily spy on Neal and his "associate." She learns that she's not as unattached to her consultant as she had thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Lucy Hale's "Nervous Girls."

_**Chapter Five - The Cruelest Words About Me Come From My Own Mouth** _

The thing about my job as an FBI agent that I most wished that television had done a better job preparing me for were the boring days, where things were fairly routine and dull. Very few people would watch television shows that showed the regular day's work, I don't think; no, television is all "serial killer here," "bioterrorism there," "terrorist attacks from Hawaii to New York." When I joined the bureau, I thought I had a fairly accurate concept of it, and I knew I had gained one by the end of the first month.

I still felt as though media had cruelly mislead me sometimes. Although I now had the luxury of an exciting relationship with a criminal, which gave me an experience that not a lot of cops ever got to have, we couldn't call him in on every case, which meant Diana, Derek, and I were left running the gambit while Neal was probably either exploring within his radius or relaxing in a literal mansion, a pile of equally dull cases waiting for him to turn in reports on.

For someone who was supposedly serving a prison sentence, just outside of the prison, I felt like he had a little more freedom than I did sometimes. Then I put it in perspective and realized that if I wanted to go anywhere from my home to – I dunno, Uganda - I was free to; if Neal wanted to go to the few miles to the Garment District of the city, he had to get me to go with him.

Today I could say that I wasn't spending the majority of the workday figuring out paperwork and photocopiers, but I almost would've preferred to have been. My ass was getting sore from sitting in a chair in the back of an unmarked surveillance van for so long, I had a headache from the bits of static that occasionally came through on our planted bugs, and the headphones weren't the most comfortable – they made my ears feel too hot and pressed on the backs of my earrings uncomfortably. Although I'd long since thrown off my jacket, I had more recently yanked up my long sleeves and undone several buttons on my shirt, to the point that I wouldn't dare leave the van without buttoning a couple up again (just for how low the neckline became – the top of my bra was visible), and was still sweating. I kept looking at my gloves, wishing that my soulmark could've been somewhere else on my body so I could take the fabrics off of my forearms and let the skin breathe and cool down.

I opened my mouth and let out a big, long yawn, shifting uncomfortably on the chair again and trying to get better adjusted while the voice of a New York mobster, speaking in serious agitation, talked with his nephew about a missing book. He'd been pissed about it for literally hours. There was no excuse. No book was worth this.

Leo Barelli had been on the bureau's radar for years and years. I was almost positive he knew that we were surveilling him, but between the friends he held in high places, the plots he was careful to keep his name and DNA out of, and the legal loopholes he had made into his best friends, we couldn't do anything more than puppy guard him like fifth graders waiting for him to take a step out of the gym's safe zone in order to pelt him with dodgeballs. He and I actually had a bit of a history, having met many times before, both when I was working the more intense blue-collar crimes and in the several instances since when the bureau had tried to investigate on the chance that something would turn up and give us the right to arrest him.

So far, none of them have quite panned out.

 _I've attended workplace sexual harassment lectures that were more entertaining than this,_ I bemoaned to myself, wondering if I could completely check out and still notice if either of the two I was listening to said something actually worth hearing.

The doors to the surveillance van were pulled open and flooded us with light. Diana, who was listening on a headset to the frequency from a different planted bug, threw her arm up in front of her face to shield her eyes. I took my headphones off in absolute relief for the excuse just to stop listening for two seconds and looked at the light full-on, squinting to see through it. It wasn't blinding, divine, all-hail-the-coming-of-Christ light, just normal sunshine, but the van was kept dark through tinted windows, and we'd been in here for hours.

It was just Derek, so I relaxed marginally as he stepped up into the back of the van and pulled the open door shut with a loud clanging behind him. He carried a drink holder from Starbucks with three cups of Styrofoam.

"You know no one is supposed to be seen entering the surveillance van, right?" I asked, sitting up straighter in anticipation of my favorite drink in the entire world. I considered buttoning up my shirt, but decided that it wasn't worth it. I would take every minimal step towards coolness that I could get, and Derek sees me in a bikini multiple times every time the temperature climbs its way up to ninety, so seeing part of my bra really wasn't a big deal.

Some teams in bureau divisions weren't very close. They wouldn't know each other's coffee orders or addresses or phone numbers off the tops of their heads, much less anything remotely more personal or less professionally relevant. As for Derek, Diana, and I? We're one of the closest teams I've ever heard of – practically family, ready to alternatively smack each other and anyone threatening any member of our team, depending on who needed it.

Derek ignored my remark about the surveillance van. It wasn't like it was unnoticeable, a large, white, unmarked vehicle sitting out on the street in broad daylight near an organized criminal's known hang out.

"Morning, babes," he greeted with the same affectionate but relatively platonic endearment. Interestingly, it was also the endearment that had us more often than not mandated to go to those sexual harassment lectures, which just made us laugh. After all, anyone who knew Diana or I would know in a heartbeat that if we considered ourselves harassed, Derek wouldn't make it through the day. "Caffeine?"

It was kind of funny that he thought we actually needed an invitation before we would move to take the offered coffee. I mean, coffee. Coffee is practically the life force of the agents in the FBI, and there's a reason for that. Because Diana and I took our coffees differently, Derek had to pass ours out so we'd know which was whose.

It was still so hot that my hands stung when I held it, even through the cardboard grip. "Be careful how much coffee you buy me or I might steal you away from Kate," I cautioned laughingly, holding it under my nose and breathing in the smell of the creamer.

As predicted, Derek got all huffy. "Away from?" He repeated and puffed his chest out indignantly to argue. "I'll have you know I'm on the market."

I looked at Diana just as she turned her head to see my response. I raised my eyebrows skeptically. She snickered into her coffee. "Uh-huh," she told him, not buying it for a second. "Whatever you have to tell yourself."

A minute later he had worked his own coffee out of the drink carrier and chucked the piece of cardboard at her head. It smacked her hair and she yelped in surprise, not having been watching.

"How about instead of arguing about what I say, you start speaking to me." He pulled out a collapsible chair from beside the divider in the van between the back and the driver's and passenger's seats, slamming it down next to mine to sit with me. "What's going on? Headline news yet?"

He was rolling his eyes as he asked, so three guesses as to exactly how legitimate that question was.

"Nah." If Barelli was communicating about his crimes while we were listening in, then he was doing it in a code that was easily worked into something innocuous. "The strangest thing we've got is that he keeps bitching on and on about a Bible."

He pondered that. "He could be talking about a debt ledger," he suggested.

"Either way, it's missing, and he is not happy about it," Diana contributed.

I picked up my headset from where I'd placed it down on top of the recording equipment and moved to put it back on my head. It was still Barelli speaking in unhappy tones to his nephew, although now it had moved from the domain of "where the hell is my Bible" to "I need you to look into this." Sighing, I knocked one of the headphones out of place behind my ear rather than over it, still listening with the other one.

"What's up with Caffrey?" Derek asked, sitting almost sideways on the chair. He kicked out his legs and crossed them at the ankles.

While a month or so ago I'd been calling him every night, I'd relaxed my conditions to meeting with him in person every couple of days at least and texting every day. I also checked his tracker's history to see where he'd been, but unless he was with me, he stayed within his radius.

"I dunno." I shrugged. Somewhere along the line of that first case, my first thought of Neal had gone from "criminal" to "criminally-educated friend," and I trusted him more than some people in the department would probably approve of. I prided myself on my grasp of peoples' characters. "I have his power of attorney, not a bunch of bugs planted in his clothes."

Diana shifted. We were all just grappling at straws for anything to talk about except for Barelli. The novelty of this particular surveillance operation had worn off long since – probably around the second or third time we'd tried it. "Maybe he's with Kate again."

"No," I said immediately, and wasn't all that shocked when Derek's voice was echoing mine, voice firm. I smiled and looked at him teasingly. "Pretty sure we said that for different reasons," I joked, alluding to his jealousy (which exists, I swear it does). Personally, it's not so much that I think I'll confuse a gesture of knocking on the door with punching my sister again as it is just knowing that criminals, no matter how reformed, tended to attract attention – and not the good kind.

Diana sat up straight suddenly. Seeing it, even without the reason, Derek and I adjusted ourselves to shoot upright in less relaxed positions. "Hold that thought," she said, reaching for the electronics in front of her that were connected to her bug. She turned up the volume on her headset. "We may have a situation."

Derek stood up and looked out the window. Like most tinted car windows, they were hard to look into, but fairly easy to see out of. I listened in to my headphones but didn't hear anything – Barelli had left the room, which probably accounted for why Diana was picking up noise now.

"Is that Barelli?" Derek asked, making me jump up to look out the window with him. Barelli usually stayed out of sight of the police whenever he could, even though we couldn't seem to find anything to charge him with that would stick. "What's he doing outside?"

Barelli, indeed, was standing on the sidewalk with a younger man, talking back and forth in a dispute. Barelli was a little stereotypical – short, dark hair and just, well, short in general, a couple inches shorter than me, with dark eyes and in a three-piece suit, making him look formal and professionally intimidating. While Neal could manage it and still seem friendly and approachable, Barelli deliberately pulled the opposite effect.

"Who's with him?" Derek asked next, realizing he didn't recognize the other man.

I considered not telling him – _teach you not to show up late to surveillance ops_ – but it was far better to strike my petty revenge outside of our work lives. "It's Paul Ignacio, Barelli's nephew from Brooklyn." We were in Manhattan now.

Ignacio was in his mid-twenties, only ten to fifteen years younger than his uncle. His mother or father that was related to Barelli had been an older sibling, and despite the comparatively small age gap, Barelli and Ignacio didn't spend all that much time communicating with each other. I couldn't decide if it was part of the Code of Thieves thing or if it was a personal falling out. Interestingly, Ignacio was, in appearance, the opposite of his uncle – bright green eyes, blond hair, jeans and tank tops because he wasn't as much into the business as his family members seemed to be. Ignacio was almost as tall as Derek.

Of course, then the bastard decided to cross the lines of this well-established operational order and stepped off of the sidewalk, going to cross the street with barely a look to make sure there weren't cars, coming straight towards us, eyes fixed on our van.

_Jesus Christ, has your uncle taught you nothing?!_

"Someone tell me he's not walking over here," I demanded flatly, looking at Derek, expectant for him to do what I'd just told him to do.

Derek must have missed the memo that I was in charge. "He's walking over here," he reported, not heeding my commands.

I held up a hand and pointed at his chest, threatening to poke him angrily. "That is _not_ what I said to tell me!"

Our argument was silenced as Ignacio came too close to the van to be seen out the window. About three seconds later, he started knocking politely on the closed doors. Derek and I looked right at each other and started to argue – nonverbally, of course, so we weren't heard. He started mouthing at me 'it might be important' and I furiously pointed out the doors towards Ignacio, then to the window by Barelli, and then to myself, shaking my head vehemently, and he kept mouthing at me that 'I'm gonna open the door.'

 _Don't open the door!_ I mouthed, shaking my head more fervently and waving my hands back and forth in a _no, no, don't do it_ message.

 _I'm gonna open the door,_ he reiterated, and gave the inside of the unlocked left door a little push.

I ripped off my headphones and tossed them back to the recording devices over on the table by the wall, and as the blond-haired man looked up into the van and light flooded the vehicle, my hands flew to my shirt and I started doing up those few buttons that made it a little too low.

He looked around disdainfully at our coffee and various states of suffering and heat-induced misery. "You guys are the FBI, right?" He asked, wrinkling his nose. It was unclear whether he was objecting to the van or the FBI in general.

I flattened down the buttons and smoothed down my shirt. "No, we're a pizza delivery service," I corrected, so painfully sarcastic that Ignacio glared at me. Most people might've been scared to be approached by anyone with associations with Barelli. For me, it was just irritating because _damn it,_ this wasn't the routine for surveilling him. "We might as well be, considering how everyone keeps coming into the surveillance van that _no one is supposed to enter._ "

He looked entirely uncaring about my aggravation, instead snidely telling me, "I don't think you understand how subtlety works." I opened my mouth and mimed repeating him rudely. He transferred his eyes from me to Derek. "We need your help."

* * *

To say that I was incredibly unhappy about having Barelli in the headquarters of the FBI would be incorrect. However, if it was amended to include that he wasn't in handcuffs and was under no form of investigation or arrest, then it quickly became one of the most frustrating things to hear. It was like having coffee right there in front of me, but _knowing_ that my hand would be smacked if I just reached out to pick it up.

It went without saying that my temper was being fueled horribly by that he'd walked confidently right on into what felt like my territory. I didn't waltz uninvited into his church unless it was part of our game. Telling me he needed help and demanding to meet with me and my superior was not in our game's manual, not even as a freebie or a get-out-of-jail-free card. He was a criminal in the middle of a building full of federal agents – a gazelle surrounded by lions, so to speak, but this gazelle had fucking _quills_ instead of fur, and trying to eat him would just hurt the lions.

I may have all due respect for Hughes, but I would have _really_ appreciated having Kate in the room right then to calm me down before I said "damn the quills" and lunged for the gazelle's throat. And I didn't doubt that I eventually would've if I wasn't given a very good reason not to.

If Barelli was aware of the hostility radiating from me that went a bit beyond "you threw the manual out the window," then he deserved the Oscar that DiCaprio just couldn't seem to get. He sat, all _too_ relaxed, in the chair across from Hughes' desk, while I hovered by the doorway across the office, leaning back against the frame and staring at the back of his head mistrustfully. Hughes had turned down the photographs on his desk, even the one facing away from Barelli of his daughter and grandson. I wasn't the only one who was displeased with the arrangement.

"Last week, somebody walks into my church and steals the Bible." Barelli explained, and although he was good at hiding that he was incensed, there was a level of malevolence in the accusation that even he couldn't quite manage to cover.

"Wait, Bible?" I asked, narrowing my eyes and rolling up my shoulders from the back of the room. I couldn't stop myself from clarifying. "You mean an _actual_ Bible?"

He looked at me over his shoulder and the low back of the chair. "Yeah," he said, nodding sarcastically. "You know, the flood, Abraham sacrifices Isaac…" he sounded so testy that I considered making an occult joke, but decided that maybe this lioness should keep her claws sheathed. Give him a false sense of security, in a way. "You heard of it?"

On that note, I wasn't sure about Abraham sacrificing Isaac. Hadn't one of the angels had shown up at the last moment to stop him from killing his son? The knowledge I held on the Bible and other religious scripture wasn't something I particularly liked to remember that I knew – not for lack of appreciation for the religion, but for bad emotions associated with the context in which I learned it.

"Yeah, Jesus Christ, Sodom and Gomorrah, Cain and Abel –" I cut myself off and shook my head, unfolding my arms. "You're not kidding, are you? Literally, _just_ a Bible?"

Hughes raised his eyebrows archly at me, unimpressed with the scene that I was making over this. If he'd been listening to the bugs during the surveillance, he'd have understood. Barelli looked at me, as smarmy as he'd ever been, probably figuring out why I found it so hard to believe. I mean, really, who bitches about a missing Bible for so long? It was taken from a _church_ , even – it's not like there weren't plenty of others.

"What did you think it was?" Barelli asked snidely.

"Not a Bible!" I heatedly returned.

Hughes raised a hand to me, but didn't call me out verbally. I shut my mouth, resettled my shoulders, and hooked my thumbs through the pockets of my slacks, splaying my fingers against the rest of the black material. "Why do you want our help?" The director asked, sounding altogether too tired to deal with a notoriously stubborn and fiery agent and an equally-so mobster. I wasn't sure any desk supervisor was ever awake enough to deal with this kind of situation, honestly, but Hughes always handled different positions well, which was part of the reason why the bureau was so desperate to hold onto him and why I held his commands in high esteem.

Barelli held out his arms to either side of the chair, shamelessly occupying more and more space. "I'm a taxpaying citizen," he proclaimed, citing the responsibility of the bureau to attend to civilians. Strangely, despite how much I… _disliked_ him, I liked the way his voice sounded. It was a nice pitch, and he had an almost cute accent, the local inflection of New York and a bit of an Italian brogue from having only come to America when he'd grown up.

"And whose money do you pay those taxes with?" I sharply quipped, knowing full well that his money was almost all obtained illegally from people he either threatened or gave cuts to, if it wasn't from illegitimate corporations fulfilling richly-paying jobs.

Okay, I took back what I was thinking earlier in the day about the worst part the TV didn't cover being the boring work. The _real_ worst part the television didn't show was people like Barelli, and how the agency could sit on him and breathe down his neck for literally _years and years,_ the case passing agent to agent, and never have enough to convict. The television shows it as "cops are good, criminals are bad, a few civil servants are corrupt and bad, all the bad guys go to jail," but that wasn't nearly as broad of a scope as reality was able to boast.

Barelli moved his heels into the carpet and shoved back with his right foot. This made the chair he was in slant at an angle, so if he looked to his left he could easily look at Hughes, while he could directly address me by turning his head further to the right. "Come on, Anderson," he complained, finally knowingly taking the bait of my attitude. "You've got your guys sitting on me. It's part of the game, I get it, but it means I'm not free to, ah, find out who did this."

He phrased it as delicately as he could, but I snorted derisively. "I know, it means you're not free to do your whole gun-waving, terror-inducing, brow-beating thing."

Barelli looked at Hughes imploringly. "Do I have to take these accusations?"

Just like he'd always done for me in the past, Hughes defended me. "There's a reason I authorized her surveillance," he said, inclining his chin. He didn't always approve of my methods, but he understood that they worked. When he had a serious objection to something I did or said, he defended me publicly and only spoke to me about it when we were alone and it didn't have repercussions on my status.

Barelli lifted his shoulders, sighed exaggeratedly, and let his arms fall down. "This Bible – it's not just some book that the Gideons leave on the nightstand. This is five centuries of history. From Naples," he elaborated, and then turned meaningful eyes on me that were filled with mockery. " _Saints_ prayed over this book."

I smiled with faux sympathy. No wonder he went straight to the FBI. If he'd gone through normal channels about a stolen object, he'd have had to file claims that would raise questions about how he'd gotten it in the first place. Not only did he get to skip those by coming straight to the WCCD, but he also got right to the people in higher authority than the NYPD.

Hughes raised a hand to his head, labored. His hairline had long since started receding and the rest had been greying even before he officially became a senior citizen, yet his mind remained sharper than most tacks.

He let out a deep breath. "Your personal feelings for Barelli aside," my shoulders slumped, and I didn't bother covering up my disdain in front of Barelli. That sounded a lot like he was prefacing the order for me to check my baggage. "I don't need the archdiocese crawling down our necks because we refused to recover a medieval Bible."

I was tempted to ask if we knew he wasn't bluffing about that, but knew that if it turned out to be true, it wasn't worth it.

"Understood," I said simply instead, with a respectful bow of my head towards my superior. Then I jabbed a finger in Barelli's direction, because just because I was accepting an order, that didn't mean I was suddenly going to be best friends and comrades with someone I barely trusted enough to turn my back to. The only reason I didn't immediately believe he would stab me in the neck at the first chance he got was that Barelli believed in honor, and there's no honor in slaughtering someone while their back is turned. "But let me make it clear that if he's asking the bureau for help, it means he _really_ wants it back.

"Listen up, sweetheart," I instructed Barelli with my tone both as cold and clear as diamonds. I stood with my back rigidly straight when I walked towards him and away from the doorway. "You may go to confession and church, but the bureau doesn't forgive sins because you get absolved by a priest. We don't forget what you've allegedly done, and I most certainly do not live in your pocket. You may _correspond_ with me," I specified, glowering down at him and relishing in the knowledge that, even if he stood up… I would _still_ have to look down to see his eyes. "You may _not_ assume authority over my agents or my consultants. And you stay the hell away from my family."

While it was true that Kate was the only family I really had in New York, aside from Derek, who was already involved by default via the job, the message was abundantly clear: _if I'm helping you, you stay away from mine._ It would be incredibly low to go behind my back and attack my sister, but it wasn't anything I dared take for granted.

Barelli tipped his head back to look at me with contemplative eyes. "What do you want?"

I flashed a smirk at Hughes. _That,_ for his future reference, was how to make a business exchange – make it an actual exchange. I owed Barelli nothing, but he owed us for overlooking his history and alleged crimes to let him parachute over the normal legal channels. "Shut down your book making operations at Masso's Club."

"Masso's is a restaurant." The mobster smoothly answered, not missing a beat to so much as consider a counteroffer. That, even more than coming directly to me, was an indication that he was pretty desperate. "See for yourself, any time after Thursday."

_Guess I know where Neal and I are going this weekend._

"Please, please, _please,"_ he paused for emphasis and looked at me, letting me see in his eyes exactly how discontent he was with literally pleading for my assistance. "Help me find my God damn Bible."

* * *

Barelli was not someone I thought I could restrain myself around purely on power of will, so I wanted a partner with me. It would have been best if I could utilize Derek and Diana both as individual parties to make work go faster, and a stolen book seemed pretty white-collar to me, which meant we could get our own white-collar criminal mastermind in our office for this one, pronto, and I would then have someone reminding me not to commit abhorrent homicide when Barelli inevitably got on my nerves.

So it was with a sense of sadistic glee that I got to interrupt Neal's plans the same way Barelli had interrupted mine by spontaneously calling him without warning, against the schedule we'd sort of halfway set up.

He picked up pretty quickly, probably because he saw my caller ID. Even when he was irritated, he never ignored me when he saw my name flash on his phone. _"Hello,"_ he said, sounding cheerful. Ha, he had no idea how his day was going to turn out.

I opened my mouth to greet him before I dragged him away from whatever he was doing, but before I managed to start forming the word "hi," someone else's voice in the background muttered unhappily at Neal.

 _"_ _The suit interferes yet again."_ It was a distinctly male voice, and strangely familiar, too; I was asking who it was before I had even realized that I'd definitely heard it before.

"Who was that?"

My ears and my head took me back to the corner of a street with a small crowd of smokers, the papery taste of a cigarette on my lips, the stinging in my throat, the heat of a flickering lighter in front of my face, and the feeling of amusement bubbling delightedly in my stomach with the accompanying mischief that made me excited. _But these filters… they're good. Not for me, you understand. I tear 'em off._

 _"_ _No one,"_ Neal was telling me through the phone, and it took me a second to speak without making it obvious that I was grinning like a fool through the receiver. Of course it was a someone – no ones didn't have voices, but that didn't mean that I was an idiot, nor did it mean I thought he was, and if he wanted to play a game, well, I could play word games.

"Ah. Got it." I said it slowly, both amusement and cynicism pointedly evident in my tone as I dragged my heel over the carpet. I pressed my shoulder to the wall in the hallway. "Tell no one that they talk pretty loudly."

Just saying that made me feel like I was the idiot cyclops from _The Odyssey._

Neal changed the subject without verbally making note or giving me another opportunity to bother him about how loud no one seemed to be, which I had the feeling I would greatly enjoy doing sooner or later. _"What's up?"_ I heard a door close. _"Just checking in?"_

Rolling my eyes but playing along, I got to the point. "I have Leo Barelli in Hughes' office right now, and he wants me to help him." I gave him a few seconds for that to properly process. It didn't even feel overdramatic. "Because dealing with mobsters isn't really my passion, I'm enlisting you to come help. We're searching out a Bible… and unfortunately, I really do mean a Bible."

It was probably important to note somewhere that my idea of a good case was a homicide – not too horrific, no wind chimes made of bone or skeletons assembled from the bones of several people, no victims being children – with a victim, a bad guy who may be a little exciting, a bit of a chase, and then a solid conclusion that resulted in a life sentence with no chance of parole. However, _Neal's_ first choice of a case would be one where no one was hurt, the victims – or marks, I suppose – either had their belongings returned or had had the crime coming, and the criminal was given a suitable punishment that didn't put him in further danger.

I embraced violence as a form of emotional venting. Neal rejected violence as a solution to much of anything. Although I noticed he'd never objected to me carrying a gun, he did make a point of staying a few feet away from me when I had it out.

 _"_ _This could be good,"_ he said into the phone, already sounding a little thrilled with anticipation. _"Don't shoot him before I get there. I'm coming right now._ "

"Oh," I added, not to taunt, but rather to issue a serious warning. "Tell no one that if this official bureau information becomes compromised, no one will officially become a someone."

If anyone in the hallway nearby heard me, they probably assumed I was talking to Neal simply because of the word play, but likely wasn't sure what the hell it actually meant, which made me grin recklessly at the thought.

 _"_ _No one knows,"_ the con artist vowed.

"Meet me at Barelli's church in half an hour," I instructed, pulling the phone away from my face. I barely heard Neal's faint agreement before I tapped the red button to end the call, and the time and name flashed on the screen before going dark again.

Carefully, but with practiced skill, I tossed my phone a couple feet up and caught it easily in my hand. Though the case was sleek and smooth, it was easy to catch thanks to its size and my experience with the trick. I pursed my lips, rerunning the short telephone exchange in my head, and then tipped my head to the side, briefly accepted what had occurred, and decided to move on, putting no one to the back of my mind.

* * *

Neal actually arrived at the church before I did, having taken a taxi with bureau approval to leave his radius. He met me outside the front and then escorted me in, his hand by my shoulder serving as an eerie reminder of the last time the two of us had been to a church.

We walked up the front aisle, me slowing down to match Neal's pace. He walked very slowly and leisurely, looking around at the cleaned and dusted pews and the stained glass high above the mezzanine, and he breathed in deeply to inhale the scent of the old church. At least this one didn't have the fumes of wet paint. "Aw, this brings back memories." He squeezed my shoulder lightly.

"Of what?" I laughed, looking sideways at him. Diana, a man dressed in a pastor's robe, and Leo Barelli himself all stood speaking at the front of the church, just behind the raised altar, carved from deep, almost red wood with etchings around the bottom. The pedestal itself had to have costed hundreds of dollars just to have it done. "You, tipping off our forger?"

He shook his head. "Not exactly."

"Lying to a priest?" I offered.

"Not that, either."

"Being insulted?"

Neal picked up his hand from my shoulder and moved his arms into his own personal space again, giving up on the whole 'fond reminiscence' thing. I really wasn't sure what there was to be nostalgic about, since our last trip to a church hadn't exactly been fun. It had been when I was still taking every opportunity to rib him and alternating between being reluctantly pleased with him and wanting to scratch his eyes out.

"Maybe we should just go over to the others," he suggested hastily before I reminded him of another unpleasant memory at Hagen's church.

I nodded, dryly amused. "Good choice." Our speed picked up.

The Father speaking with the mobster and my probie wasn't someone I'd ever talked to, but I knew who he was. Marcus D'Allesio was an Italian who had come to America when he was seven and had been living in the States ever since. His father had been a pal of Barelli's uncle, and when the old pastor had retired, D'Allesio had stepped up to the job. They weren't exactly family, but I was less surprised to see him with Barelli than I was to see Barelli with Ignacio.

"The Bible belonged to the church of Saint Camillus De Lellis in Naples. It was brought here in nineteen-oh-three and has been the heart of our parish since." The Father looked out over the pews as if he could tell the single book was missing just by looking around at where the church's attendants would normally be seated. "Now this."

Neal and I both stepped up at the mezzanine and walked around the pedestal to stand beside Diana. Barelli was at D'Allesio's side, looking curiously at his thumbnail and pushing back the cuticle in boredom. It wasn't like he was hearing anything new.

Diana looked away from the Father to nod at me in hello and greeted simply, "Neal."

"Di," he replied with the exact same monotone and straight face.

Diana looked back to me. "No alarm, no witnesses, no sign of a forced entry," she summarized. Barelli nodded at me behind her as if to corroborate. "It looks like a smash-and-dash." I rolled my eyes. Well, that would probably make it a bit harder.

"Of course, they couldn't have been polite enough to drop their wallet," I sighed. Then I realized that it was probably best for their sake that they hadn't – it meant that Barelli didn't know who they were, and if he'd known that, then there likely would've been a little bit of blood and pain for them. Or a lot. "Did you see anything unusual or out of place that night, Father?"

The black-clothed man in his forties shook his head. "No, not that I recall." He looked off to the side thoughtfully as if he was trying to dredge up anything else from his mind, but didn't seem successful.

Well, that left us without a lot to go on, but I'd had less before, and it's not like there weren't certain steps to take to solve crimes. "Have our lab run prints against the names on the parish roster," I advised Diana. Seeing as the majority of Barelli's churchgoers were actually felons, it wasn't at all out of the range of possibility or probability that one of them had decided to lift something. It wouldn't have been the first time they'd done it, after all. "I'm pretty sure we'll get a match."

Barelli looked up and got defensive pretty quickly – not over himself, of course, but at the implication that someone he had opened his doors to had dared to cross him. "Nobody from this parish stole that Bible," he informed me of his opinion as if it was already set in stone.

I'd already informed him in no uncertain terms that he didn't have authority over me or my agents. I smirked at him and sarcastically snapped back, "Right, because your circle's just chock full of choir boys and angels." There was no way I was going to trust Barelli on that. He was a professional criminal. Unlike Neal, Barelli wouldn't be thrown in jail for giving me inaccurate information.

"No surveillance cameras." Neal had been turning around for the last fifteen seconds, looking up at the ceiling way up high and then at every corner of the church, searching for any recording devices.

No surveillance always made somewhere easier to rob. It meant that not only did you have to not be seen in action, but you didn't have to worry about being seen in action after the fact. Only an idiot would rob from Barelli's church if they even thought that they might be caught on a camera. "Whoever robbed it probably knew that."

* * *

"A true believer," I repeated skeptically, eyeing Neal and very clearly telling him that I wasn't sure I bought into his explanation of the events.

A discussion that started in the elevator became a conversation held in the hallway while I leaned against the wall. My arms were crossed in front of me, my back flat and one of my legs up with the heel of my shoe to the wall. Neal was standing with one arm out, his hand open against the plaster a couple of feet from my head, bracing himself to stand upright with his feet crossed at the ankles.

"Have you got something better?" He asked challengingly.

"Every person in that church has a record," I informed him, raising my chin belligerently. It didn't really matter if my approach made more or less sense; the point stood that I was his boss, and I was the agent, and if he wanted me to take his approach, he had to be in the habit of giving me a reason why. Going on blind faith once or twice is one thing; I was running a legit job here, so I couldn't act without cause, and the sooner he learned that, the better. "At this point, the only people I _don't_ suspect are the ones who are already incarcerated, and I certainly don't understand why you think that having a true belief in God Almighty lends itself to thievery."

It kind of went against the Bible itself, ironically. Particular verses came to mind that said, in no uncertain terms, not to steal. Clearly, if this was a devout follower, they hadn't been listening closely enough when they heard Exodus Twenty-Fifteen or Leviticus Nineteen-Eleven.

Neal took his other hand out of his pocket and kind of rolled his wrist, motioning continuing his argument as he countered. "The Bible is the closest that humans can come to speaking with God. You don't see how that might entice someone in a desperate situation?"

"No, I don't," I told him honestly. "Because it's a book." That had never made sense to me; a Bible made you close to God? Even when I'd been struggling to convince myself to be religious, I had never understood the Bible. So many stories and verses seemed to contradict each other. Others were just so cruel, and why would I want to celebrate in a religion that was so _violent?_ Different verses endorsed the maiming of humans, the slaughter of women and children who held different belief systems, and burning people alive if they failed to gather for prayer. Some social studies showed that a lot of people don't even realize those horrific verses are in their Bibles.

He looked up at the ceiling in exasperation. "You're Atheist, aren't you?" It sounded like an accusation. I bristled accordingly. "You talk like an Atheist."

"Yes, I'm Atheist," I replied proudly. I was indifferent to anyone else's religious beliefs (aside from what I have to do to not disrespect them), but I was long past the point where I let anyone try to press me into something I didn't believe or shame me for rejecting a certain lifestyle choice. "What are you?"

He huffed and uncrossed his ankles, taking the weight off of his bracing hand on the wall. "Not so blatantly Atheist."

"According to you, it cures blind nuns and lepers." I kept my arms crossed. This position against the wall was actually surprisingly comfortable. "It sounds like just another story from when I was forced to go to church."

"Forced?" He repeated, most of the annoyance vaporizing instantly. That was a slip-up I had made on purpose – I wanted him to know that I wasn't just blindly ignorant to the religion.

"Secular by choice, not by family."

Neal looked at me and sighed, looking down. Whatever argument he'd been prepared to use, he let it go. I was relieved that letting that much personal information out had diffused part of the situation. I usually did my best to avoid conversations where my religion came up for this exact reason. Nevertheless, he came at the topic again persistently.

"In nineteen eighteen, thirty thousand people in New York died from the Spanish flu. No one in this parish even caught a cold!" He held both arms out. Neal sounded personally amazed. I maintained that there had to be a more rational explanation. "What does that tell you?"

Insolently, I responded with, "Nineteen eighteen was a bad year to live in New York."

A beat passed, and Neal's face fell into a scowl. I shrugged. It's not like I was technically _wrong…_ he shrugged and lifted himself out of it, moving on with the topic somewhat reluctantly.

"Maybe whoever took it did it because they think it can heal them." Now he sounded a little bit defeated by his inability to persuade me, and if it weren't for the kind of thing he was attempting to get me to buy into, I'd have thought it was kind of fun to prove that he couldn't charm everyone into anything.

"I've heard stranger motives," I accepted, finally relenting. Just because I didn't accept the stories, that didn't mean that other people didn't wholeheartedly embrace them. I pushed off from the wall with my heel and made to go back to the elevators, motioning with my hand for Neal to follow. Before he could, I turned back and caught his arm lightly, looking up at his electric eyes with an intensity that he very obviously hadn't been expecting. "I respect other religions and the people that hold them, but after my experiences with my family and how it's been convoluted by people I've met, it's hard to personally swallow." I waited for a sign of understanding and saw it in the way his face changed as he seemed to realize something. It was no secret that I used to work blue-collar serial crime, even though he likely didn't know why I'd transferred divisions. "I'm cynical for a reason," I warned, letting go of his arm. "Don't assume I'm just being a bitch."

* * *

Neal was back to regaling me with stories of the awe of this Bible by the time we got within two blocks of the church, and he was telling me all about the time when the Spanish influenza swept through New York and all of the deaths it brought. He gestured intently with his hands while he talked, such a vivid and engaging speaker that it seemed like he wasn't even thinking about it as he moved.

"Nobody in this church caught the flu." I said it to him so hopefully he'd realize how unlikely it sounded. "At all."

"It's true!"

The priest of the parish was up at the front of the church. It took me a minute to find him with my eyes, but I saw the black back of his clothes. He was on his knees between the first and second pews, and it looked like he was fixing something under the first one, so I just kept talking with Neal. We were walking slowly enough for him to get to a pausing point, but there was no call for just saying his name really loudly and risking him startling himself into hitting his head.

"You realize records were a lot less detailed and thorough back then, right?" I tried, because I really wanted to appeal to his sense of logic before I had to appeal to his sense of 'don't argue with the woman who holds your custody.'

"You don't think some higher power could have saved the congregation?" He raised one hand up towards the stained glass at the front of the church. It was actually fashioned after Jesus Christ, so I didn't think that was precisely the best window to point at, but it was the best one in this particular church, so I suppose he was making do.

I almost started to smile at the bantering, but reminded myself he wasn't allowed to know how fond I was of his company and shook my head instead. "I'm more inclined to think they kept the doors shut and got lucky. Other carriers went to other churches because this one is much less inclusive. Did you think of that?"

Neal lifted both shoulders in a shrug and comfortably slipped his hands into the pockets of his trousers. "Maybe God works with what he's got."

I held up both of my hands towards the dark ceiling. "So much for 'let there be light,' everybody," I said to the stained glass figure of Jesus masterfully pieced together in the window. "Neal Caffrey interprets divine intervention as _shut thine door and eat thine oranges._ "

"Why not?" He asked, sounding put out by my dismissal.

"There's a rational explanation for everything," I insisted. I don't love horror movies for their _realism._ I love them because I like adrenaline and the plots and the intensity, and I like laughing at the stupid characters and anticlimactic death scenes. "It's the TV that sensationalizes and exaggerates it. How many movies are there about curses and mummies' tombs?" I held up a hand and started ticking off fingers as I thought of them. First there was the two or three dozen mummy films made before the turn of the century, then there were the newer ones with more blood and special effects, like-

"Two dozen people who entered King Tut's tomb ended up dead," he persisted, continuing to try to argue the point. I groaned as he took it out of context and he held up his hands, asking for me to science away that one.

"Tutankhamen died in Ancient Egypt. In the time since, people evolved, germs evolved. Human immune systems adapted to defend the body from the biological threats in the present. Suddenly, they go into this tomb that is dark, dirty, and damp, and foreign elements have managed to survive. The immune system has no idea what it is anymore and is vulnerable against it. They die because they can't handle the strains of illnesses from three thousand BC!" My logic, I thought stubbornly, was much more convincing than Netflix. "Also, genius, King Tut's tomb was opened almost a hundred years ago. Of _course_ they're dead."

It probably meant something that my first defense was the long-winded science rather than the common sense.

Instead of backing down and accepting the reasonable defeat, Neal smartly retorted, "What, so God can't use bacteria?"

I made a disapproving 'hmph!' sound in my throat and crossed my arms, eyeing D'Allesio's back. He didn't quite seem done fixing whatever it was he was doing at the front pew, but there was no way he didn't hear us.

"I prefer my divine interventions with a little more smiting, lightning, and Apocalypses," I maintained my point regardless of Neal's repeated flippancy.

If nothing else, this got D'Allesio's attention. He looked up over his shoulder at us, then around to make sure that we were the only ones there before he settled his focus. "Can I help you?" He asked, a little surprised by the unpreceded visit, but not really rude or upset.

"Quite possibly," I answered mildly, leaning against the side of the pew behind him. The back was too low for me to rest my elbow on it, so I bent my elbow and rested the heel of my palm against the lower edge instead. "We wanted to bring up one thing – you didn't tell us when we first talked that your Bible is also known in the county as being a _healing_ Bible." Normally a Bible among Bibles wouldn't feel too important, but if that detail was added, it became a whole lot more relevant.

He missed that message, apparently, because he straightened up and shuffled his feet around to face us respectfully. "I didn't think it was relevant," he said with a shrug of his shoulders.

I blinked once. _I wonder if he knows what withholding information can do to the efficiency of an investigation._ "You didn't think it was relevant," I testily said, deliberately phrasing it in a way to make it make the least amount of sense possible. "That your Bible, which can supposedly cure any ailment and heal any injury, was stolen?"

A hand pressed against my lumbar spine with just enough pressure to feel like an anchor and distract me from the priest. It felt strangely like a message to calm down, which normally would have made me want to do the exact opposite, but it was a comforting pressure, not an oppressive or insulting one.

"Is there anybody in your church who is a true believer?" Neal inquired far more politely with a much smoother, more passive voice. Exactly how likely was it that a priest would be able to tell the true believers from the accustomed followers? I was genuinely curious at how he would tell the difference. "Someone who was terminally ill, or had a sick family member?"

As Father D'Allesio kept looking at Neal, I saw something process in his face. His face tightened and his forehead wrinkled as he squeezed his eyes shut. "I was afraid this might happen," he murmured so quietly that it must've been meant for himself.

"What?" I immediately jumped on the question.

He looked up, not quite shy, but a little bit… awkward. Embarrassed? Shamed? He certainly wasn't proud, and I felt like the latter was probably the closest. "Mr. Barelli has discouraged the homeless from the church…"

"Yes," I recalled plainly. That had been in the papers even outside of New York, because this church had been one of the kindest, most generous facilities in the city towards the homeless. "He made you shut down the soup kitchen you ran a few years ago." Which seemed to go against the faith and generosity and love that the church was supposed to embody, didn't it? "How very…" I refrained from saying 'Christian' as a sarcastic remark, and instead finished, "… Polite, and charitable of him."

Father D'Allesio looked down at our shoes. If I didn't understand that he just didn't want to look at me, too cowed about turning away the needy from his doors, I'd have thought he was admiring my shoes – and for good reason, too. These shoes are comfortable. "The night of the theft, I let a homeless man sleep in the sanctuary," he admitted lowly. "His name's Steve."

"Is he sick?" I asked him before I could stop and realize that even if he was, the Father might not have been able to physically tell. Some illnesses didn't manifest very obviously.

Yet he shook his head. "No." I might not have believed him, but there was something he was holding back. He stopped biting his tongue, literally, when I kept staring at him, pointedly waiting. "Someone very close to him is."

"Great." I clapped my hands together once with a sense of finality. That was our next lead, then. "I need to know his surname if you know it, what he looks like, and where I can find him." I smiled at him when he looked a little surprised. "Please, Father."

* * *

Steve's last name was unknown to the Father, but he did remember quite clearly what he looked like and gathered from his memories that Steve mentioned staying in Central Park fairly often. According to the Father, he took sympathy on Steve and his friend, letting them stay in Barelli's church in the middle of a thick, heavy downpour. It had been raining so hard that traffic reached a low point, and Kate tried going out to the car to get some Chapstick and the wind nearly tore apart her umbrella. Our gutters had been flooded, and entire streets became washed in water.

Neal got out of washing June's cars, to say the least.

While all of this was helpful information – the description, especially – the most notable piece that the Father supplied us with was Steve's friend: an old black lab, tame and gentle, that hadn't wanted to leave her master's side. Cut two hours later to Central Park, and Neal and I were still wandering around looking for an African man with a canine best friend who fit the description. It really wasn't my idea of a good time, but Neal put a little energy into making it fun – he bought a bag of peanuts from a vendor, gave me some, threw a couple at me when I said something he objected to, and made a joke about it being a date that made me laugh. It did feel a little bit like a date, if it weren't for that I knew about the tracker on his anklet and his ever-apparent romantic notion towards his soulmate. In spite of there being no guarantee that his bond with him or her would be romantic, that seemed to be the kind of fantasy he was entertaining.

Altogether, it wasn't unpleasant. It sure outranked sitting around in a surveillance van! Before long, we ended up finding the man we were looking for – or, at least, someone who looked like him, with a panting, white-muzzled puppy sitting at his feet by the edge of the bench, her head rested on his knee while he rubbed slowly behind her ears.

"Steve?" I asked, approaching slowly after Neal pointed him out. The conman kept his hand just over my back – I didn't feel it as much as I just knew it, maybe from seeing the way his arm was held. The man looked up at me and squinted. I was standing in between he and the sun, but light was probably coming around my outline. "My name's Special Agent McKenna Anderson. This is my friend, Neal."

He looked down from my eyes and his face relaxed greatly, eyes no longer straining. Instead of staring at me crudely, he just looked straight ahead at my abdomen while he answered, being attentive but not half-blinding himself. "Hi."

Steve was a black man with a scruffy shadow on his face, dark eyes, and short, dark hair. His clothes didn't look oversized, but they did hang off of him like he'd lost several pounds since he'd bought them. I couldn't really tell how tall he was while he was sitting down; despite that he looked docile and relaxed, he had the strong sort of build of someone I'd associate with sports or martial arts.

"Cute dog," I commented, noticing that he hadn't taken his hand away from the dog's head. At the sound of the word 'dog,' the lab took her jaw off of Steve's knee and turned her neck to look up at Neal and I. She closed her mouth, licked her chops, and then dropped her jaw again, panting, either tired or dehydrated. Her fur was short and fairly clean, but her muzzle and the fur around her eyes was whitening up with age.

"Her name's Lucy." Steve lifted his hand from her head. Lucy's eyes looked bright. She wasn't really a puppy anymore, but even though her body was wearing down, she still had the demeanor of one.

My hands itched to run through the dog's fur, but mentally I figured that petting someone's dog while questioning them about a crime was probably not the most polite thing in the world to do, and while I don't particularly care about being rude sometimes, there was really no need for it here.

"Can we ask you some questions?" I asked kindly. I still hadn't ruled out any of the other parishioners of the church as suspects, but following Neal's leads hadn't really steered me wrong before, and he was obviously the expert (as I pointed out all too willingly at times). Steve waited a second, but then nodded his head in assent. "The church you stayed in last week is missing a Bible. Would you know something about that?"

"Yeah." The flat, straight-forward answer surprised me. I looked over my shoulder at Neal. He looked just as shocked that it was so forthcoming, but he shrugged. Steve dropped his left shoulder. "I took it."

"That was easy," Neal remarked offhandedly. His shadow on the pavement dropped his left arm from behind me, and both hands wound their way to his pockets.

For about ten seconds, we all just stayed there, none of us saying anything. It was more than a little awkward. Lucy just happily panted. "Okay… well… we need it back," I said, feeling like I was pointing out the obvious.

"No," he muttered in quiet disagreement, then started shaking his head as he stated louder, "No, _I_ need it back."

Neal involved himself in the dialogue again, this time to actually be helpful. "What do you mean?" He questioned, now more confused than flippant. I liked when he was unsure; it was uncharacteristic in a way that made it cute. _And I did_ _ **not**_ _just think that._ "Where is it?"

Steve lifted his chin again to look upwards at us, narrowing his eyes defensively against the sunlight. Lucy's head followed a couple of kids that ran down the path behind us, screaming as they played tag. "I took it from the church like he asked me to," the man said, clearly aggravated. "Now, he said he would show me how to help Lucy get better. Then he took it from me. Now he hasn't brought it back." He looked to Neal hopefully. "Do you know where he is?"

"I wish," I replied, reaching out slightly to touch the side of Neal's arm with my fingers, just nudging for him to let me handle this. 'He' could have been any number of people, and with a family like the Barellis involved, I wanted to try to keep information selective. I was beginning to suspect that this could have been a con of its own that my new correspondents orchestrated, but there was no way of knowing that for sure just yet. "You stole a Bible that belongs to a mobster. Chances are, he never intended for you to see it again. You're a fall guy, Steve."

"Who asked you to take the Bible from the church?" Neal was trying to sound understanding, and whether he empathized or not, he pulled it off well. I knew he felt, but I also knew he acted, so it was always hard to tell. I didn't really want him giving away a lot of answers, but I saw nothing wrong with him asking appropriate questions.

"He said he would help Lucy get better." Steve looked down at his dog mournfully and smoothed his hand down flat over her head and neck. "She's not getting better, okay?" Imploringly, he looked up at us, begging us to do something about it. "She's getting worse."

I sighed softly and adjusted my jacket, crouching down to get on my knees in front of the dog. I held out a hand by her face for her to sniff at. "What's wrong with her?" I asked, glancing up at him between watching Lucy nuzzle against the back of my hand and then try to force her nose under my hand to be pet.

"She's tired all the time." Steve moved to pet her down along her back while I brought both hands up to the puppy, smiling at her happily and ruffling the soft, fluffy fuzz around her ears. "She won't eat nothin'." My knees almost hurt from kneeling on concrete, but Lucy's fur was so soft and she was so nice that it felt obvious which won out. "If I could get that Bible back, she'll get better."

It seemed like Neal's theory about a true believer was at least partially right. What was more surprising was that he seemed to be a fan of dogs; risking getting his immaculate three-piece dirty, he dropped down next to me on the ground and held out a hand towards Lucy's face, the other running down the fur on the side of her front leg. Some people say dogs can't smile, but I strongly disagree. At all of the attention, she was grinning widely.

"Did you meet this man at the church?" I asked, taking my hands away from Lucy while Neal played with her and made friends. I lowered my hands down onto my thighs and looked up at Steve. He had a much easier time looking in my eyes now that I was lower than the sunlight, and he nodded, eyes clearly locked onto mine respectfully. "If I showed you some photographs, could you recognize him?"

He nodded again, looking very sure of himself in that ability. "Yeah," he sounded stubborn already. "We just need to get the Bible back, okay? 'Cause she's fading." He looked meaningfully at Lucy, premature grief clear in the firm purse of his lips while he tried not to outwardly show sadness.

"She looks plenty happy, though," Neal noted gently, offering solace that even if she was sick, she was obliviously thrilled with life. "You're a good girl, aren't you, Lucy?" He cooed at her in the voice reserved for miniature humans and baby animals, and Lucy leaned forward, paws kneading at the ground while she went for him eagerly. Neal turned his cheek to her while she dragged her tongue up the side of his face.

I raised my eyebrows at him while he let the dog lick him, but he just smiled at me like he was having fun, giggling as Lucy licked at his nose.

* * *

Back in the FBI, Neal and I went to the kitchenette to get refills of coffee while Diana stayed with Steve, helping him look over the books we had of known thieves, collectors, and Barelli's parishioners within the area. The two of them, and his dog, were up the mezzanine in the conference room. Getting the dog in wasn't a big deal. He had a leash for her and when he stopped, she sat by his feet. When he reached stairs, she ducked her head and nosed his calves as if in signal. Derek and Diana agreed that if there was a problem, we could all vouch for that she acted like a service dog.

"I really hate to say it," I drew out, trying to poke at Neal's buttons again. "But I'm glad we followed your lead." The smirk he gave me begged to be smacked off, and evidently it didn't annoy him as much as I'd hoped. "I just hope we actually get somewhere with it."

He picked up an extra sugar cube from the pink and white box. "Oh, ye of little faith!" He exclaimed, looking emotionally damaged.

I just stared at him flatly. He popped the sugar cube into his mouth to let it melt on his tongue and raised his eyebrows questioningly. Finally, I broke my silence to demand, "How long have you been waiting to say that?"

He shrugged his shoulders and moved the melting sugar to the inside of his cheek. "I've been holding on to it since lunch," he admitted a little sheepishly. At least some part of his brain recognized a bad joke when he heard one.

"Yeah," I said, giving his arm a pat for his honesty. "Thought so."

"It's that bad?" He asked, face falling into a pout as I picked up my coffee and led him out into the bullpen again. I bobbed my head emphatically.

Up in the conference room, Steve remained sitting down. Lucy's jet black tail was visible on the floor, the rest of her hiding underneath the table by her owner's feet. Diana pushed open the door, her face looking increasingly frustrated. With her left hand, she caught the door before it closed too heavily. With her right, she rubbed her temple like she was getting a headache, and she looked around the bullpen before quickly stepping down off of the mezzanine via the short staircase.

She came in a beeline straight for Neal and I. I hoped he chewed and swallowed the rest of that sugar cube, because when Diana's stressed, it's best not to further aggravate her, and she's one of the few that actually cares when I sneak straight sugar from the kitchenette.

"How's it going?" He greeted, standing somewhat behind me as he saw the expression on her face. Diana was a lot scarier than anyone seemed to initially think. It was a good thing Neal apparently had self-preservation skills. Those would probably come in handy at some point.

She looked at him over my shoulder and then down at me again. Diana was not amused in any form of the word. "It was going badly an _hour_ ago," she stressed, just to fully convey how taxing this quest was.

Someone had been reading his _Care and Keeping of FBI Agents_ manual, because Neal said one of our favorite things to hear in a very concerned, empathetic voice. "Sounds like you could use some coffee. The water's still hot." Diana's eyes shot up to him hopefully. When he didn't say something rude like 'April Fools' or 'psych' and she realized that she _didn't_ have to shoot him in the leg, she slipped past him like she'd just heard Scarlett Johansson was modeling in the kitchenette.

"Thanks," I told Neal, a little surprised. He nodded, clearly pleased with his success, and I left him by Derek's desk while I hopped up the few steps to the mezzanine to take Diana's place with Steve. Opening the conference door hit me with a blast of warmer air that I wasn't prepared for. The chill on my arms from the air in the bullpen died almost instantly. "No luck yet?"

In the heat of the wider room, Steve had taken off the dark green jacket he'd worn on his way in, and now it was laying out folded up on the surface. Something glinted on the back of his neck that made me look a bit closer. Underneath his shirt hung a pair of silver dog tags which had been covered up by his coat. He was hunched over the big photo album, blinking frequently. Lucy lifted her head and blinked at me sweetly before lowering her muzzle back onto her front paws.

"No, not really." He finished looking at every picture on the page before he raised his eyes to me, and I could see that he was honestly looking through them. He seemed just as disappointed as Diana was frustrated. "Look, I'm sorry I'm not more help to you."

"It's not a problem," I lied smoothly, standing by the edge of the table but reluctant to sit down. In truth, it would be a problem – just not his to handle. This was really the only lead that had panned out thus far. "We have more photographs when you get through all of those." He flipped a laminated page and grimaced, but tried to stop himself from looking rude. "You were used as a patsy. Someone smart enough to use a middle man might've taken steps to make himself harder to identify. Which branch?"

Steve looked just as surprised as if I'd questioned the color of the sky when he asked what I'd said, which just made me sad. Why was it so shocking when someone asked about his service? Did people not notice? Did they just not care? He risked his life for the country. That deserves acknowledgment, not ignorance and avoidance.

"I… couldn't see your tags earlier." I indicated my throat just to clarify, a lot less sure of myself now that I knew it was such an unexpected inquiry. "Which branch were you in?"

His expression cleared up, yet something stayed in his eyes. "Army." He brought a hand up from the table and rapped his knuckles against the side of his head. "My bell got rung pretty good in Fallujah." He said it like it was something to be ashamed of. He was injured during an overseas tour, and he's embarrassed by it? There's nothing embarrassing about it. Injuries happen. And it's an honorable way to get injured – a much better story than falling off a ladder.

"That's in Iraq, isn't it?" My habits wanted me to cross my arms protectively over my chest, but I fought them and kept leaning over the table, my palms bracing me against the top. I was trying to stay attentive and open.

"Yeah." He looked to the edge of the table down at his dog. "It's where I found Lucy." He smiled just as he said her name, and her ears perked up, her head lifting just a couple of inches off of her paws. "We called in a predator strike on this trigger house. Two hellfires came in and just destroyed everything." _Hellfires…? Army slang, I suppose._ "And I hear this little whimpering, so I lift up this piece of roof, and there she was, just wagging her tail."

Hearing the story – or maybe just the tone of her master – Lucy's tail started moving, the fur on the bottom dragging over the carpet as it started to wag back and forth in anticipation of more attention. It didn't last long. She let out a low whine, resettled her front paws, and looked mournfully up at his pant leg.

"Have you taken her to a vet?" I asked as the whine died out in her throat.

"I can barely afford three meals a day." Steve moved the toes of one of his tennis shoes out from underneath Lucy's ribs, stretching down from his chair to run his fingers across her back. "How can I pay for a vet?"

I sighed. Although I understood financial problems, I… had never lived with them. I took the money in my bank account when I took off from my old family, the family whose values I disagreed with so strongly it drove me insane, and set myself up to become an FBI agent. I met Kate, we moved in together, we sorted out our own lives – but even though we liked nice things, aside from groceries and music, we didn't buy all that much regularly, and between my well-paying job, the rent we didn't have to pay on the house we owned, and the generous shares she profited from her daycare business, we were living well. I couldn't completely understand what it was like to not have the money to feed myself every time I was hungry. I couldn't understand what it was like to not be able to afford medical care for myself or a pet.

"I'll see if I can find someone," I said, more to myself than to Steve, but I'm sure he heard anyway. I didn't really know veterinarians around New York… but June would. June has two dogs, she must have a vet – and a good one, at that. _I can ask her for the number,_ I figured.

A fist rapping loudly on the door made me look up. Diana or Derek would've walked right in, and Neal didn't knock that aggressively. Not to say that they waited for assent before they came in – Hughes pushed open the door without invitation.

"What's going on?" I asked, already worried. He didn't come to me very often – if he wanted to see me, I was usually sent an email or a human messenger, so I was understandably put on alert.

He looked, grim-faced, at Steve, then realized he was just our civilian accomplice and turned back to me again. "One of Barelli's men just got shot." He informed me coolly, holding out a wallet-sized print-out of Paul Ignacio. It took a second for me to connect the victim and the picture, and then I sighed, canting my head at Hughes, blaming him for bringing me bad news.

"Fatally?"

_Because of course my correspondents would be shot at._

He nodded once. "ME's already been sent."

Steve stood up from his chair, using the arms to help himself get up. Lucy quietly moved over, flopping onto her side so that his feet could move without knocking into her, and the veteran moved around the table with a slight limp in his right leg to point at the picture.

"That's him." Hughes looked at him, about to question what he was talking about, when he continued, "That's the guy that asked me to take the Bible."

_Now would be a great time to give me something to hit my head against, please._

* * *

When you've seen one crime scene by a Brooklyn waterfront, it seems like you've seen them all. Coroner's van here, dead body and plenty of local cops there, yellow crime scene tape and uniformed agents everywhere. I let Neal wander off to talk to one of the two coroners on scene to figure out cause and time of death for himself. I suspected he intended to charm and flirt additional information out of the poor, unsuspecting medical examiner-in-training that was tagging along with NYPD's official ME. This left Hughes and I standing on one of the highest points nearby just within the crime scene's perimeters, feeling like I was overlooking a kingdom with my advisor of the court at my side.

Cement may be cold, but it is also very stable ground to be standing on, and it seemed like a pretty fitting metaphor at the time. I may have missed working homicides, but warding off press who noticed something was off? Answering to other agents with the same questions being repeated about the scene over and over? Those were aspects I was happy to let other people deal with.

I took a sip of liquid heaven and sighed contently, more relaxed than I'd been ever since taking this case.

"You wrap this up, then have some lunch," Hughes told me with no forewarning and seemingly no warranting context. He didn't even look to me as he said it, though I was standing just to his left.

I looked at him in surprise. It wasn't too often that he said something to me regarding taking care of myself, unless it was a somewhat-fondly exasperated command to get some sleep. "Sir?" Although I was tired, I wasn't any more so than usual.

This time he looked at my face, saw my bemusement, and nodded with his head and eyes down towards my cup of coffee. My fingers tightened their grip reflexively and held it possessively. "That's the third cup you've had in the last hour," he noted out loud. I made a face. _Sorry, Dad._

Despite my internal rebellious streak, externally I acted on the feelings that were more similar to being chastened. Slowly, and regretfully, I lowered my cup further from my face, dropping my eyes down to look after the lid sadly. _I have to slow down, buddy,_ I mentally pleaded with it to understand. _My boss is catching onto our time together._

I cleared my throat before my inner thoughts started to make me giggle. "That's Paul Ignacio," I affirmed in case he hadn't already asked and found out for himself. I pointed out, with my free hand, the gurney being wheeled up a slope to the bank and to the black coroner's van. "Shot at point-blank range."

The director exhaled slowly. "No eyewitnesses, I presume."

I was already shaking my head. We'd been lucky to even get so much as an anonymous tip for someone like Ignacio, and though there were probably dozens of reasons someone might want him dead, I couldn't help but wonder if it was because he'd broken a sort of code and been spotted talking to the bureau. Was it a form of payback against Barelli for doing the same thing?

"None have come forward," I said, though he could have figured as much without saying a word. It was just understanding the climate of crimes such as these. "The body is still in rigor mortis, and isn't waterlogged. An ME will have a more precise time of death, but I'd say between three and six hours."

Hughes didn't answer right off the bat. It wasn't something either of us could really have an actual answer _to,_ unless the goal was to change the topic. When someone dies and you don't imagine coming up with any leads, the tension kind of builds. Was it completely irrelevant to the first issue? Or would more bodies begin to pile up in the river? I wished he had given me some sort of reply to work with, though, because his silence permitted the bane of my existence to press his nose in where it didn't belong.

I really should break it one of these days.

"It's a twenty-two caliber bullet." Contempt dripped from the voice before I even recognized the body that it was coming from. Wearing a somewhat baggy CSU uniform and a visor over his head to ward the sun from his eyes, Eric Ruiz, homicide investigator of the FBI, pulled his legs up the incline towards where Hughes and I were standing. "McKenna Anderson." He said my name like I would say Barelli's, but then, to be fair, I had a special kind of loathing all for him in my heart. Usually it was downgraded to a small space with minimal stored energy, but when I saw him in person, all emotional drives rerouted themselves in order to build up a proper loathing. He stopped walking right in front of us and cocked his head, reaching up and yanking the visor away from mussed hair. "This is a homicide, not an art exhibit. What are _you_ doing here?"

Eric Ruiz is about my height – actually, just a smidge taller – but because I was wearing my boots with the wedge heels, I stood a touch higher than him. His eyes are a really pretty green color with flecks of hazel, and his face is nice, too – so is his usually slightly-curly, well-kept brown hair – but any appreciation for his appearance was drowned out by how big of a dick he's been ever since we had a falling out while working in the same department.

"Eric Ruiz," I said, saying his name unnecessarily in the same way he said mine. Hughes took a deep breath and looked up to the sky, knowing that this wouldn't end well, but having to be the bigger man than he knew either of us would be and staying in place. "I see they've let you out of your cubicle." I primly raised an eyebrow. "Must be nice to have a longer leash."

His resulting expression was cold and bitter. "It must suck to have a shorter one."

"No one leashes me."

Ruiz graduated from a different police academy with top marks. He was an ambitious scholar and a ruthless, cut-throat agent when it came to advancing through the ranks. I earned my promotions and reputation through my compassion, loyalty, dedication, and success rate – but ultimately, it also came down to how I responded to others and how I molded so well to accomplish a job. A lot of people disliked socializing with me thanks to my temper being quick to flare and my tongue being sharp and barbed, but no one could really disagree that I was anything short of the best.

Ruiz, however, was the best in ways that I wasn't. While he was one smart cookie on paper, he was less willing to jeopardize himself, making him ethically subpar. He was quick to fault coworkers rather than sharing blame or taking responsibility. Even if it _was_ their fault, most partners cover for each other to an extent, but Ruiz didn't have that bond with anyone he worked with. He never tried to forge one. He didn't empathize with the victims of crimes, he did everything so by-the-book that he might as well be a character in it, and he wouldn't dare to risk his reputation to change the outcome of a case, even for the better. He advanced because of how he looked on paper. I advanced because of the results I gathered.

I had been excited to work with him when I met him, but I quickly learned that his paper records weren't the full story. What I took for jealous trash talk turned out to be the absolute truth. He was a bit blind to rape culture, misogynistic without realizing it, and thoughtless to anyone but himself in the workplace. In less than a week, I had realized that, rather than concerning myself with being a good partner, I needed to be more concerned with my career. Two things happened within a couple of months that cinched the hatred we felt for each other.

What technically happened first was a result of his sexism. I liked to look nice. Who didn't? I didn't give a damn what people thought of how I looked, but I liked wearing my hair down sometimes, other times I enjoyed painting my skin with makeup because it could give me such a different way to come across. I was generally less concerned with modesty – still am, because really, if you're not mature enough to see anything below my neck, then you're not mature enough to handle homicides – and didn't always keep my shirts buttoned up all the way to the collar or my jackets on all the time. While never inappropriate, I supposed I was attractive, and thanks to Ruiz's lack of concern for his own sexism, he grossly misinterpreted my actions. What I thought was him being a major dick to me was just that – him being a dick, but due to motivations such as lust and sexual tension. When I realized he was trying to come onto me, I shot him down fast, having no interest in someone like him. The situation worsened when I punched him square in the face for advancing into my personal space and making a comment about how I dressed like I wanted him, introducing me to his belief in rape culture.

The second thing was a case of homicide and kidnapping. It was a domestic dispute – estranged father slaughters ex-wife and abducts the child he lost custody of. Ruiz wanted to follow protocol, but I had seen the suspect's mental health history and spoke to a psychologist off the record. I very firmly believed that the father was a danger to the child, so I violated the bureau's protocol for handling the situation. Ruiz said I would be sorry. What _actually_ happened was that I interrupted the father trying to drown his kid, and saved the child's life while arresting the adult. I was injured in the process (though not seriously) and brought the evidence to our supervisor (at the time). Not long after, my partnership with Ruiz was severed and I was promoted to a higher authority, while he was demoted to working under closer supervision when someone anonymously tipped off the superiors that he had been sexually harassing me (I found out later it was a concerned third party who'd seen him come onto me in the office).

Needless to say, Ruiz and I had a bumpy past and no foreseeable future. I was content never seeing him again. I was pretty sure the only way he'd be happy with our relationship was if he ended up winning out over me or showing me up, because that's the kind of vindictive person he is: ready to make fights for his ego's sake when there's nothing more to fight about. And I was, of course, too proud to stand down once a challenge was issued.

"Right," he said smugly, staring at me with something uncomfortably close to a leer. I knew I could defend myself, and I knew Hughes would jump if I was attacked, but no context in the world could make that feeling acceptable. "That's why you were shoved out of my way for the job in homicide."

"Best of luck in it, too," I said with a plastic smile. The heat in my eyes must have belied the lack of faith I held in him. "Seeing as how I was put out by involuntary surgery."

Ruiz's scowl darkened. Of course it would – he wouldn't feel satisfied if he didn't believe that anything had gotten me demoted other than something pinned right on me. My involvement in being a good agent and an even better human being got me on the hate list of a lot of dangerous people. One of them happened to be more dangerous than others. I'm not to blame for that, and I never will be, though that's a concept that Ruiz will never grasp – after all, if you don't understand that the victim wasn't asking to be raped, then how can you possibly comprehend that the tortured wasn't asking to be attacked?

"A psychologist put you out and you know it," he growled, furious with me for trying to make myself out to be anything other than inferior to him, although he would never phrase it like that. I knew him too well to be fooled, and honestly, I was so sick of him trying to step on me that the only thing I expected to gain from this was to verbally kick his ass.

"I was sliced and diced by a psychopath," I reminded him with the voice of someone talking to a dumb kid. I held up my shoulders in a shrug and smiled at him again. "Thanks for putting me out of the line of fire, buddy. Art exhibits are a lot safer than, say, your apartment. If you survive the angry killers coming after you, I'll make sure to recommend the strong meds." I lowered my voice down to a mocking, conspiratorial whisper, and added viciously, "Kid gloves don't work when half of your blood is in the carpet."

Hughes tried admirably to take a hold of the situation and diffuse it. "Okay. I'd tell you both to measure, but that doesn't really work here." He turned to the side so he was standing and facing both of us from my right and Ruiz's left.

"Yeah," I agreed easily with a shrug. "Seeing as how there aren't small enough rulers."

"At least you acknowledge why it doesn't work for the fairer sex rather than jumping in for something you can't accomplish," Ruiz spat at me, missing the entire point of Hughes trying to step in, and _God,_ but now there was no way I could _not_ continue the joke through to the punchline.

I feigned confusion. "What does my sex have to do with your _shortcomings?_ " I savagely questioned, and truthfully, I was glad now that Neal wasn't standing behind me and listening to this. It wasn't a side of me I was particularly proud of. Ruiz had a talent for bringing out the worst in me, and I didn't want anyone – especially Derek, Kate, or my reformed ex-convict – to see how low I could become. Hughes was seeing, but he'd seen it before, and he was well aware of the history between myself and the other, cruder agent.

The homicide detective's hands balled into fists. I looked down at his hands and then back up at his face with a self-satisfied smirk just to piss him off some more, and though a vein in his forehead was popping, he still hissed, "You're really asking for it today, Anderson."

"I think I can handle it," I returned, meaningfully looking to Hughes. Was he _really_ stupid enough to issue any kind of threat – whether or not he intended to follow through on it – right in front of someone with a higher rank than either of us, much less one whom he knew was going to take my side?

Still holding my coffee, I took a happy drink, feeling like I'd won. I wasn't going to get a ribbon, but seeing Ruiz so worked up into a mess was well worth any later regret at letting my tongue get away from me. He's a nasty son of a bitch when he's around me. He's not pleasant to anyone, but according to other people who have seen us together, he's never as disrespectful or as impulsive around anyone else as he is me, and part of me can't help but wonder if it's because he's still in lust with me, or if he feels as though I in particular severely emasculated him.

I'm sure our relationship – if it can even be called that – would be an interesting study for a psychotherapist.

He showed some restraint in that he stopped himself from talking again until he trusted himself to use a level tone and not say anything that would be construed in any way as a threat. He forced his hands to relax, though I could still see the muscles in his upper arms flexing.

"Where's your pet convict?"

I squinted at him, almost in disbelief. So that was his angle now? Come at me through my consultant? Felon or not, Neal is my responsibility, and when I take someone under my wing, I mean it as more than an "I'll feed and shelter you" deal. His problem is with me, not with my friend, and if he dares to try to come after Neal and jeopardize the deal he made with the bureau and the state department, I will actually come back at him both legally and off the record to teach him a real lesson about how conflicts work – they stay between the people involved. This was a new low, even for Ruiz. I hadn't seen him in a very long time, comparatively speaking, but what had changed to make him worse? It wasn't world-weariness. It was just an increase in bastard levels.

"Why?" I asked thinly, forgoing the filter between my brain and mouth. "Jealous of his longer leash?"

"I thought you might've left him in the car without putting down the windows," Ruiz explained callously. It was strange to think he was thinking at all, much less about someone else, but the slight at my working relationship had me more pissed than anything, and as such, I wasn't as focused on mocking his intellectual capability. I'd rather hit somewhere where it would sting – somewhere where we would both know it wasn't a meaningless, throwaway insult.

"You're cranky today," I observed. "Is your collar chafing?"

He glowered darkly. I made my face open in earnest confusion. What, our game was over? Was he out of insults and accusations to throw already? He played dirty when he was prepared, but he wasn't the best at thinking on his feet. I always suspected that to be the reason why he relied on protocols. There was scarcely a time when there wasn't a protocol of some sort that could guide him in making his decisions, tell him what to do or say.

"What are you doing at my crime scene?" He asked finally, swallowing hard. His Adam's apple bobbed in his throat with the tension in his neck and posture. I almost pitied him. It was so easy to see when he was riled up. I was angry enough to crush his larynx and snap his neck like they do in Afghanistan (or at least entertain thoughts of it), but I was still keeping enough composure to falsely smile and drink my coffee, speak with a lilting, jeering tone, and come up with tongue-in-cheek, if not outright rude, comebacks.

"I think you mean _my_ crime scene," I objected, then pouted my lips. "It's hard to tell the difference, I know, since it's so hard for you to see anything past your own sense of entitlement." His lip curled. "Paul Ignacio and Leo Barelli are working with me on a case. My correspondents, my crime scene."

"This is mob retaliation." Coincidentally enough, I felt like the snappishness of his objection could be considered a retaliation, as well.

I looked down on him pityingly, knowing how much he hated that. "This is probably more likely to do with the priceless stolen Bible from his relative's church," I contradicted smartly. "Which we have reason to believe _he_ took."

He shook his head at me, repulsed. Wow. That's a really strong emotion to feel. _Am I sad for his sake or do I feel proud?_ There was an odd mix of both going on in my head. Defensively, he lifted his hands in front of him and crossed his arms over his chest, puffing out his front to look in charge.

"You'll do anything to get your claws back onto my turf," he hissed, confrontational and accusatory.

I held out the hand not cradling my coffee and stepped back with one leg, bending my other knee in a curtsy. As I lowered my head, a piece of hair fell down in front of my face, soft strands brushing my cheek and tickling my nose. While I stood up again, I raised my hand to my hair and brushed it back, locking eyes with Ruiz and tauntingly pushing it behind my ear.

"Including scratching your eyes out," I proclaimed proudly, altogether too honest and upbeat about it. I would've enjoyed scratching his face with my fingernails, except gouging out his eyes might've resulted in some blood spray. _Ew._ The fact was, I wanted back in homicide… but I wasn't as low or desperate as the loser seemed to think. Then my expression cleared and I jerked my head towards the police cars. "Get out," I ordered coolly. "Get out of my investigation before you compromise the integrity of my evidence."

The look on Ruiz's face was well worth the stress and the escalation of my blood pressure. He looked so stunned at being told to get out, and the fact that Hughes wasn't countermanding it. The guy looked about to have an aneurysm. He looked amazed (in a bad way) and affronted and unable to believe that he was being told off and out by me, of all people, and his ego was being bruised and scraped into thousands of pieces along the way, and I enjoyed every second of that confusion on his face, during which he had no idea which dismay to express first.

The best part of it was when the sexist agent looked to my supervisor and apparently expected him to hand jurisdiction over to him. I had no idea why he'd think that. Not only was Ignacio my correspondent, but this was so coincidental that it was hard to believe objectively that it was completely unrelated to my case. It hadn't crossed any state lines. There was no actual evidence that it was a mob thing. And, most importantly, whether or not it made sense, I am Hughes's agent, so _obviously_ he's going to be more prepared to hand it to me than some other agent whom he knows has harassed me in the past.

Hughes coughed into the crook of his elbow and then lowered his shoulders, sinking his arms down and catching his wrist with his other hand behind his back. "Agent Ruiz, Agent Anderson is correct. This does fall under her jurisdiction."

I stood up a bit straighter and all but crowed.

Ruiz looked between the two of us, me condescendingly and Hughes incredulously. "This is ridiculous!"

"Your face is ridiculous," I retorted, just because I knew how much it would bother him.

Jerkily, he started to rip off his gloves, stripping them from his wrists with snaps. "Just as long as you're aware," he snarled at Hughes, a petulant child not getting what he wanted, "That you just gave control of the crime scene to a _kindergartener!"_

With nothing more to say and no real arguments to make, the bitch balled the gloves up in his hands, seething, and pinched them tightly in his clenched fist while he stormed past us, aggressively slamming his shoulder against mine on his way past. I knew him well enough to expect it, so I had braced myself for it and, more importantly, shoved myself at his shoulder at just the right time so that _he_ was the one stumbling off with indignity.

Inside the privacy and security of my own head, I counted to ten. Ruiz snapped something impatiently at someone else about blood samples getting to a lab. He sounded less like an agent and more like a brat, and it amazed me how he managed to keep his job with the way he would sometimes act.

I turned at Hughes, now letting myself look plenty ready to rip someone's carotid artery out with my teeth. "They put _Ruiz_ running violent crime?" I asked slowly. It seemed like such a bad decision. Ruiz, who didn't empathize with half of the victims… Ruiz, who didn't have enough compassion for other people to give the bad guys a chance to surrender first… In charge of a unit in which all of their criminals were dangerous? "That's unbelievable!"

"You were on a country-wide team before you underwent 'involuntary surgery,'" Hughes said, trying to placate my frustrations. He used air quotes around my phrase. "All he's got is Brooklyn."

If he thought that was going to make me feel better, then he was wrong. And sorely mistaken on exactly how much violent crime there was in Brooklyn. "He's a sissy!" I huffed. My mind went back to when Ruiz had twisted his ankle and milked it as long as he could until I deliberately scared him into jumping up and proving that he could walk again just fine. "He can't handle a sprain, much less a knife to the abdomen – multiple times!"

Hughes held up a hand. He didn't always do that to me but when he did, I took the hint to calm down. Just because I was being truthful didn't mean he liked when I bashed other agents, no matter how much they had it coming. I dropped my voice. Just because Ruiz was a bad egg didn't mean the rest of the homicide squad was, but I was still bitter and, more importantly, angered about being kicked off.

I gave my all to that job; that job came back and harmed me because of my devotion to it, but rather than let me keep working, they forced me off of it. How was that fair?

The director raised his eyebrows at me. I guessed I was being kind of rude. "You know what you have to do if you want to get bumped back up to your old place." His eyes slipped past my face and over my shoulder. I looked in that direction to see Neal leaning against the side of a police car, smoothly talking with a policewoman and laughing with her about something.

I looked back at him. I couldn't have been approved after spending so much time on the Dutchman case with nothing to show for it, yet since I'd cracked that one, I was impressive again; but Neal is a WCCD consultant, and therefore, his supervisor must also be in the WCCD. Even if I did climb my way back up, it would mean giving up Neal's custody. It's not so much a reluctance to let go of my control, but the knowledge that few people are going to be willing to give him the chance, and even fewer will tolerate the antics he pulls that I'm still learning to trust. I couldn't confidently say that he wouldn't be pushed back into prison.

"I have a moral obligation," I told Hughes seriously. It occurred to me that he may have planned this – my refusal illustrated to me a crystalline difference between myself and Ruiz. Eric would take the chance in a heartbeat, not caring what happened to Neal, but even though I wasn't in my first choice for a career, I was being paid, I was in the bureau, and I had the means to protect my sister. I had all the staples that I needed, and I had Neal now, too, and I'm more loyal than Ruiz understands the concept of.

Hughes looked away and down to the line of the bank. I suspiciously eyed him. He was far too good at making a point without having to actually say it. I couldn't decide if I should be proud of myself for having more of his approval for my ethics, or if I should be pondering what it meant that I had to have the assertion made by someone other than myself. My boss didn't give me much time to speculate.

"You have a homeless guy with a spotty memory who thinks Ignacio may have enticed him into stealing the Bible." The grey-haired senior summarized what had happened in our own investigation, and then he added the current events, which, of course, were only making things more complicated. "What we have here is a dead member of the Barelli family, probably killed by the Marettis."

I looked back at him thoughtfully. There was something he wanted me to pick up on – if he really thought Ignacio had been killed by another mob family, then he wouldn't have let me keep my reign over the crime scene. "Said homeless guy is a veteran who isn't getting a large enough army pension," I pointed out. He wasn't someone who hadn't taken care of himself or hadn't paid his taxes. He was someone who had risked his life defending my country and my freedoms. He shouldn't be written off just because he doesn't have the money to pay for shelter.

"The system works." He looked at me again. "I never said it was perfect. You'd better make sure this is handled neatly by the book." _There's a joke there,_ I managed to keep a straight face. _There's multiple jokes there and I don't think he appreciates the restraint I'm showing in not voicing them._ "I vouched for you."

"You vouch for me all the time," I couldn't help but remind him, just in case he had forgotten. Strictly speaking, I wasn't exactly supposed to know, but it only took a little bit of looking to find out. "I couldn't have taken Caffrey's custody if you hadn't." And while I do appreciate the display of confidence, I won't have him snapping a collar on my neck to guilt me into staying at his heels. This wasn't the one and only time he's supported me; it doesn't mean enough anymore for me to feel like I owe him anything.

He raised his head at first as if he was going to be agitated. He must've realized there was no point. What kind of agent would I be if I didn't look over all of the records regarding my deal with a convict before taking him out from behind bars? "You looked into it," he grudgingly stated.

I resisted smirking and instead smiled, small and sincere. "I appreciate your continued trust, sir."

"You're one of the best agents I've ever had pass through the WCCD," he gruffly praised. I felt a bit like I was shining. That was high praise, especially from such a respected bureau employee. "For as long as you stay, I'll take advantage of you." Which is pretty much a form of saying _I like you and want you to stay, but I value you enough to support you either way._

"Duly noted," I said, straight-faced. If I made something out of it, then he'd never say something like it where I could hear again.

There was a pause. I used it to drink some coffee.

"You may want to have Caffrey go wait in your car if you go down to the body," Hughes advised, reaching to the back of his neck and shucking up his collar. He dragged his hands around on both sides to fix his jacket accordingly against the breeze, made colder by coming over the waterfront. He turned his body in preparation to leave.

Even though I noticed he was ready to depart, I wasn't. And what was that supposed to mean, anyway? "What do they think's going to happen?" I asked, finding myself more and more annoyed by the limitations being placed on me while I toted around my CI. "Do they think he's good enough to steal an entire body from underneath a dozen officers and agents?"

The response I got was a warning look telling me that I was getting dangerously close to directing my attitude at the wrong person. I knew he didn't do anything to have my wrath coming at him, but being the messenger did put him in a bit of risk.

"Very few people are comfortable sharing intel while Caffrey's around. Are you a trained ballistician and pathologist?"

I looked down, reluctantly admitting defeat. I couldn't determine the necessary forensics on my own. I needed allies to help me with that, and if having Neal around the crime scene meant they would be less willing to collaborate with me, then I couldn't take my consultant down, and it's not like anyone would feel safer with his leash holder not within earshot.

Raising my free hand, I rubbed my face tiredly. "Come on," I complained. It was so unfair! It's not like he was walking free. He had a radius. I already had the probable cause for search and seizure on his possessions, and I would know wherever he went, so exactly how successful did they think he'd be with passing along information to an outside source, or stealing something from one of them?

"He's a convicted felon, McKenna." Hughes sounded sharp, but his use of my first name told me that he understood, to an extent, how horrible it was to feel confined on my own ground. And all because I was standing up for someone I trusted. "And Ruiz isn't the only one with reservations."

 _I – oh._ Quickly, I caught on. I was too smart not to notice the implication that even he wasn't sure yet if it had been a good idea to authorize the deal. Not thinking it would work but still letting me try was more than just assuring someone that I could handle the slippery, mouthy con artist. If he didn't think it would work, then by all means, he shouldn't have let it happen. We'd been desperate about the Dutchman, but there were other deals he could've signed off on, ones that offered much more definite terms of freedom, tighter ropes, and ended with him back in prison soon after – if not immediately after – the case had been closed.

I nodded slowly. Hughes really wasn't the person to complain to, in this case. I'd made the decision knowing it would be difficult, but I honestly had expected Neal to be harder to manage than my colleagues. Neal was supposed to be difficult to trust, dishonest, deceitful, and cunning. My coworkers were supposed to have my back. Instead it was seeming more like I could trust only a few select people in the bureau, and Neal had failed to show me the side of himself he'd showed Burke – the side that evaded the police for years, the side that made Burke want to strangle him (which is something, because Peter is much more patient than I am, I gathered), and the side that put him at the top of the FBI's 'wanted' list.

"He's wrong," I established in a mutter, walking backwards away from Hughes, glancing over my shoulder to make sure I knew where the curb was. "I won't forget to roll the windows down."

* * *

"What was all that about?" Neal asked when he finally saw fit to rejoin me where I'd made my new stand overlooking the crime scene unit collecting all of the evidence they could find and taking samples of the blood, sand, and water. He seemed so put together and content by the riverside, in spite of the situation that had unfolded – both that he was aware of and those that had happened after he'd gone to make friendly with the locals.

"All what?" I asked, wondering if he'd let me get away with playing dumb and not talking about it.

I should have known better. He knew I was anything but stupid, and he wouldn't let me act like I was. "Watching your face was like a rollercoaster," he explained. "Where do I start?" He leaned back and whistled. I didn't laugh. In fact, I didn't even look away from where I had fixed my stare on someone's visor. He seemed to realize something serious had happened, and although it didn't directly pertain to him, it felt like a big deal to me. And it was about him, so the universe would have to forgive me for being a little less warm towards him. "Are we off the case?"

"No." I said shortly, lifting my chin and rolling my neck around on my shoulders. Dealing with Ruiz always made me tense. I'd have considered going for a massage at an actual salon if it weren't for that I don't like strangers getting their hands near my throat. "This crime scene is under my control."

"Then... why aren't you down there?"

_Why can't you take a hint?_

"I didn't think you'd want to be publicly humiliated," I snapped back, hoping that both the statement and the agitation would convince him to back off and stop asking questions I didn't want to _think_ about the answers too, much less _say_. I'd known taking him out of jail would have consequences on his lifestyle… I hadn't thought it would change mine so much.

"Oh." He seemed to get it, at least, and he went very quiet out of either respect or guilt. I doubted it was the latter – he'd been so very persistent and persuasive on getting this deal in the first place – but I wouldn't be too surprised if he felt a little bit bad that I was being punished for it. "Do you want me to leave?" The offer was said quietly, in a small voice, like he was trying to take up less space around me.

That didn't make me feel better. I wasn't in a vindictive mood, just a sad and tired one. I couldn't have said 'yes' even if it might've helped me with Ruiz, because to do so would be to do as Eric suggested – have my pet wait in the car for me. I wouldn't treat Neal like a dog. He's a human being. A human being with limitations and restrictions due to his choices, but I won't treat him like an animal that needs to be sedated to be around normal people.

"That…" I sighed very deeply. What I wanted right now was a hug. A hug would be really nice. Really, really nice. Kate knew how to give great hugs. She always had, it's what made kids love hugging her so much. I like hugs from people taller than me, too, because I can rest my head under their chin and feel safe. "That really wouldn't help, no."

Unfortunately, Kate wasn't around to collect a free hug from, and I wasn't going to go sulking back to Hughes to ask for some comfort when I was already more alone than I'd ever felt before in the department. Even when I was demoted, I knew the reason, and I knew it wasn't really my fault. The majority of my coworkers understood that, too.

"Oh." He said again. It pretty much summed up the situation.

We were two people in a situation that made each other's lives easier in some ways, but the cost of that was increasing difficulty in others. Crime solving was easier, more fun with Neal around to help in his area of expertise; getting along with my colleagues and being treated as not just a superior, but a friend was much harder, and in a workplace, that's… that's a really important aspect, especially in a place like the FBI. Neal is out of jail, but at the cost of being forced to stick around people who know exactly who he is and who hold him with contempt and mistrust, and I can't stand it myself, so who knows how he feels?

"I'm sorry, Kenna." Neal reached up with his right hand and rubbed the back of his neck.

My very first impulse was to be comforting. When I wanted to be comforted, and I didn't feel threatened, I wanted to do the comforting. There was something inherently comforting in being the person who helps someone else calm down and feel secure again. Except this is the real world; not a daycare classroom, where I can come to visit and dry some tears by making one kid apologize for pulling another's hair, and it's not my home, where I can have Kate cuddle with me and watch television with chips or ice cream.

The reality of the situation was very simple. I couldn't tell Neal not to worry about it, or that it wasn't his fault, without it being a lie. He _should_ be worried about it; it's his reputation, too. It _is_ his fault; his actions are what made him a criminal, the causation for the tension in the situation. I know he understands consequences, but until about four years ago, he didn't really have to live with the social or legal repercussions of his decisions. For the majority of those four years, he spent the time in an isolated prison that must've barely seemed like Earth. This, outside of prison, is more real than he's probably ever been – at least, ever since he actually became Neal Caffrey.

If he was expecting me to tell him he wasn't to blame for it, then he was going to be disappointed. However, unlike Ruiz, I don't point out the cut and then proceed to shake salt and drip lemon juice on it, so I just moved on.

"That other agent is a brat who has a problem with me." I explicated briefly, in a very short and understated story. "I think I insulted him sufficiently enough to keep him away for now."

"What's his problem about?" _Oh, how cute._ He actually sounded like he cared. Some days I'd have believed he did, but as I was being roughly forced to remember that he evaded capture by lying and acting, it was starting to feel like one of those times where I couldn't believe anything he said was genuine. "What did you do to annoy him?"

 _Oh, yeah, that's not a story I'm going to tell, especially not in the mood I'm in._ I laughed derisively, letting him know quite clearly that I wasn't in a 'caring and sharing' head space. "Sorry, you must be a level four friend to unlock my career backstory."

"Wow," he said, faking being impressed. And that wasn't me being negative, that was just me reading his tone and him being horribly obvious to make a point. "You know, it's getting chilly by this water, don't you think?"

"I feel fine." Which was a lie – if a psychic listened to my head they'd probably think I was beginning to go insane from the angst swirling around in there, but hell if I'd say that, and at least where the temperature was concerned, it didn't feel bad.

"Then do you think I could borrow your jacket?"

I turned my eyes on Neal, immediately suspicious. At least he'd finally gotten me to look at him. Neal's jacket was made of just as thick – if not better – material than the windbreaker that the FBI had made standard-issue for its field agents and technicians. Why ask for a jacket from someone whom you know is wearing one that won't really fit you? Neal was too tall for him to wear it like it was meant to be worn, and I think he'd rather stay at home all day than be seen in anything less than designer lines that fit perfectly.

He put his hands up innocently, looking at me with wide, sweet eyes. "I swear to you, Kenna, under no circumstances will I impersonate the FBI," he vowed, using his right hand against his heart to pledge.

I moved one of my hands in my pockets to my iPod and pressed my finger against the home button while still staring at him suspiciously, taking a long time deciding whether or not I bought into it this time. This time I definitely didn't, but this time I was done leaning back and letting him get information God-knows-how from God-knows-who while refusing to give me anything but vague, ambiguous answers, and if that meant doing a little Nancy Drew work, then damn it, I would be the best Nancy Drew in the world. With the most advanced technology, too, because how old were those books?

I knew where the icon was on my screen, so I swept all the way to one direction with my hand still in my pocket and the pocket on the side of me away from Neal so that he couldn't see my hand was moving. Then, knowing I was on the screen all the way to the right, I thumbed back to the left to find the right one, and hit one of the app buttons. I am very deft at using my electronics without looking, thanks to years of practice and dependency.

So that he wouldn't think I was doing anything, I sighed loudly just to prove to him that I was cynical, but I took my iPhone out of that same pocket while leaving my iPod inside and turned on. I passed my phone to Neal for him to hold while I pulled the sleeves out over my hands and shrugged out of my windbreaker, which I then traded back for my phone.

Instead of putting it on, he draped it over his arm. "I'm gonna go get something to eat," he stated, totally normal and easygoing like he wasn't plotting something illegal and unethical. _Damn, will I feel foolish if this doesn't pan out._ "You want me to bring you anything?"

"No, I'm good, thanks." I looked down my front and patted my pockets, making sure I still had my car keys. "I'll call you when we need to go somewhere," I said, and the unspoken _and you had better pick up_ made him jokingly salute to me.

* * *

I knew that Hughes told me to get some lunch, but I was really more interested in what Neal was up to. I was priding myself on being stealthy and was excited to use less-than-normal means to find out what was supposedly going on behind my back. I didn't get to do this kind of thing all that often, and it being a personal thing and not a bureau-authorized surveillance made it even better. I gave him time to actually get up to something, driving to a nearby fast food stop and going through the drive-thru, then pulled into a parking spot, put the bag on the passenger's seat and the drink in the cup holder, and got my phone from my pocket.

It was a monitoring app that I'd gotten years ago. In all truth, I had forgotten I had it until the week before, when I was deleting a bunch of apps I'd downloaded to use once and then never opened again. When I upgraded my phone, I just synced everything from one onto the next, so I'd had some of the same apps since I was a teenager.

When we were getting started in New York, Kate had earned some money by babysitting, and at one point, she had been enlisted for sleepover duty. To make sure that the kids she was looking after weren't getting up to anything without letting them know she was listening, she went snooping on the app store to find what was essentially a baby monitor in phone form. You had at least two devices. They could be an iPod, phone, DS system, computer – it didn't matter, as long as it connected to the internet and could record sound. Once it was turned on, the app started recording in live time. The second device was used in a different room to listen to what was being recorded by the first. To screw around with Kate, I'd gotten the same app, and as a result, I had the fodder for endless teasing when I found out exactly what music she sang in the shower.

Since I had turned on my iPod to use as the first device, I opened up the sister app on my iPhone, turned up the volume as far as it would go, and set it on the dash to listen while I enjoyed my lunch. It turned out to be right on time, considering that I had barely waited three seconds before my phone was playing the crunch of small pebbles or gravel and a man's voice protested, _"Whoa! Where do you think you're going?"_

I was expecting to hear Neal's voice next, but then, I wasn't all that surprised when the voice I heard was actually no one's. _"This is Paul Ignacio's apartment, right?"_

"Sounds like no one is up to something," I told my fruit punch from the drive-thru while I unwrapped my sandwich. Additionally, I dropped my right hand down to the side of the seat and pulled up at the adjustment lever, pushing back and leaning the seat comfortably back at a lower incline.

 _"_ _Hi,"_ the cigarette guy continued. _"Uh, Ted Jefferson, from the evidence recovery team."_

Evidence recovery – _damn it._ I couldn't even be upset about Neal lying to me about promising not to impersonate the FBI, because, technically speaking, he wasn't. He hadn't made any promises where his friend was concerned. I was both irritated and amused at the same time, and it just annoyed me further that I couldn't decide which emotion to feel.

 _"_ _I don't care if you're_ _ **Thomas**_ _Jefferson,"_ the second man – probably a crime scene guard, if I was getting the context right – belligerently declared. _"I need ID."_

 _"_ _Oh, sorry._ " Rustling of fabric moved closer and got louder, for a moment muffling the speakers. I imagined him patting down the pockets of my jacket in search for said ID. He must have felt my iPod, but then dismissed it as something I'd just left in my jacket. After all, it was _my_ jacket. And to be fair, I'd given it to Neal, not a stranger, and exactly what would Neal gain by stealing my iPod? Aside from a black eye, that is? _"I pulled a double homi last night. It's in the van. My partner took it to see his girlfriend in Queens."_

The guard scoffed. _"Not my problem, man."_

I ate my sandwich while listening intently. This was much more intriguing than the radio any day. Why listen to people on talk shows bitch about their relationship problems (I think those should be kept private, not broadcasted for the entire country to put in their opinions) when I can listen to Neal's pal do improvisational acting to fake his way into a crime scene? Honestly, I was curious how he managed to pull it off, and wanted to know if it would work this time.

 _"_ _Look, I – I just need a urine swab from the vic's toilet for comparing DNA analyses. If I don't get it soon, it'll spike the cross reactivity, and then-"_

The guard cut him off, not even letting him finish is statement. I couldn't really blame him. He was probably bored, and the last thing I'd want to deal with was an unauthorized guy trying to get into a cordoned-off apartment. To myself, I noted that he apparently also knew a little about chemistry – or at least about the processes that the forensic labs went through.

 _"_ _I got orders, too, pal."_

 _"_ _Ah…"_ he sounded worried. I closed my eyes while I ate and listened to my own personal radio. The sun wasn't in my face, but it was making a glare on my windshield, which was starting to give me a headache. _"Oh, I know! You can get it!"_ I swallowed and snickered. Yeah, right. If they weren't in the crime scene unit, agents guarding a crime scene were very unlikely to want to do lab or technical work, especially when it involved the victims' bathrooms. _"All you've got to do is swab around the rim of the toilet, then drop the swab into the tube, screw the cap on the tube, and bam, we're good to go!"_

Predictably, the guard balked. _"No way!"_ I opened my eyes and looked at the phone on the dash. If it were a two-way feed (and I wanted him to know I was listening) I'd had told him 'I told you so.' _"I'm not doing that!"_

No one missed a beat. Then, sounding incredibly exasperated, he gave up. _"… Okay. Now it's your problem."_ I was questioning what he meant by that when something made electronic noises and he started speaking again, this time to someone else. _"Yeah, Cap, I've got a local hero by the name of, uh-"_

 _"_ _Okay, okay!"_ To avoid getting in trouble, the guard quickly relented.

The noise of my own laughter drowned out the sound over the guard's voice as he said something else. I covered my mouth with my hand, shaking. _That was great._ I couldn't ethically condone it, but _damn._ If nothing else, I got free entertainment with my lunch.

 _"_ _Oh, turns out the hero's on our side. Never mind."_

Very unhappily, the guard shared a choice couple of words with the fraud, but he let the man past into the apartment building. Aside from footsteps, which grew even quieter once he was indoors and walking on carpet, there was nothing to hear. I kept the link playing.

After a minute, he must've found an elevator. The doors opened with a dinging noise, and he got inside. His footsteps changed pitch when he left the carpet for the linoleum. The doors slid shut and the stupid instrumental music started to play. It was faint and the volume changed whenever the jacket shifted as a result of the speakers being covered, but I could hear it too well for my tastes. I was glad when he got off.

When he left the elevator, it was harder to tell what he was doing, but he was back on carpet again. It wasn't rocket science to tell he was heading for Ignacio's apartment. The door was unlocked so that crime scene techs could go inside, so I wouldn't be hearing the sound of someone picking the doors open any time. I did hear a quiet squeak, and then the soft closing of a door, followed by a twist of metal, but then he moved quietly and quickly.

I finished my sandwich and moved on to the mozzarella sticks, fried to perfection with the outsides crisp and the insides gooey and cheesy. It was kind of awkward to hear the crunching of the breading in my car and then movement as quiet as a Bond mission coming from my phone. I might as well have been loudly eating popcorn during the _007_ theme.

I started on another mozzarella stick when something startled me, like a window being wrenched open on old hinges. I jumped, whipping my head around to the window next to me in the car before I realized that it was from the phone, and then I stared at the device as if I could glower at Neal's partner in crime for scaring me through the screen.

The noise stopped as the window was shoved all the way up, and metal shook. _A fire escape._ I shook my head. Really, I should have known better. This seemed like a much better idea before I knew that I'd be regretting not having plausible deniability. Someone grunted, no one offered some help, and a minute later, the window was being pushed shut again.

 _"_ _Any problems getting in?"_ That was definitely Neal's voice – I'd recognize him anywhere, but especially a crime scene. Still, he technically hadn't lied to me. I leaned over the steering wheel and smacked my forehead against the upper arch of the circumference.

 _"_ _None."_ The short guy sounded just so proud of himself. _"He thinks I'm swabbing toilets. Figure we've got about ten minutes until he gets curious."_

 _"_ _Why? Is that the standard toilet-swabbing time?"_ Neal asked him mockingly, oblivious to that his remark was making me laugh.

His friend didn't appreciate it, and I could almost envision the scowl the blue-eyed man was being directed. _"Yes,"_ he sassily back-talked. _"That's exactly what it is."_

I settled back in my chair with another mozzarella stick. This was the kind of lunch that Neal complained about, yet it remained one of my favorites. There was just something delicious about grease and cheese when it was deep-fried and served with a sandwich with salted lean meats. Probably not the kind of lunch any of Neal's high-end criminal friends would like, either, even the one who'd broken into Ignacio's apartment with him.

 _"_ _You look pretty comfortable in that FBI windbreaker,"_ Neal teased while drawers opened.

 _"_ _Don't be misled."_ He sounded downright offended. Something else opened. They were obviously looking for something, even if it wasn't necessarily anything in particular. _"I know you got it from your suit. It's too big in the chest."_

"Huh, I wonder why," I muttered with a roll of my eyes. What did the man expect? I _do_ have breasts, thank you very much, and if you're going to be so picky about how well clothes fit, then maybe either take them from members of your own sex or stop getting them through criminal activity.

 _"_ _I'm just saying, maybe it's time to consider a new career path."_

 _"_ _No, thanks. I'd prefer to keep my soul."_

"Hey!" I objected loudly. The FBI doesn't suck away souls. What are we now, a department of demons and witches? The man continued on, not realizing that he'd insulted the bureau within earshot of ears that would take it personally.

 _"_ _What are we looking for?"_ Disgruntled, I settled down again. I wanted to know the answer to that, too.

 _"_ _Paul convinced our homeless guy to steal the Bible,"_ Neal explained. Irrationally, I wanted to ask who he meant by 'our.' Was it 'our' as in the two of us, or 'our' as in he and Mr. Improv? I felt a little bit cheated that I was being left out of this, but realistically, he couldn't very well come up and say _I'm going to break in to the victim's apartment, want to join,_ could he? _"I want to know why, I want to know who killed him, and I want to know if they're related."_

I listened to them work in silence, continuing to almost expect something heavy to drop on the ground, but while they searched the apartment, they must've been orderly and practiced. I ran out of mozzarella sticks, despite having bought a large order, and wiped the grease from my fingers on a napkin. Checking the time, I decided that I could wait there in the parking lot for a little while longer. Whether or not I trusted myself not to go buy more cheese sticks was yet to be determined.

 _"_ _He was researching something. Hundred Years' War, the Crusades, illuminated manuscripts. Why is a mob guy researching medieval history?"_ Maybe he just had a hobby. It wasn't really the kind of thing the crime scene team would care about. _"Do you know the name Maria Fiametta?"_

"It's Italian," I said aloud. When I once again realized that the audio track was a one-way street, I wrapped my arms around myself in exaggerated loneliness.

 _"_ _Doesn't ring a bell. Who is she?"_

 _"_ _Art historian, Brooklyn State."_

 _"_ _Serendipity."_ Pages rifled. _"Paul had an appointment at Brooklyn State."_

* * *

After calling Brooklyn State directly to set up an appointment to meet with Professor Fiametta later in the afternoon, I looked through my contacts, selected Neal's name, and called his cell phone. I wanted to know how he'd react when he picked up, and I didn't want two other people trying to call for the same reason. That might have raised questions of why Neal wasn't with me while he was working on a case, and that might have led to looking up his tracking information. Since he wasn't supposed to be in Ignacio's apartment, it was better that he knew we already had a lead and left the problem alone until he was back in safe territory.

When I made the phone calls, I'd had to close out my monitoring app, but Neal still picked up his phone quickly when it rang. On the second ring, I got to hear his voice cheerfully saying my name. _"Kenna, hey!"_

"You're taking a pretty long lunch," I said conversationally, sitting in my parking space and looking down to my fingernails, figuring out the best way to break it to them that I knew exactly where they were and what they were doing. I wished I could've seen their faces, but I'd settle for this.

 _"_ _You're not taking a long enough lunch,"_ Neal countered, his attitude bored and his voice absolutely, completely free of guilt for sneaking into a crime scene. Oh, yes – the shock he was about to get was well-deserved. _"When was the last time you stopped and enjoyed the ambience of a restaurant?"_

Oh, and that was a perfect bridge into what I wanted to say. I grinned so widely that my cheeks hurt, and I'll bet that he heard it. "Probably around the last time I gave my jacket to a friend and had him play tricks on FBI agents." I made sure to say it like it was no big deal, both so he wouldn't worry he was in too much trouble and so it could still theoretically be dismissed as a joke.

I waited for a reply, but instead of a verbal response, there was a very pregnant and extremely awkward silence that resonated through the phone connection. Neither of the men in the apartment said anything, but I could swear I felt their horror being psychically channeled.

After getting over how stunned he was, Neal dropped his voice low and quiet. _"How much did you hear?"_

I smirked at my windshield. It was nice to be stealthier than he expected, and at least he seemed to know better than to think I'd tell him how I'd been listening if he asked. "I've called to meet with Maria Fiametta," I informed him, tapping my nails against the front of the steering wheel. A couple of kids got out to go inside and play on the indoor playground at the fast food restaurant, hopping out of the backseat of a minivan. The sun was still out and bright, but clouds had moved to make it easier to see out the windows since. "She writes about the black market, European grave robbers, African smugglers, Asian mobs, and pretty much anything else you can imagine would leave some dirt on her hands."

 _"_ _How much did you hear?"_ Neal repeated, sort of somberly insistent that he know exactly how much of his secret methods I was now aware of.

"Ever read _The Odyssey?"_ I asked, hoping that one of them had. It made the entire situation much easier to understand. Whoever his friend was, I'd been told he was no one. If I happened to be dense enough to take it as his name, well, then, it's not like anyone would realize the term was substituted for a proper noun, now, would they?

The FBI agent in me was telling me not to let them do this and get away with it, but the rebellious part that loved mischief and chaos was saying _do it, do it_ and the final part, the one that still thought murder outweighed fraud and the one that had a soft spot for Neal, was saying to let his friend off of the hook, particularly since I was willing to bet that a lot of the information he'd come to me with that would turn out to be correct or vital to a case came from this character.

 _"_ _No,"_ he said, and oh, he sounded so dazed by the randomness that it was cute. Well, if he hadn't read it, then it really was a random and pointless thing to ask. _"Why?"_

 _"_ _Yes,"_ his friend very clearly said, speaking louder than Neal. It was the first thing he'd said since they had answered my phone call, and I smiled. I didn't expect him to trust me, by any means, but at least he understood what I was trying to do for them. Still missing the message, Neal hurried to shush the other man.

For Neal's benefit, I was very concise with what I said next. "I heard a lot from no one."

I gave it a few seconds, and when I heard a quiet 'ah' of understanding and gratitude, I hung up the phone, shaking my head at the two of them. What the hell? Neal was supposed to be someone I saw once in a while and who gave me minimal trouble, but he'd become most of my trouble _and_ most of my fun, and the problem was, I couldn't even entirely separate the two anymore.

* * *

"You said you're with the FBI?" Maria asked, turning on the light in her office as Neal and I followed her inside. I was looking around curiously, intrigued by the setup. The office was organized, sure, but I had to actually try to notice the organization. To me, it seemed like things were everywhere. She had her own system going that only became apparent when I paid attention to the way things were grouped. It reminded me of Remus's office in _Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban._ Most of the things looked like antiques or artifacts, but a few were probably cheap knick-knacks.

"Yes, ma'am." I looked at a really old globe up on top of a bookshelf. It wasn't dirty from dust, just from having been made so long ago. It looked like the pedestal it was on and the axis it balanced with were made of real silver. "We're actually hoping you can help us get some information. We're working on a case with a stolen Bible." I looked away from the globe and down to my wallet, unfolding it to get out a small photograph I'd had copied from Barelli, and handed it to Maria.

She took it daintily from my hand between two fingers. Maria was a short woman in her early thirties, several inches below me, who wore violet high heels to compensate for it. Her hair went past her shoulders. It was a mousy brown color, but it was conditioned and styled well, and it shone underneath the lighting. It was probably really soft to the touch. Her pants fit snugly on narrow hips and her shirt's neckline dipped down between her breasts, drawing the eyes.

"Thank you, Agent Anderson. And Agent…" I had introduced myself, but not Neal, so now she looked behind me and eyed the man up and down. I'd known he was attractive, I mean, _holy hell he's attractive_ , but I'd never seen someone so obviously check him out, so I raised my eyebrows.

"Neal Caffrey," he said his own name with a flourish and a half-bow.

She looked taken aback, but she adapted quickly. "That's funny," she remarked. I looked over my shoulder at Neal, trying to tell him without words not to get all egotistical. She evidently recognized his name. "There's a very talented manuscript forger also named Neal Caffrey."

_He forges a bit more than just manuscripts…_

Neal leaned forward and conspiratorially stage-whispered. "How talented?"

Her roundabout question answered, Maria nodded. "You're him." She looked him over again, this time a little less impressed. "And you're… with the FBI?" The professor sounded a little bit disappointed. What, so now because he's not wanted, he's not as cool? I mean, bad boys _seem_ all sexy, but you know what's _not_ sexy? Everyone knowing when you're having sex, because you have to fill out a bunch of paperwork for a conjugal visit, and at least half a dozen people end up knowing where and when you're getting laid.

"It's, ah, sort of a work release." He wrote it off as nothing.

"I have to ask," she said, drawing her eyes up from his mouth to his eyes. I was feeling a little bit of second-hand embarrassment for her sake. _You're being spoken to by the FBI, can you be a little less bold, please? It's making me uncomfortable._ "Is it true that the Vineland map is yours?"

"How could it be?" He didn't even look at me the way he normally did when someone asked about his criminal history. He even looked at me as if for permission before he talked with Kate about it. Then he – oh, Jesus, he winked at her. "But if it _is_ a forgery, it's spectacular."

Three things added up – that she was being so irritatingly off-topic, that he was flirting with a suspect and not giving me the attention he normally did, and that they had, either intentionally or unintentionally, cut me out of the dialogue – and served to make me glare at both of them irately. I didn't want him paying more attention to her than he did me. She's just some professor we were talking to. I'm his partner. Partner and workload trumps sexy woman who likes showing off her cleavage. Thinking that rudely and being such an attention-whore wasn't usually my style – I'd have thought I'd be more annoyed that they were discussing something illegal right in front of me, but nope. I wanted his _attention. What the hell, Anderson._

I cleared my throat loudly, inserting myself back in. "And to the _legal_ part of this conversation?" I prompted, my hands itching and my nerves being rubbed against in all the wrong, wrong ways. "A pre-Renaissance Bible was stolen from a church in Brooklyn."

Maria nodded sheepishly as if to say 'of course' and apologize for being sidetracked, and she looked down at the picture I'd given her, studying it carefully. _About time._ "It's very beautiful," she concluded after a few seconds, then looked back up. "But it's not a Bible." There as an almost challenge there.

What the hell was happening? Really, what? _I don't understand._ Was she jealous that I'd taken back the attention, that I'd interrupted their revoltingly flirtatious chat? _Well, screw you, lady._ "It's not?" I took a warning tone, the kind I usually used with agents who were making particularly minimal use of their common sense, and used it to scold her not to try me.

She held her chin a little higher. Neal's eyes moved between the two of us like he'd realized there was something that he had missed. I thought that fighting for his attention was immature and ridiculous, but there was no way I was going to back down to someone who didn't even carry a gun.

"Pre-Renaissance, yes, but it's too small to be a Bible."

"Then it's a Book of Hours," I amended, taking pleasure in that she looked a little disgruntled that I had known without having it explained in excruciating detail.

"Most likely, yes, in the Italian style."

I reached for Neal and touched his arm with my hand while I explained, and while normally I'd have let go the minute I knew he was actually listening and not just absently pretending to hear, this time I shot a look at Maria and kept my hand resting casually on his upper arm. "It's a prayer book. Monks and nuns had to recite specific hymns, chants, and songs at precise times throughout the day."

"Sunday school?" Neal asked me.

"You could say that."

"This is a particularly nice example," Maria mused, tapping her sharpened fingernails down on the Polaroid's shining top.

"Paul Ignacio thought so, too," I shared, watching her face for something to change.

And something did, though she covered it up quickly – it was a barely-there pull of her lips down, and rather than disapproval, it looked more like frustration. I smirked cockily. _Got you, bitch._ She fixed herself in less than a second and her expression became calm and confused. "Sorry?" She questioned.

"Do you know him?" Ethically, I had to offer her the chance to come clean about it to tell what all she was hiding before she was arrested. Which she would be. I would arrest her. Happily.

Instead of copping to whatever role she'd played in the theft and/or murder, she continued to move her head back and forth. "No."

"We have reason to believe he's responsible for stealing it."

"Well, I hope you catch him."

However much I already hated her, she was a good actress, and she didn't make the mistake of slipping up again. Those guards had already been roused and the mask put in place to play the role of a professor who didn't know more than she was letting on. I tried to shock her again into making it fall.

"We can't. He was killed this morning." I made sure to sound particularly apathetic so that she couldn't use the distraction of my emotions to cover up her own, but she didn't even seem minimally surprised. I think, ultimately, that was even better than the mistake of thirty seconds ago. "We're still looking to figure out for sure who took the book." I should've said that in the past tense, because I was pretty sure we'd found her.

She looked at the picture and made no move to give it back. That was okay. Even before I'd learned that I wanted her arrested almost more than I wanted Barelli behind bars, I'd intended to have her keep it so she could identify the book if someone approached her with it. "I'd love to know," she murmured wistfully. "It's quite beautiful."

"If you hear anything," I started to finish up with the intention of getting away from her and getting her away from Neal. I really wasn't sure which I wanted more, honestly. I might have been forced to repress my anger before I scratched her eyes out, but leaving her and Neal alone was more like a nightmare than a normal day in therapy. "Come across anyone looking to buy or sell something like that-"

She just interrupted me. "I'll call you," she promised. I couldn't help but feel like it was empty. Also, to my chagrin, she had _interrupted me._

"Thank you," I forced myself to say through teeth that were clenched together to maintain self-control.

"It's been a pleasure." Neal was far more civilized with his goodbye. In fact, he was way _too_ civilized, bowing down in front of her, picking up her left hand, and bringing it up to brush his lips across the back. I looked up at the ceiling, one hundred-percent done with being there, and waited with impatient body language for them to finish up.

Maria smiled, a faint blush rising in her cheeks as he rose from his kneel. "If you're ever in the mood to discuss medieval manuscripts…" She let it trail off, as it was very clearly implied.

"You'd be surprised how often I'm in the mood for that," he replied with a surprisingly encouraging grin, just adding to the torture. I'd never known I could get this jealous before just by watching a couple of people flirt and make eyes at each other.

_Jealous._

So that's what it was. I really needed to be more emotionally aware of what's going on in my own head.

_Well, fuck._

* * *

**My first crush was on a girl, but I didn't know that it was a crush at the time. It was only in hindsight that I realized I adored her the same way I adored the cute kid I shared a gym class with when I was twelve. He was nice. Short and dark hair. He used to be short, too, but he hit a growth spurt in eighth grade and shot up like a beanpole. Tall and dark-haired are clearly my type.**

**I didn't pursue the kid. It was my own decision, for once not made with input from mother. I don't think any of the staff knew about it, either. I kept it to myself. It was a secret. I didn't want my "family" to ruin it. After the fact, they ruined my first crush, too. With the puberty talk came the dating talk, and that involved a serious (and one-sided) conversation about how I should save myself for marriage and definitely not marry another female. When I learned that I could like girls as much as I could like boys, I felt dirty and confused. Whether they is the church or my parents or society in general, they had no right to do that to me, to make me feel that way. I don't know who to blame more… I certainly don't want to assign fault where it isn't due, especially not to as serious a thing as religion, but Mom certainly handled it poorly. No wonder I stayed in the closet so long.**

**I don't know what I want you to do about your first crush, McKenna, but don't be so dumb about yourself as to not know when you like someone.**

**Love (freely),**

**Zarra L**


	6. We Made the Age-Old Prom Night Promise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The team recovers the coveted Book of Hours, no one returns McKenna's things, and Neal makes the first move.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Lucy Hale's "From the Backseat."

**_Chapter Six – We Made the Age-Old Prom Night Promise_ **

Kate invited Neal into the house yet again. She has a bad habit of doing that. I made myself some coffee, she got herself a can of soda from the fridge, and although we offered beverages to Neal, he got himself a glass of filtered water from the tap. Although I don't like her in the field, it's not unusual for me to run my cases by Kate for her different perspective, so Neal and I sat down at the table while she listened to us explaining what was going on.

"She definitely knew who we were talking about, and she's barely two blocks away from where we found our homeless vet, but I have trouble pegging her for the kind to kill a known mob relative." Maria liked to write dirty, but she seemed like the kind to keep her hands physically clean and primly manicured with stiletto-style acrylics. That her nails had actually been filed to a curve was irrelevant.

Kate drank thoughtfully from her already half-empty can. It had been somewhat of a long story, especially when Neal and I kept jumping in to take over from each other. "Actually," she said, sounding like she was going to contradict me. "If I was going to kill a mobster, I'd think she's in the prime position to do it."

"What do you mean?"

Kate just looked at me for a minute like I was being dense again, but then she turned her head to Neal and said, very clearly, "Hey, Neal. Was she hot?"

Neal grinned. "Very." I blinked and pushed down the irritation in my stomach.

My sister pointed at Neal when she looked at me as if to say 'see?' "Would you be willing to meet her alone if she implied she wanted to get busy?"

Now that it was pointed out, it seemed painfully obvious, to the point that I was smacking myself inside for not having figured that approach out sooner. Neal and I looked at each other, both of us a little bit surprised, and simultaneously replied, "Oh."

"You know, your little sister just developed a means of getting a mobster alone to kill him." I couldn't tell if Neal said it to bother me or to illustrate a point about Maria, but it did both. Either Kate's been listening too closely to me when I rant about work, or she's secretly devious.

"And if Katie can do that, then maybe Maria isn't much of a stretch." Warily, I took a long look at Kate. She saw the suspicion in my expression and smiled widely at me, blinking cutely and raising her soda back up to her face like she hadn't done anything to ring the warning bells.

My con artist sat up straight, lifting his elbows from the table. "I think we're dealing with a shell game." He announced, looking around the table. While I wasn't expecting it, he snatched my coffee mug from right in front of me. My eyes went wide. Kate giggled at my expression and I turned a narrow-eyed scowl at her. She pushed her soda can across the table towards Neal, and he added his own glass to the collection.

"Props. Nice." Kate looked on in interest.

I stared right at her and pointed directly at my coffee. "He took my coffee." _No one takes my coffee._

Both of them ignored me. I didn't really appreciate it. You don't just _take_ someone's coffee, especially not when they're pretty much addicted to it. Neal framed the drinks with his hands. "Mine's Paul, the dead mob guy. The mug is Maria, and the can is Steve." I looked up to the ceiling and wiggled my phone out of my pocket to check my email while he played with his toys, but Neal saw me and took my phone right out of my hands. I froze, hand still in the air over the table. "Phone is the Bible," he added cheekily.

Again, I looked straight at Kate and registered my issues with her. "He took my phone."

This time Kate did something about it, but she didn't look like she was trying very hard. "Stop taking Kenzi's things," she scolded. I almost regretted asking, because she used on us the tone she used on five-year-olds. "Unless you take her gun next, you're putting yourself in danger." I probably should have been offended, but Kate was likely correct about that.

"Make Maria the salt and give me my coffee!" I commanded, dropping my fists onto the table.

Neal stubbornly met my eyes. "Maria's the coffee," he reiterated. He was enjoying bothering me – I could see the playfulness in his eyes, but once you take my coffee, it's no longer a game. "Watch." He looked down at his props, the drinks all sitting around my phone. "We'll start with Paul, who, for some reason, reads Maria's book and realizes the healing Bible's worth a hell of a lot of cash."

I dragged my fists off of the edge of the table and slid down in my seat, crossing my arms unhappily but reluctantly watching the presentation. "It's a Book of Hours," I corrected spitefully. Neal ignored me.

"But it's also Barelli's pride and joy." _Are we talking about a book or a child?_ "He doesn't want to risk Barelli's wrath, so he gets-"

"He gets Steve to steal the Bible, promising to let him heal his dog," Kate interrupted, filling it in for herself, and damn, she sounded so proud of herself for contributing. It was adorable. I think she doesn't realize sometimes how much she helps me with my work, even if it's not put on official record.

"Plausible deniability," I gave my input. That was a pretty smart move from Maria… but, just to be clear, just because I was making note of her intelligence didn't mean I held anything near _appreciation_ for her.

"If it doesn't work, then Steve takes the fall." Kate's proud little smile dropped into a frown at the unfairness of the scam. "That's just evil," she complained. _That's the real world._

Neal animatedly moved the cups around, moving "Steve" from the middle of the transaction and to the far left, then pushing "Maria" into the middle. "He takes the Bible from Steve…" He pulled my phone around the soda and then dragged it over to his water. "Calls Maria to make the deal, and something happens."

"The deal goes wrong, or Paul decides to cut out Maria to make the profits –" His smile widening mischievously, Neal was holding out his hand between his water and my mug, acting like was about to literally shove my coffee out of the arrangement. "If you knock over my coffee," I growled threateningly, "I will shoot you right here."

Neal moved his hand out of the way. Kate looked exasperated at how hard he was trying to get under my skin. "Well, whatever it is, Paul ends up dead," he moved the water to the edge of the table, "The Bible goes missing," he flicked my phone and sent it skidding back to me, away from the other props. "And Steve never even met Maria." He took the can and the mug and moved them further apart.

"And Maria gets away clean with a very expensive Book of Hours." I drew the final conclusion and took my coffee by the handle, dragging it back to me, both as Maria coming with the Bible-slash-cell phone and as me wanting my caffeine back. I slipped my fingers through the curve of the handle to pick it up, but when I raised the cup from the table, a neatly-folded twenty-dollar bill was sitting just underneath it. I was _sure_ that that hadn't been there before. Kate laughed while I looked back at Neal. "Okay, how did you do that?"

"Never tell your secrets," Kate advised Neal, still chuckling at my expense.

My eyes lit up and I put my coffee down to the side, picking up the money instead. I waved the cash at Neal tauntingly. "Consider this a fine for no one impersonating the FBI," I said while smugly shoving it in my pocket.

"Huh?" Kate questioned, looking confused, which was normal, because you really had to have context to understand what I'd just said.

"That's okay." He shrugged. "It's yours anyway."

"What?" Neal smirked at me and he held up my wallet, lifting it off of his leg and over the table. My eyes widened and my hands moved to my pockets, patting my slacks even though I could very clearly see that my wallet was no longer on my person. "Hand it over!"

Kate looked between us, puzzled. "What did I miss?"

"Wallet, coffee, phone – pick on Kate!" Emphatically, I gestured to her while I stood up from the table, legs of my chair scratching at the floor. Neal handed over my wallet willingly and I shoved it back into my pants, along with my phone, and realized that I probably should watch what he was doing more carefully. He must've lifted them after we got here, because everything was where it was supposed to be when I dropped my keys in. "You know – the woman _without_ the power to arrest you!"

"I'd have given it back," Neal vowed earnestly.

"Your hands stay out of my pockets!"

"Guys!" Kate raised her voice to get our attention again. Her hands were out of sight under the edge of the table, but if I knew her, they were on her hips. We stopped arguing and gave her our concentration again. "How're you going to get Maria for possessing the book?"

_Good question._

I dropped my head and rubbed at my temples with my index and middle fingers. "I could probably get a warrant into her home or office…" It would take some work, but I could probably get it passed. The problem was that Maria was going to be expecting that. "But if she's a smart person, which she must be, then she's not going to keep it close to her." I propped my chin up on my fist, elbow on the table again, looking to Neal for a suggestion. Maria liked him – he flirted with her, they clearly thought they had a connection. She might actually trust him, since she knew him beforehand- oh. "Oh," I said out loud, getting more excited. _"Oh."_

Neal leaned away from the table and held his hands up innocently. "I haven't taken anything else of yours, I swear."

"She recognized you!" I dropped my hand from under my head. "Neal Caffrey, master forger."

He held up a finger in protest. "Alleged."

"Whatever." I waved it off with my hand. "If she has the book, it links her to the murder. She'll want rid of it. We have all of the normal means locked down tight, and Barelli's obviously keeping an eye out. If she thinks you might be interested in getting in on the scheme…"

I thought that Neal would just immediately jump at the chance to run another con, especially one that pretended he was double-crossing me. It seemed like the kind of thing he'd find funny. Instead, he didn't – he looked contemplative, but a little worried, his lips frowning slightly. "Convince her I'm pliable…" he sounded almost unsure if it was something he actually wanted to help plan.

Kate looked excited at the prospect. "So you guys can find some street contacts – even Barelli, since it's to get his Bible back – and get word out that he's back in business." She was looking at me and expecting me to react in some way. Probably trying to measure how much trust I had in Neal that he wouldn't _actually_ get back into the business.

He was slowly disagreeing. "That could take time to reach her," he pointed out. "And there's no guarantee."

Kate's shoulders slumped, but it was only for a second before she was back in the game. "Well, if you're not going for indirect, then why don't you just ask her out?" She suggested, looking over his face meaningfully and then glancing towards me, trying to tell me something.

I just wasn't too sure that Maria was going to fall for the seduction ploy. It seemed almost too overused, thanks to the plots of popular media. "You actually think that'll work?"

"Is she in love with someone else?" She was giving me a look that told me she very strongly thought I was being obtuse. And maybe I was, just a bit – but I put my all into my investigations, so forgive me for wanting to avoid something that would cause me emotional distress. It's really, really weird to think of a suspect and, instead of feeling impassive or annoyed, to feel _jealous._

"Not according to legal documents or social media," I said, grudgingly resigning myself to being jealous, because Kate had a point; this would work, and it didn't have to be a Disney love story, just a little bit of sexual tension and some convincing acting. This was the kind of job that struck me as Neal's favorite – playing games and flirting with beautiful women.

"Then yes," the daycare provider nodded very quickly after I'd said that, making Neal and I both look at her in question. _Is there something you'd like to tell me, Katie?_ That didn't quite make me feel better, but it did take my mind off of my new dilemma long enough to smile and teasingly ask just that.

* * *

Neal chose to take Maria out to a very expensive uptown restaurant well-known for their wine collection and their appetizers that started at twenty-seven dollars. I'd say this for him: he clearly knew how to treat his dates to a night out, especially if he was actually providing a distraction so that FBI agents could sneak into their house to scout things out and drop some hearing bugs.

I listened with antsy legs and hands, wanting to move around and do something rather than sit around, while Neal toasted a glass. Probably the Mélisse he'd ordered for the two of them. _"To history,"_ he proposed. _"Old and new."_

I started to crack my knuckles to help get rid of the fidgetiness in my fingers, but knew with a sort of sense of just understanding myself that if I were in that restaurant under different circumstances – say, Neal and I pretending to be a couple again – then I'd have been calm and relaxed and enjoying myself, playing up the role of a smitten lover with a doting fiancé, pleased with myself because I'd be where I want to but shouldn't be, and comfortable because I'd be with a friend in a nice place, drinking classy wine and being the adult version of a Disney princess.

 _"_ _How does an FBI agent get a table here? It's like a six-month wait."_ Arrogantly, I thought at her that the FBI _had_ managed to get this table. Of course, typically, we weren't allowed to pull the "federal agent" card for dining reservations, but that was permissible, given that this was for an undercover thing.

 _"_ _Well, an FBI agent_ _ **doesn't**_." Neal laughed quietly, his humor too controlled for it to be real. _"Don't forget, I had a previous life."_

 _"_ _Oh, yeah. Do you believe in reincarnation?"_

 _"_ _You could say that."_ He managed to stay vague, even in their vague metaphors comparing alter egos and criminal activity to facets of Buddhist religion. He easily turned the question right back at her. _"How about you? Who were you in a previous life?"_

 _"_ _Same person I've always been. With nineties' hair,"_ she added with a self-deprecating scoff.

 _"_ _I doubt that."_ He sounded so sweet, defending her from herself, and his voice was so kind. Of course there were people talking around them, but the bug was on Neal, so his voice was the clearest, and Maria, being the closest to him, was also easy to understand. _"Let me see your lifeline."_ There was a second of no response from either in which she must've been hesitant. _"Come on,"_ he coaxed. _"It'll help fill in the blanks."_

 _"_ _You're not seriously going to read my palm right now, are you?"_

Diana's voice was even louder than the volume through either of our headphones, so when she started speaking, a little bit surprised but mostly impressed, I didn't have to move to take mine off to hear or respond. "I didn't think he'd be so smooth." She was drawing some letters into the fabric of her skirt without seeming to think about it; I looked for a second and saw a "T" and a "Y." She was drawing her girlfriend's name. That was cute. "He's kinda suave."

 _"_ _No ring… between that and the callouses, I'm guessing work got in the way?"_

I swallowed. I had noticed. I didn't want to notice. _Thanks for making me notice again._ "Whatever you say," I muttered, tapping my fingers over my upper arm, not doing anything nearly as cute as drawing the name of my girlfriend over my skin.

 _"_ _No ring for you, either."_

She looked with more focus to me than to their conversation, seeming a little concerned by my attitude. "Are you alright?" She asked, and where I suppose a lot of people might ask for courtesy, with Diana, I never had to wonder if she was actually worried. If she wasn't worried, she wouldn't have asked. She's very honest and blunt in that respect, and easy to understand.

 _"_ _No._ " He softly agreed. _"Prison got in the way."_

"I'm fine," I lied without pause, because I'd be damned if I told her what the problem really was.

 _"_ _So it must be weird for you, working for the FBI."_ That was prompting a turn of conversation, and hearing her say anything about the bureau caught both Diana's and my attention. The priority of work won out over personal cynicism for my excuses, and Diana turned her concentration back to eavesdropping.

Neal's voice sounded leisurely but a little unwilling to commit to any particular feeling towards his partnership with the bureau. _"I don't know. It's always interesting to read from the other team's playbook."_

 _"_ _The other team,"_ Maria repeated selectively. _"I thought you were out of the game."_

 _He is,_ I reminded myself sternly before my brain got ahead of me and started taking the past tense too far and let me flip out, questioning his loyalty again, because no, I could only freak out about one thing at once and currently that one thing was the strange want to be the one Neal wined and dined.

 _"_ _Oh, I am. Retired and rehabilitated."_

 _"_ _Have you found your missing Book of Hours?"_

 _"_ _Not yet. You know anyone who wants to buy one?"_ That was said so smoothly, and it was right on the edge between an excusable question (we had suggested someone might go to her about it) and a code for asking about the more lucrative business she was running.

 _"_ _Maybe."_ She was cautious and noncommittal, too, and probably for a very good reason. She might've suspected that Neal had a listening device on him, or maybe she wasn't sure yet that she wasn't being played. Which she totally was, but that was beside the point. _"Looters approach me all the time… so do buyers."_ Well, that felt a little like a hint. _"It's a very attractive offer."_

 _"_ _It sure is."_

One of them sighed loudly, and glasses shifted on the table. Something rustled like a menu being unfolded and the plastic protective covering being bent.

 _"_ _Surprise me,"_ Maria said with a challenge, a teasing inflection to it that wasn't the same kind of teasing as when I reminded Neal of how many times he'd been caught on the run, between Burke and I. This was a much less innocent kind of teasing, and it made me bite down on my tongue.

 _"_ _Oh, you sure? I might order something you don't like, and then where would we be?"_

 _"_ _I trust you."_ Probably a mistake on her part. _"After all, you work for the FBI."_ Oh, there it was. That was a dig. That was a very definite jab.

Fulfilling his role of the bureau's double-crosser expertly (almost scarily expertly), Neal didn't respond directly to that. He was quiet for a while, probably intensely looking into her eyes, measuring her up or conveying some secret, subtle message. Then his voice, low and questioning, asked, _"More wine?"_ and I could almost envision the delighted spark lighting up in Maria's eyes.

 _"_ _Now you read minds?"_

 _"_ _The question is, do you?"_

I took off my headset abruptly. I couldn't take any more of it. It might just have been me overreacting, but it felt like I was listening to foreplay with words, because Maria was teasing and purring and seductive and Neal wasn't by any means discouraging her – in fact, he was egging it on, and it was painful to listen to for a handful of reasons, none of which I felt like exploring.

"Keep with them. I'm calling Derek." Derek had gone to Maria's block in his own car to meet us there, and as soon as the warrant was approved, he snuck into her house. He was supposed to call when he was out, which he hadn't done yet, so he was still inside. I pressed his speed dial on my phone and threw myself against the back of my chair while Diana nodded to show she heard.

It took a few rings, but my brother did pick up his phone the first time that I called, and I was so relieved to hear his voice over Maria's that I almost jumped up for joy. I couldn't wait until I heard Kate's. _"What's up, my liege?"_

"Maria's libido, that's what," I mumbled, objecting once again to her excessive come-ons. Well, they felt excessive to me, anyway. Before I was questioned by my other teammate, I asked him pretty much the same thing. "What've we got?"

 _"_ _It's not bad for a college professor."_ The way he said it, 'not bad' equated with 'not possible.' _"She's either a crook or a trust fund baby."_

"I'm going with crook," I decided without a second thought, because not only was she a criminal, but it felt nice to accuse her of things like that when I couldn't do anything else to vent out the frustration and envy that made me feel like I had a fever.

 _"_ _Ah!"_

"What?" Alarmed, I pushed my heels against the floor of the van and shoved myself up a little higher where I'd slumped down.

He sounded apologetic for spooking me. _"Almost knocked over a vase. I caught it."_ Good. That would be a little too obvious of a sign that someone had been in her home, and obvious wasn't exactly the goal here. He hummed in consideration. _"It's not a bad place to drop a bug, either…"_

"Boss!" Diana's voice was louder, and my forearm stung when she reached out and smacked me when I didn't pay attention to her fast enough. I looked at her, wounded, and leaned away. "Tell him to finish up fast." She pointed at the earphones still over her head. "They're leaving."

I looked up in exasperation. That was _so_ not the evening plan that we gave Neal. "Why doesn't he distract her to keep her away?" Distracting is something Neal is very good at. And Maria was apparently very good at distracting herself just by looking at his body, so together, they should've been able to kill _hours_.

"She invited him back to hers," Diana nodded towards the wall of the van closer to the restaurant meaningfully, and it took me a second.

"Why- oh." Instead of being annoyed at our time being cut, I was feeling that jealousy reach a crescendo it hadn't hit before. This was really getting horrific. I wasn't sure why it was so bad, except for maybe because Neal was absolutely not someone I should become involved with, and, ah, forbidden fruit and all that. "Son of a bitch," I swore, crossing my ankles. I tried to light the equipment around us on fire with my eyes. What, so eyeing him over his clothes wasn't enough for her?! She probably didn't even realize just how incredible of a person he was, just saw a hot man she wanted in her bed.

Diana sighed loudly, making it clear that she was objecting to whatever was about to happen, and then, for some reason, brought it down on herself by asking the one thing she apparently didn't want to ask. "Okay," she said, running out of patience. "What's really wrong?"

"I'm fine!" I said too quickly, because I wasn't used to lying to my family, and I was far too close to Diana to be around her and be prepared at all times to put on an act. Even if I'd been anticipating the question or my rapid response, she was very good at reading people, especially people she knew well, and part of being my probie meant that she spent a lot of time with me.

Her eyes widened. "You're jealous, is what you are!" As she realized, instead of scolding me or giving me a lecture on why Neal was unattainable and it was so abhorrently unprofessional, she started chuckling. Then, as that subsided, she started full-out giggling.

"Diana," I said, looking up, furious with myself. If I were her, I'd probably have been laughing, too, but it's really not amusing when I'm the one being laughed at. "Start driving the van to her street." The equipment tended to work with the best connection the closer we were, and we also wanted to be around if Neal needed us and things went bad.

Amusing herself by replaying the sentences over in her head, Diana kept bursting into giggle fits. "Yes, boss," she managed to say in the middle of one of them, taking her headset off of her head while being careful not to let it mess up her neatly-straightened hair. I shot a glower at her darkly, almost wishing I could light _her_ on fire (or at least have her zapped with static electricity, fire might be overdoing it a little bit) for thinking it's just so damn hilarious.

* * *

 _"_ _After you,"_ Neal offered, holding the door open for Maria to cross the threshold into her own home, acting like the perfect gentleman since escorting her to her own car. I counted it a miracle that I wasn't already humming the lyrics to aggressive Taylor Swift songs.

 _"_ _Some wine?"_ She returned, uplifted and lofty. _Haven't you had enough?_ I thought snidely, paranoid that she was either trying to get him drunk or drug him.

If the thought of being roofied occurred to him, he decided it was okay to take those chances. _"Why not?"_

The general sounds of light switches being flipped, cabinets opening, and footsteps treading on carpet as they moved around the house was the only thing I heard for a couple of minutes. I resisted a yawn and rubbed at my eyes with the heels of my hands. Then there was the clinking of thin glasses and the sound of a cork being pulled.

 _"_ _So."_ Maria drew it out, her voice sounding like she was pouting enticingly. _"What should we talk about?"_

I had never had any dates go like this one was, but, to be fair, my motives were usually fairly straightforward, and both of these participants had motives that were all over the place, like bendy straws from _Denny's._

 _"_ _There's this story about these two spies… a French Duke and an Italian Count."_ Neal's voice was already so smooth and melodic that it was easy and soothing to listen to, even though I was sitting in a surveillance van and listening to him wine and dine another woman. Then there was the timbre of mystery and ambiguity that he used to be vague and pull off deceitful double-crossing. _"They were sworn enemies who spent the entire year trying to kill each other, but on New Year's, they got to ask a question that the other had to answer truthfully."_

 _"_ _Yes,"_ she recognized the story and seemed amused that that was what he chose to talk about. _"The trick was asking the right question, because you might never get another chance."_

 _"_ _I always thought that honesty is a more challenging game."_

"Honesty is a more challenging game?" Derek repeated, throwing his voice to try to match Neal's pitch as he mocked in disbelief. "How come _my_ dates don't go like this?"

I snorted and was unable to resist the jibe. He was the one that asked. "Firstly, because you haven't dated anyone since a couple months after you met my sister." It wasn't an exaggeration. Not a single date, but plenty of puppy dog eyes when she wasn't looking, and it was just as cute as it was sickening. "Secondly, because you don't say things like _honesty is a more challenging game_."

The phrase itself was so strange. It was something that most people would disagree with, but on many levels, I understood exactly what he meant. It's easier to keep to yourself, it's easier to lie than it is to tell the truth, and it's easier to have dishonest relationships than it is to have trusting ones. It's so scary to put oneself out there that it can be preferable to lean towards lies.

"Because nobody actually talks like that," Diana reminded me as if she thought I'd actually forgotten that this wasn't a movie where people could get away with speaking with those phrases and implications.

I had to contradict her, because this wasn't a movie, but Neal was still saying those things and Maria seemed totally cool with it. "They do in Neal Caffrey's world." And if that sounded bitter… well, half of the time I wished I had more experience in his universe, and the other times I just wished I could drag him all the way out of it.

I tuned back into what I was hearing through my headphones. _"This wine needs to breathe,"_ Maria explained. _"I'm going to get a decanter. Why don't you put some music on?"_ Her high stilettos clicked hard on the floor when she moved to a room with wooden tile rather than smooth carpet, but Neal stayed in the room that he was in.

 _"_ _What are you in the mood for?"_ He called out to her from the room that he stayed in, probably looking around at whatever music she had available.

I didn't hear what she said back – it was too far away now for the microphone Neal was wearing to pick up on it, but I was sure one of the other bugs would've gotten it, we'd just have to play it back to hear the recording.

Neal chuckled at whatever it was she told him. _"Surprise you,"_ he murmured.

* * *

As the time progressed, I got more and more tense. It was varying directly with how long Neal spent in that house. We may have planted bugs, but I really, really wished that we'd also thought to put in cameras. The antsier I got, the more looks I got from Diana, and a couple of times Derek had even reached over and put his hand over my knee to stop my leg from bouncing.

When I had gone undercover with Neal as his fake fiancée, it had been fun, but it hadn't been emotional. It had been pretending to be stupid in love, which I knew how to do, but mostly I'd just been enjoying the dancing and keeping watch to make sure no one was stalking us. Even kissing him hadn't elicited a very strong emotional reaction at the time, but knowing that he was in there with Maria while we couldn't keep an eye on him brought the jitters and the envy. I'd have been surprised if my eyes hadn't turned green by the time I got home.

I had to listen through my headset while they went through a discussion on the classical music of Tchaikovsky versus Handel, the influence of the French revolution on the works of Halévy, and the wine that she'd uncorked a bottle of for their 'date.' I couldn't even think it without putting air quotations around it. I mean, I like music and wine, but I wouldn't hold a ten minute discussion on the merits of classical composers from hundreds of years ago. I was ready to bang my head into the wall, but finally the discussion was subtly rerouted back to the Book of Hours, and now the desire to slam my head into the nearest blunt object was significantly lower.

 _"_ _Ten years carrying the same Bible. It's like stalking God,"_ Neal mused as they looked at the picture that Maria had chosen to keep. Well, for all I knew, their eyes were glued on each other, but I was choosing to believe that they were looking at the photograph.

 _"_ _If it wasn't for the monks' devotion, we would have lost one of the most significant works of Greek literature forever."_ Maria may have been a criminal, but she was also a history professor, and her admiration of history was clear when she said that. Even if she didn't value it over money, she still clearly appreciated it.

 _"_ _It's stunning."_

 _"_ _I agree."_ Maria's voice dropped down into a very quiet purr, but she was evidently still very close to Neal, as I could still hear her speaking. _"You know what?"_ Unbidden, my mind started replacing the picture of the recording equipment with images of Maria invading Neal's personal space, standing up on her toes to whisper into his ear and mouth along the line of his jaw. I curled my fingers into my thighs and felt my fingernails scratching down. _"I don't trust you."_

 _"_ _Smart."_ He kept his voice even, thankfully, but there was something else in the way he sounded that I couldn't identify, and it made me feel very unhappy. _Why, why, why couldn't this emotional epiphany have come after this case?_ My feelings decided to have the worst possible timing. _"I wouldn't trust me, either."_

Diana cleared her throat. She wasn't even a little bit discreet about turning up the volume on her headset so that she could hear them as well as possible, since they were deciding to get all up close and personal and whispery. "Boss, we may have a technical problem," she announced.

My rationale was saying I should just let it play out and trust Neal, because that's the only feasible option I really had, but alternatively, my hands were itching to throw open the doors and go search for the Bible myself, probable cause or not. Anything to get her away from Neal. The muscles in my hands were starting to cramp from how tightly my fists were balled up.

"That's one way to put it."

 _"_ _Let's play… the spies' game."_ Her words were slightly broken up like she was busy doing something else with her mouth. I kept reminding myself that punching the equipment was not going to help. _"I'll ask you a question…"_

 _"_ _And I have to tell you the truth,"_ Neal guessed, filling in the rest. He didn't sound quite as affected or, ah, lusty as Maria did. _What the hell? He's supposed to be seducing her, not the other way around._

 _"_ _And you have to tell me the truth,"_ Maria confirmed, languid and soft.

 _"_ _Okay."_ He played along like he was supposed to, but the way he was speaking to her still made me envious. Reminding myself it was an act didn't really help, because it reminded me that he was just that good of a liar. Even if he ever spoke to me in the way that I wanted, how could I possibly trust it to be real? It was the same argument I had with myself over every other aspect of our relationship, but romance was that much more vulnerable. _"Make it a good one."_

After a stagnant pause in which all I heard was heavier breathing, Maria started speaking again. _"Which Neal Caffrey are you?"_ This time, her voice sounded so close to the bug that she had to be pressed up against him. Derek put his hand over the back of my fist, reminding me that whatever I was upset about, I needed to chill out. Easier said than done. _"Are you working for the good guys, or are you working a bigger game?"_

I know I wasn't imagining that Diana leaned closer, intent on hearing the answer, but none came. And after about ten seconds, I started to get worried. I reached over to the volume control and turned it up, right as static started clicking in my ears loudly and obnoxiously.

"Son of a bitch!" I shouted, ripping the headphones off. The short was so much louder than their speech had been. I felt nearly deafened by it, and then developed an insta-ache in my ears.

Diana smacked the top of the box. "What happened?"

"He killed the signal," Derek sighed, looking darkly towards the doors of the van and rubbing his hands together in his lap.

We all somehow managed to lean back in our chairs, giving up on the audio link to the inside of the house at the same time. There wasn't anything we could do aside from seeing how it would play out and trusting Neal… trusting the man I was just remembering that I didn't know _how_ to trust. Oh, great.

"Do you think he's… taking her up on it?" Diana hesitantly asked, sounding concerned.

"No, he wouldn't." I said it flatly because I knew that it could be argued, but I didn't want to think about it, much less believe it. He knew what I was risking by letting him do this. He knew what he was risking if he decided to try to run. He wouldn't hurt himself or betray me like that, would he? "She probably knew he was bugged," I went on, thinking optimistically. "Check the other frequency. Are the others coming through?"

Derek pulled his headphones back on. Diana just moved to hers and changed the frequency to the first of the bugs that had been planted around the house, not just on Neal. Derek did the same while Diana held the headphones against the side of her head to hear without putting them on. Diana switched to another while Derek turned up the volume, scowling.

"No." He looked shocked as he confirmed it. "They're not."

"There we go, then." I crossed my arms, but then got too restless and stood up from my chair, slipping out through the gap between my space and Diana's. "She got us. He's working with _us." With me,_ I added silently. We'd been trusting each other, at least at work. I let him into my house; my sister has him over for television and dinner some nights, and he helps her plan kids' birthday celebrations. Betraying me would be betraying Kate – Kate is too kind and too sweet to betray. "He wouldn't backstab us like that."

They took the "us" as being the FBI, but I really meant "us" as in myself and Kate.

* * *

At ten the next day, I was called into Hughes' office by means of a call sent to the landline at my desk. I stared unhappily at the phone for an entire two minutes after I hung up because I'd heard Ruiz's voice in the background saying something to Hughes, and I really didn't want to go to that office. It takes energy to have those massive standoffs. Energy that I was kind of lacking in.

The only reason I could think of for Eric being in the WWCD was Ignacio's death, which was undeniably connected to my case. After staring for an additional thirty seconds, I stood up slowly with weary bones, felt my knee pop and shook my leg out, and I psyched myself up to be a sharp-tongued bitch if need be on the walk there.

"How did you know she was in on it?" The director asked me, getting my report of what was going on with our case in person. I stood in front of his desk with my hands clasped in front of me attentively while he sat behind his desk, the light from his computer screen casting an extra glare onto his face.

"A mix of behavioral cues and, ah, intuition." While I couldn't say 'intuition' on a file, Hughes got what I meant. Most agents understood what it was like to have that instinctual feeling and how strong of a lead it felt like.

"Hm." His eyes lingered on me and then turned to the dumbass on my right, standing in a similar fashion to me in deference to the older man. "Ruiz?"

"I checked Paul's credit," he confirmed, sneaking a flash of his eyes over to me. "He was wired ten grand from a shell corp in Gibraltar, owned by your, uh, lady professor."

"Did you get his credit report from your lady agent or your gentleman scientist?" I couldn't help but to ask him rudely, questioning yet again his habit of specifying when the sex of the person in question was female. If Maria was a male, he'd have just said "professor." And it wasn't just Maria – he'd been doing it to everyone, colleagues to prisoners, since before I met him. Part of his overall misogyny.

Ruiz opened his mouth to reply to me, no doubt something like asking if I learned something from my 'bitch' sister or 'bastard' brother, the way he'd done the last time this had become an issue. Really, by now people should just know to never, ever let us in the same vicinity, but he caught Hughes watching him carefully, suggesting he not do it, and he shut his mouth with a click of teeth.

"How'd last night's fishing go?" The director looked back to me, making us take turns as though we were kids still learning how to share. _He could learn how to share civility,_ I mused, _but unlike most kids, he's not sharing by not taking it._ "Get any tape?"

I hesitated for a split-second, but with Ruiz in the room, there was no way I was going to say that Neal had sabotaged his own bug, even though we had the proof that he did it for the sake of the investigation. "There was an equipment failure," which wasn't exactly a lie, "But Caffrey says she has the book. She'll sell, but only to him."

"Of course he'd say that," Hughes puffed out, looking over at a picture framed on the wall. "Terms?"

"Two hundred fifty thousand, wired to a Swiss account." I steadfastly refused to look at Ruiz, even when I saw him in my periphery scoffing and whirling to face me incredulously. I knew the numbers were high. "Neutral sovereignty. And, of course, under a fake name."

"No way!" I felt my mouth twitch. I'd been speaking to my _boss,_ not my _brat._ "What if he cuts a deal with her and runs off with the book?" Ruiz pointed out the door and looked at Hughes intensely, fighting a good argument with a healthy passion. Of course, since it was against my cause, it was naturally a terrible argument, no matter how tactical.

"He won't," I swore.

"We don't have another choice." Hughes looked up at Ruiz gravely over the desk. Being told down, Ruiz moved back from the boss, but became no less argumentative. "I don't need another dead body washing up in the river." The boss man gave me the nod of approval that I was used to. "We'll set up a dummy account."

"What if she takes a shot at Neal?" I queried, trying to think this entire thing through. "She'll notice a vest. She's already killed at least one person that we know of." He's supposed to be under my protection. I'm a really bad protector if he gets shot on my watch, aren't I?

Ruiz looked up at the ceiling. "I wouldn't lose any sleep over it," he drawled his advice.

I looked at Hughes and, completely honestly, confessed, "I can't do this." He looked a little taken aback. I took a deep breath in, and then exhaled deeply, nodded to myself that I was as relaxed as I was going to get, and turned my entire body to the homicide agent. "Listen, you imbecile, what the fuck is your problem with me?" _As calm as I was going to get. Not actually calm._ "You got what you wanted. You got my _job,_ " I snarled in his face. "Hell, you've probably sent flowers to the jackass that did this to me!" I motioned to myself, gesturing over my stomach meaningfully. "Why don't you just screw off and get your nose out of my business?"

He turned right back on me and didn't even pause before he threw himself right back into it. Hughes groaned and leaned back, covering his ears. Ruiz didn't notice. I don't think it was possible to block out Ruiz, since he sounded like a pig and squealed as loudly as a dozen of them.

"You're the idiot who wants to give your pet convict access to two hundred fifty thousand dollars, a pretty face, and an almost-priceless Bible, and you actually expect that anyone else has your back?" He summarized it all in the worst way possible on purpose. "Why do you _trust_ him?"

"He is _my_ consultant," I lowly defended, because Neal is not his informant to question, and my relationship with him is not Ruiz's concern or under his control. "And I daresay I know him better than you do."

"Yeah, you probably know him a _lot_ better." Callously, he laughed. It was harsh and mean and sounded like it must have hurt his throat. "You know, since I don't fuck my CIs."

My eyebrows threatened to disappear into my hair. Even Hughes had a visceral reaction, his mouth opening and his jaw gaping at Ruiz for the gall he had in throwing something like that around. It wasn't the kind of thing taken lightly. My jaw dropped of its own volition for how offended I was.

 _"_ _Excuse me?!"_ My voice went up both an octave and a decibel.

He didn't even have the wisdom to backpedal! "You heard me, Anderson!" He barked. "Are you actually surprised? An agent gets a criminal out of jail with about a hundred people ready to jump and chase him and a month later she's risking her professional standing on – what, on his _word?"_ He sneered. Could've given Severus Snape a run for his money. "There's no way there's not _really_ good sex in it for you."

_Wow. This is… I can't…_

I went deathly quiet for about five seconds, and then I was back at his throat, but this time in a much more alarming way.

"For your information, Ruiz, who I choose to invite into my bedroom is _none_ of your business." My voice was very low in volume. Unwittingly, Hughes was leaning across his desk to hear better. Ruiz's eyes were suspicious and his arms were up, alarmed by the change in my tone to a much darker, much more threatening note. "I refused to let you into my bed, but by no means did I station you outside the door to be a guard dog, so this thing where you're pissed at me for having any interaction with the opposite sex where I told you 'no' needs to stop. This is the twenty-first century. I'm just as human as you are – arguably more so, if you have to be _reminded_ of that.

"Secondly, if I _were_ fucking Caffrey, that's all it would be. By no means does pleasure affect intelligence, and I'm not the mentally compromised piece of work you expect me to be." I started to snarl. "I was written down because I was _tortured,_ not because I had a good lay." Ruiz should know. He was one of the people who was supposed to investigate it before the case went cold, and he saw the crime scene photos – the pictures of what had, at the time, been my own home.

I turned my head to Hughes, choosing to be cold because the alternative was hot as a volcano, smothering Ruiz under my ashes. "If you'll excuse me, sir, I need to go inform _my_ consultant of the risks he's been signed up for, while _Ruiz_ learns to stop projecting _his_ habits on to me."

Hughes started to look at Ruiz to say _look what you've done_ but he met my eyes with the same respect that he'd held for me even before this encounter. "You're dismissed, Agent Anderson," he allowed, shooting Ruiz a look not to argue.

 _"_ _Thank you,"_ I emphatically said in goodbye as I whirled around on my heel, hair flying and whipping at my neck.

"Go on," Ruiz bitterly snarled at me as I retreated to stalk out of the office. "Teach your puppy some more tricks!" My face was burning hot and I swear I wanted to bite him. I hadn't wanted to bite someone since elementary school. "Make sure he knows 'come!'"

That was lewd and pathetic enough for Hughes to decide that he needed to intervene. "That's enough, Agent Ruiz!" He raised his voice to snap.

I turned around as I was walking backwards and raised both hands to Ruiz, flipping him off with both. "Go fuck yourself!" I shouted, giving absolutely zero damns about that I was in my boss's office, and given the circumstances, I don't think he blamed me for it. I reached behind me to grab the handle, yanked at it until it opened, and then I pulled it shut behind me so hard that it slammed and made me jump, just because those doors were heavy and loud.

As soon as I was out, I covered my mouth with a hand and whimpered. This was really what I was reduced to? The bureau's example of a white-collar mistake, working side-by-side with a felon who can't be trusted and screwing him on the side? Sleeping my way up in ranks? Fucking _great._ As if it wasn't hard enough to get where I am – how can I commandeer any respect from people around me if other divisions are spreading rumors that I got where I was through sex and seduction? I could pretend I didn't care, but it _hurt._ Sex isn't something to be ashamed of, but when it's taken and used as a means of ostracizing and tearing someone down, it makes them feel horrible, because sexuality is such a strong part of our identities as humans.

 _I can't let him see me hurting._ He'd feel like he'd won or proven something. Eric wouldn't give up if my reactions goaded him onwards. I sniffed before I started tearing up and I lowered my hand from my mouth, balling my fingers up into a fist and brushing back the hair that was framing my face. I turned to my right to leave the hall and retreat to the safety of my own office, but stopped short.

Neal was leaning with his back against the wall and his head turned so that his ear was closer to it, and I knew that the walls really were not soundproof. I scraped my teeth along my lower lip. He had the kindness to look apologetic, knowing he shouldn't have been listening in to a meeting with my boss, much less one that devolved into such an abhorrent disaster.

"How much of that did you hear?" I asked, wondering if, by some small miracle, he'd have heard little enough to not know who Ruiz was calling my "puppy." If he didn't know the assumptions being made about us, then I might have actually considered the whole divinity thing.

He kept his face somewhat neutral. "I'm being shot at later?" He said a little unsurely.

 _That was established before anything else started._ "So the entire God damn fight." I covered my face with my hands and wanted to keep my expression hidden, but knew that I couldn't. That wasn't how adults got to handle their problems. I sniffed again and dropped my hands. "Lovely. At least you know what's at risk for both of us." Neal was blocking my way to my office. My office is the safest, most solitary place in this building that I have. The second best thing is going to my car and either going to Kate or going to a martial arts dojo downtown to blow off steam. "I'll email you the PIN when you're in place."

"First they're sending me back to prison, next they're giving me a quarter-million taxpayer dollars in an off-shore account." He pondered aloud, standing up and approaching me. I wanted to step back or put my hands out to ask him not to, but right now I didn't want to show any weakness, and even discomfort was admitting to not only Neal and Ruiz, but to _myself_ that I was hurting from the accusations. "I guess that shows how much confidence the bureau has in you."

My shoulders fell. Right then, I didn't want to run from him. A switch had been flipped by that subtle reminder that I still had the confidence of the bureau. It was just a few people who didn't like me, but I still had my position, my freedom, and my capabilities backed up by all of the people who mattered, and that notion was what I had needed to hear. I had to stop myself from running forward the short distance between us and locking my arms around him.

If he were Derek or Diana, I wouldn't have had to refrain.

Would I be holding myself back if I hadn't just endured that meeting in the office?

_Thanks, you son of a bitch, for fucking with my self-confidence and making me second-guess myself._

"And how much I have in you," I added, gently taking the wrist of one hand into the palm of the other in front of me. It needed to be said – the bureau was trusting me because I was good at my job, and I was taking faith in Neal, but if it backfired in my face, then I was no longer given that benefit of the doubt. Ruiz's mouth would do a lot more damage if that was the case. "I'm going home until the operation," I said, looking down to the carpet because I couldn't keep looking into his eyes.

His eyes were so beautiful, and so expressive, but I could never be sure if they were telling me the truth. Conversely, I was almost always sure they could tell when I was trying to pass off being dishonest, and I didn't want him to pick up on anything that I wasn't saying, to him or to anyone else.

"Kenna." I started to turn around, even though I heard him speaking, trying to get me to look back to him. When I didn't, he lunged forward and caught my shoulder in his hand. I sighed and looked back over my shoulder. "I'm sorry," he tried to say, looking for all the world like he meant it, too.

"Don't bother." I said without much fight. "It's not your problem to apologize for." He could be Neal Caffrey or the Zodiac Killer or some guy who committed petty theft, and Eric would still be the same. It was me that was the problem. "It's just a matter of not taking anything lying down." I let out a long breath and looked to his hand, brushing him off of my shoulder physically as much as verbally. "Nothing I said actually made a difference."

That, possibly, was the worst part – knowing that I could make such a difference where other peoples' lives were concerned, but I couldn't do a damn thing to help myself out of this.

* * *

Kate got home around the normal time from her daycare and came straight into the living room when she heard the sexy music playing through the speakers on the television. _You really need to work on your timing,_ I directed at her mentally when she came running into the room to see what I was watching. Then she recognized the actors on the screen when the music faded and the camera panned out, and she relaxed instantly. I had the feeling I was about to be scolded for watching pornography in the living room, so that had been a close one.

"Hey." She dropped her keys down on the island between the kitchen and the living room, which clattered on the marble. "What're you doing back?" She asked, reaching behind herself to the rack of paper towels. She ripped off a couple of squares, folded them up, and then looked down at her shirt. There were several spots of paint on it, ranging from dark colors that mixed to look black to the brightest yellow that burned my eyes. Grimacing, she just tossed the paper towels away, resigned to putting it through the wash.

Kate didn't like getting all sweaty and gross, but she loved to play with the kids at recess and even indoors. She offered a daycare and babysitting service, not a school, so it's not like she had a responsibility to teach them basic geometry or arithmetic. Her hair was a bit of a mess and needed to be re-brushed, her pants and shirt both needed to be washed on high with a lot of Tide stain remover, and she looked ready to fall over, kicking off her shoes even while she got a bottle of water out of the fridge. No one could say she didn't enjoy her job, but while she enjoyed it, it was exhausting.

I had already taken to my two first forms of comfort: food and television. One of my favorite shows was playing, and I was almost through the third episode since I'd gotten home, with five minutes left in runtime. My thigh was almost burning from the big bowl (or small mixing bowl, depending on how you want to look at it) of beef-flavored ramen, the cure to my anxiety.

"I need to calm down before I can handle watching Neal chat up a bitch professor and cut his anklet for real." _Cut his anklet… for real._ That thing was the one thing that kept this balance in place. It was his assurance that he was safe, that someone always knew where we was – yet, even though it was an insurance, he hated it. Meanwhile, I liked it for the fact that, not only did it keep him in check and protect my reputation in the bureau as a credible agent, it meant I _could_ protect him. If he was hurt or threatened, I could find him in minutes just by calling the US Marshals' office. "He could run," I stated desolately to my ramen.

The movement in the kitchen stopped, even the tiny little snaps of the breaking plastic on the cap seal of her water. "If he could run," she said slowly. The only thing that didn't quiet down when I'd said that was my television. "Why haven't you put another tracker on him? Like, a subdermal one?"

Nah. That, too, felt a lot like treating Neal like a dog that needed to be chipped. "I don't think he'll run," I said, because he had to realize I'd catch him, and he would only make his prison sentence worse. This time he wouldn't be given the offer of working it off outside of the jails. "I also don't know the policies on subdermal trackers in humans. But I don't think he'll run." I looked up and stared intently at the gold-haired man on my television screen and reminded him, "That doesn't mean that he _won't_ run."

Given my history, that could've been me talking about either Neal or Satan, since I tended to talk at my television when I was stressed.

Kate didn't say anything after that, but her water bottle crinkled as she drank. Then her footsteps moved behind me and I heard her protest in disbelief, "Is that _three_ ramen packs in the trash?"

She caught me at a bad time, with a fork loaded with ramen noodles in my mouth. "Comf'rt food," I mumbled, covering my mouth with my other hand.

My sister took another long look at the television, realized I was watching one of _those_ episodes, and shook her head. I saw it in her reflection on the screen, now that she was standing close enough. Her hands dropped down from over the back of the couch and her fingers moved to my shoulders, lightly squeezing. "And comfort television."

I stabbed my fork in the direction of the program. "This is good stuff."

"The ramen I'll agree with." She sounded amused. "The TV seems a little sacrilegious, which is ironic, considering this case of yours."

I blinked. "How so?" I leaned my neck back as far as possible to look up at her. It was like seeing her face upside down, and she looked down to see me, and must've been getting the same effect.

She picked up her left hand from my shoulder and pointed emphatically at the screen while the blonde woman in the background started kissing on the speaking actor's neck playfully. "You're watching the apocalypse raining down on a pair of brothers meant to represent the Archangels Michael and Lucifer while they watch a DVD in which the Archangel Gabriel stars in a _Casa Erotica_ porno, and you don't see how this is a little bit sacrilegious?"

Well, when she summarized it like that, yeah, it sounded a little sacrilegious. Was it just because this was a go-to comfort show for me, or was it me rebelling against the nature of this case? More accurately, was I rebelling against Neal? Maria? The idea of Neal flirting with Maria any more? This whole thing where I wanted his hands off of her and onto me was really starting to fuck with my head.

I do not remember giving my brain permission to start wanting another human in any sort of non-platonic capacity.

"It's a good kind of sacrilege," I opted for in the end, because no matter what the reason was, it was still cheering me up significantly.

Kate laughed. "Whatever that means." If my mouth wasn't already stuffed with more ramen, I'd have made a wry joke about letting God strike me dead if I didn't have a point about this being quality entertainment. "Why are you so stressed if you don't think he's going to run?"

 _It's not only that I'm worried he'll run. I'm also worried he's going to touch her and kiss her and God forbid actually let her seduce him into crime, let alone her bed._ Very aggressively, I attacked the ramen in my bowl again.

Kate picked her hands up again from my shoulders, realizing something she said had been taken badly and elicited a more violent response. Damn sister knew me so well she'd probably figure out I was jealous if I wasn't careful enough.

"Trust isn't exactly my first instinct," I muttered, barely moving my mouth because even telling a lie of omission to my sister felt wrong. "Occupational hazard."

Kate moved around the side of the couch and sat down next to me on the sofa on the other cushion. Her paint stains were dried already, anyway. "You've been sticking up for him this far. What's gotten your panties twisted now?" Ah, the care and compassionate expression of concern within the Anderson household.

"Not Caffrey, that's for sure!" I replied way too quickly, Ruiz's insults and the humiliation burning in my face far too fresh for me to take any reminder of it easily.

Kate leaned back, startled just by the intensity. "Oh. Okay, um… okay." Cautiously, she pulled her legs up onto the couch and sat crisscross. One of her knees and ankles fell over the side because she was trying to face me. "Um… that response was a little fast there, do you want to… tell me something?"

Kate knew the extent of my problems with Ruiz and had met him once before in a horribly disastrous occasion that led to the forced separation of the two of us by another agent when he'd said something crude about her in front of me. I could tell her what he'd said without having to explain to her the things that I didn't even want to admit to myself, and she'd understand why I was so angry. Who _wouldn't_ be angry at being accused of allowing my integrity and dignity to be compromised for the sake of bedding someone?

I took a deep breath so I wouldn't yell. "I had to see Ruiz."

"Eric Ruiz?" She already had a dark look coming over her face.

"Twice," I added.

"Oh." She covered her surprise that she hadn't heard about it already and instead remained very practiced and calm. Dealing with children gave her patience; being my family gave her the knowledge of how to actually get me to talk. "Was he a jerk like usual?"

"More so!" And I really hadn't even thought that was possible. Judging by the 'are you kidding me' look on her face, apparently Kate hadn't known it was an option, either. Complaints just kept coming out of my mouth now that I had someone safe to complain to. I dropped my fork into my ramen and let it sit in my noodles while I ranted. "Aside from all of the slights against my professionally, he semi-publicly humiliated me in front of the director, anyone who heard while they were walking past the office, and Neal, whom I didn't even realize was outside the door!" It was doubly embarrassing because Neal heard the jeering and rumors made up that included him, too.

Kate looked particularly vicious. "Where does he get off in putting you through that?" She dragged a hand restlessly through her hair and caught her fingers on some tangles, so she withdrew her fingers from her ponytail quickly before it got worse. "He's already _gotten_ what he wanted! Why doesn't he just leave you alone?!"

It was really heartwarming to see someone else get so upset on my behalf. It validated what I was feeling and reminded me that there was someone in my life who actually, really cared about me, about my emotions, and knowing that made me feel a lot less volatile.

"Well, that's what I asked, but according to him, it's because he doesn't approve of me screwing Caffrey." And there was the reason for the quick flare of my temper previously. Kate went from looking bloodthirsty to looking kind of confused in two seconds. "Which I'm not," I hastily added, and she quickly nodded along with me to verify that that hadn't been the part she was confused about. "But it's great to know what the other units in the bureau think," I said as a stingy afterthought, picking up my fork and stabbing it back into my ramen, twisting it around meanly and taking out my violence on the food.

Kate rubbed her hand over her mouth and under her nose, thinking hard on something. I recognized that look – she was thinking deeply. I prepared myself for something unusually thoughtful, coming from either of us.

"I really wish I knew what to say to make you feel better," she earnestly looked into my eyes as she said this to make her point. She was being truthful and supportive. "But, in this situation, I don't really think there is anything I can say, because… you can't change what they think… and correcting them usually just reinforces it."

I nodded dully. That was a lesson I learned a long time ago. People believe what they want to, whether or not it's the truth, and they'll manipulate the facts to justify it if need be.

"You know, sometimes I feel like you should just embrace it, you know?" Kate laughed and uncrossed her legs, pushing gently at my thigh with her sock-clad feet. Her socks were mismatched. "Except sleeping with an informant probably isn't very strongly encouraged."

"No," I agreed, finally able to see a little bit of humor. There was nothing funny in the way that Ruiz thought of me, or the context in which he chose to bring it up. His form of address was reprehensible and I swear to God, I won't even care if someone starts saying disgusting lies like that about him after what he did to me today, but the idea of being so worked up because of a situation that hadn't even happened? That was kind of silly. I cleared my throat. "If you stay and watch with me, I'll turn this off and put on _Glee,_ " I volunteered.

At the mention of her favorite show, Kate perked up. "Now that I can get behind!" She announced, and I gave her the remote so that she could choose an episode herself.

Fifteen minutes later, the bowl that used to hold my ramen was empty and on the coffee table, while I was stretched out sideways on the couch with my legs spread so that Kate could lay between them, leaning back onto my front with her hands clasping mine and occasionally knocking my knuckles together to see how long it would be before my hands got sore.

* * *

The most exciting thing about the surveillance van today was that it was a different van, this time equipped with a camera aimed to the opposite street from the top of the car, and a monitor with the live recording was installed along the top of the wall. Also, instead of using the usual headset to listen to recording devices, Neal and I were both wearing connected earpieces. His was recording and playing back to me, but the microphone on mine was turned off so he wouldn't be distracted. Ruiz, whom I was still treating with an icy shoulder and an unwillingness to speak to, was with Derek, Diana, and I in the van, Derek sitting in the driver's seat, prepared to move the car to follow Maria's red sports car.

Ruiz snorted. I hated when he did that. It made it harder to pretend that he didn't exist. "Look at him," he muttered hatefully, glaring at Neal on the screen.

I couldn't resist snubbing him again, not when he was bitching about my consultant. "Oh, no, watch him _walk_ ," I complained, shaking my head at the monitor, pretending to be completely aghast. "What the hell does he think he's doing? Everyone knows walking is a severe infraction."

Ruiz looked sideways at me through the corner of his eye. I felt him turning his attention to me and steadfastly refused to reward it with my focus. "The son of a bitch should be in leg irons if you ask me."

"No one asked, and no one cares." I dropped my arms where they were crossed in front of my chest. "Why are you even _here?_ " Ruiz had invited himself along, been the one setting up the camera when we'd gotten the van to bring it out to the scene Neal and Maria agreed on, and I couldn't think of a damn reason other than harassment.

He looked at me and held himself arrogantly, pleased to have gotten me to engage with him. "I want to be the one to point it out when this entire idea blows up in your face," he spat haughtily. "Trusting Caffrey's the dumbest idea you've ever had. You think he likes being told to sit, stay, lay down, fetch, fuck?"

My expression darkened steadily, and it got worse as he progressed to barking out commands. I was going to turn it around on him and start telling him to quit being such a bitch and play dead, but Derek must've seen from my face that I was about to get nasty and cut in before I made it worse.

"Hey, Eric." Derek twisted around from the front seat and looked back at the three of us standing in the back of the van. When I looked at Derek, I saw Diana, and realized that she had inched away from Ruiz and I before we started fighting and she was caught in it. Derek leveled an unimpressed, cautionary look to the other agent. "I think it's time you cut it out."

Diana coughed. "Agent Anderson has our full respect and cooperation." She looked straight at Ruiz. "She is our team leader. The White-Collar Crime Division hasn't had a higher solution rate in _years_ before she became our boss. This isn't the first time she's trusted Caffrey and it's never come back before."

I calmed down a bit when I heard my team defending me, that desire to tear down Ruiz replacing itself with a much calmer anger that was easier to control. I couldn't let them do the entire job – that would normally be what I'd do, but Ruiz would never let me forget I'd let Derek and Diana protect me rather than responding myself, yet it was reassuring to know that they had my back, even when the homicide agent was making such vile and inappropriate comments at me.

"Not to mention that this continued problem you seem to be having with her is beginning to feel an awful lot like harassment," Derek added from the front seat. He sounded far too cool, and I realized the threat he was making before he'd even actually made it. "Do we need to call OPR?" OPR, or the Offices of Professional Responsibility, handles the investigations into bureau members and mediates inter-agent disputes when official complaints are filed. OPR investigations can range from being spoken with to being temporarily suspended, depending on the grounds. Ruiz narrowed his eyes at Derek at the question and Derek continued, pressing intentionally on the buttons that he knew would piss off Ruiz the most. Knew I loved him for a reason. "What's your obsession with her relationship with other men, anyway? You jealous or something?"

"Keh!" I could have told him that that would be badly received. Ruiz balked. "I need her like I need a-"

"Don't finish that sentence," Diana cut him off with an evil glower, crossing her arms in a dare.

With my composition and pride regained, I very quietly and very civilly asked, "How much longer is your wife out of town for?"

Made uncomfortable by what he perceived as an attempt at friendly chatting, Ruiz crossed his arms like I was attacking him with my decency. The wedding band on his ring finger was covered up by his arm as soon as he realized it was still visible. "I'm not making small talk with you, Anderson."

It was far too late for him to back down. I was out for blood. I was just so completely sick of being undermined and insulted and attacked when the worst thing I'd done to him was exercise my right to say "no." He had _no right_ to take it out on anyone but me if he wanted to be petty and immature, but he was directing it at Neal, now. What was next? Even if I wasn't fighting on Neal's behalf, where did it end if he got away with attacking my consultant? Did he attack Diana? Derek? _Kate?_

"I'm just curious," I said mildly, remembering to keep paying attention to my earpiece in case Neal said something that read like a call for help. "You know, since you're having an affair."

You could've dropped a pen. Derek didn't quite do that – he dropped his phone instead, it just slipped out of his hand as his muscles went slack in shock – but it still worked out well, making it more dramatic and impressive. I observed my fingernails casually, noting that I should go to a salon to have them redone. Normally I just had Kate do them, but my acrylics needed to be filled in.

It was long enough for Derek to curse quietly and pick up his phone before Ruiz actually replied. His face got all red in fury and stony as he tried not to give anything away, and he was probably wondering who I was to speak to him like that. "Who the hell are you-"

"Your deodorant," I said flatly, looking right at his face and peering curiously into his eyes, questioning how easy it would be to say the right thing and cause his spontaneous combustion. "It's for women. And you've always been a bit of a misogynist, so there's no way you'd wear that if there were any other choice, so you must've spent the night at another person's house – a house where only women live, because otherwise there'd be masculine products." I really couldn't care less about Ruiz's relationship, but Eric _lived_ for double standards. He would make a fuss with his wife in a second if she cheated on him, but he likely saw no moral issue with fucking another woman while his wife was away. "If you'd planned on spending the night somewhere, like with a family member or friend, you'd have taken an overnight bag unless it was because of an emergency, in which case you wouldn't've come to work today. Therefore, tell me I'm wrong when I say you're having an affair."

He opened his mouth at me, then closed again, grinding his teeth and looking like a fish. I smiled and said as much. He reacted to that by stepping up close, invading my space. Our chests were almost touching, his toes less than an inch from the front of my boots. "Are you threatening me?" He hissed. It sounded like he was threatening _me_ with the way he said it.

"Not at all," I responded calmly, letting my voice fluctuate like an open book. "I don't give a fuck that you can't keep it in your pants. I'm just proving that I'm the better investigator than you are, and that if I really wanted your job, I could get it just by going through the motions, and our supervisors all know that. Otherwise, the potential mob hit would've been handed to you. Mob affiliations are taken so much more seriously than stolen books." I delivered each sentence like a wound, quick and precise. There were my own personal issues and stipulations with getting his job, but if it weren't for the people I cared about and the difficult problem of a psych eval, I could make it my ambition and kick him so far off of his pedestal that he'd need a telescope to see me, and that was something he evidently needed to be reminded of. I enjoyed every second of watching his face go from aggravation, to violence, to a dark scowl, and then settle on an internally-seething rage level that made his forehead and cheeks turn red, his jugular and Adam's apple standing out against his throat.

If screwing him up like this and enjoying every second counted as sadism, I was very much a sadist.

"Agent Johnson is right," I tacked on, not quite finished. Defending my competence was great and all, but there was still the matter that I was unwilling to let the very principle of attacking me go down unscathed. "You're harassing me with your continuous jabs and insults, and your obsession with whomever I may be sexually involved with. I now have at least…" I pretended to make a list by ticking the fingers on my left hand. "Four witnesses, between Agents Johnson and Berrigan, Director Hughes, and the consultant who heard your unfounded accusations earlier today. Either you learn to treat me with the respect I deserve as the superior agent – no, as a _human being_ – or I file a complaint to OPR."

That was me warranting Derek's own threat and utilizing a department that usually caused me trouble. If they were going to help me get Eric off of my ass, though, then fine. I'm so completely one hundred-percent done letting him yank my hair and twist my arm and try to push my fingers backwards. "See, I appreciate my team trying to step in and help me." I looked back over my shoulder at both of them. Diana was looking amused at the smack down. Derek looked more like he was torn between getting popcorn and decking himself out in body armor. I smiled at them both affectionately before looking back at my fellow human being. "But I really don't need them to defend my rights. I can be a cut-throat bitch if I want to be. Agent Ruiz." I made myself smile very slightly, being intimidating in a way he was entirely unused to. "Don't make me want to be."

Contently, I looked back up to the monitor, feeling more successful just today than I had in the last month. Finally putting the prick in his place felt good. The camera picked up Maria as she stepped down from the front porch of her house, wearing a long, elegant burgundy dress. She looked like she was going on another date, and a Prada purse hung off the crook of her elbow. As she left her house and turned towards the driveway, Neal walked down the sidewalk to meet her and came within the camera's field of vision. He looked over her shoulder discreetly.

"We have a visual." I could see that. Diana said it to a recorder as she pushed down the button to capture her voice for the record. "Fiametta's come out of her house."

I reached to the earpiece half-hidden by hair that had come loose from my ponytail and tucked the wire firmly around the shell of my ear. Neal and Maria, on the monitor, made friends quickly, Neal looking up the front steps on the side of her porch and holding his arms out to her as she stepped down, a hand lightly pressed on the banister.

 _"_ _Hey,"_ she said in a fairly impartial greeting, but the camera was telling me there was a wicked smirk playing on her lips as she walked right into Neal's arms like she fucking belonged there and _oh,_ no, not this again…

He closed his arms around her. _"We have a chaperone,"_ I heard him whispering to her, using the hug as a diversion. _"White van over my left shoulder."_

As I watched, the hug became far less innocent in mere seconds. He stood over her and stretched his arms down, running his hands along her back and then across the dip in her spine, over the swell of her hip and down her thigh, kissing at her neck as he had to bend down to reach her legs. Maria giggled and her fingers curled into talons against his back while he unnecessarily slowly felt up her thighs, gliding up her dress sensually.

I felt a little bit nauseated, I was so annoyed and unsettled, and I figured that maybe it was a good thing we hadn't been watching them on camera in her house last night after all.

Diana laughed at the two while Neal felt her up, pressing himself close to her body and returning to nipping at her neck. "What happened to not mixing business with pleasure?" She asked to make her own entertainment when none of us said anything, just watched Maria get felt up by _my_ consultant.

"He's patting her down," I said, and I prided myself on my ability to be heard and understood when I spoke while keeping my teeth tightly bit together. It really helped me stop from snapping or saying something I'd regret later. _It's a pat down,_ I kept reminding myself. _He's protecting himself, making sure she's not armed_.

Even Ruiz looked put off by the… thoroughness. "Need a cigarette after that pat-down," he grunted.

"Need tequila every time I hear your voice," I responded to hearing him bitch on autopilot.

 _"_ _You're clean,"_ he murmured to her in confirmation. _"Thank you."_ Maria hummed. _"Your turn,"_ he invited, because turnabout was fair play, but suddenly there was a mantra of ' _no no hands off no_ ' playing in my mind that wouldn't shut up. I touched my pockets inconspicuously for something to hold onto instead of bruising my own palms while repressing my jealousy, and found a fountain pen I'd used to sign out the bugs earlier. I pulled it out of my slacks and held it in both hands to squeeze.

When Maria's hands moved with lightning speed up to his collar and yanked him down to kiss her, hard and passionate and about half a dozen other adjectives' worth of energetic, that mantra in my head became twice as loud. Neal molded to it effortlessly, dropping his hands to her hips and making a soft, pleased noise.

She was far more thorough than she had any reason to be. I squeezed the pen hard. Both hands traveled enthusiastically over his front, feeling him up through his shirt and them roaming his back down to the waistband of his pants. She wedged one of her feet between his to feel for a gun holster by his shoes while she – _oh, come on, you can't seriously think he's hiding a weapon in his hair_ – and then _get your hand out of his pocket, woman, you can feel just fine when your hands are where I can see them._

"What's that?" Still making her own light of the situation, Diana pointed at the monitor. It wasn't hard to guess what she was pointing at, especially not with the earpiece that I was listening to – the surprised but muffled 'oh!' Neal made that Maria swallowed down in that forceful kiss was a particularly telling soundtrack. "Is she making sure that's not a gun in his pants?"

 _Crack!_ I looked down as the pressure in my hands broke and my fists flew into each other, both holding a broken near-half of an ink pen. The black ink itself spilled out onto my jacket. Ruiz looked over at me and huffed, wanting to say something but having learned his lesson the last time he tried. I shoved both ends of the bleeding ink pen back into the pocket, since ink was washable, and pulled the sleeves past my hands before I started working my arms out of the coat.

 _"_ _No arms."_ Maria stopped, finally, after what felt like an eternity, and Neal's breathing had picked up. She smiled sweetly like a high schooler with a crush. _"So, where's my money?"_ Make that a mid-thirties gold-digger. _That was harsh but I am more than welcome to say mean things in the privacy of my own head._

 _"_ _Where's my book?"_ Neal put his own question towards her.

Her smile faded to be replaced with seriousness and a daring glint visible in her smile. She looked predatory, like she hungered for the excitement of a chase and the triumph of crime and thrill. _"You ready?"_

 _"_ _When I cut the anklet, my friends in the van are going to know I'm running."_ They were still holding each other. It was cute in a way that made me want to rip them apart and snap Maria like I'd just snapped the pen. So… maybe not exactly cute, in my opinion. _"Can you lose them? Because I'm not going back in."_

 _"_ _I've been chased by the Carabinieri, drug cartels in Bogota-"_

 _"_ _I get it, you're good."_ Rather than waiting for her to list all of her "accomplishments," Neal cut her off and pulled out a pair of scissors slowly from the deep pocket of his pants. Maria must've felt it (I highly doubted there was anything on him that she hadn't felt) but they probably agreed on him bringing scissors last night.

Neal bent down onto the ground in front of her and Maria took a step back, reaching into her brown Prada and pulling out the car keys. She held them up and the lights on the car hidden in the alcove of a driveway flashed while it unlocked. The conman pulled up the leg of his pants, worked the scissors in between his sock and the strap of the tracker, and cut through the anklet. The broken piece fell to the ground.

Nothing can be made totally tamper-proof and applied humanely, so instead, it was the technology that worked better than the crime. While fairly easy to remove, as Neal had just demonstrated, the second that there was damage to the wires that ran through the strap, it sent off the alarm signal to the US Marshals' office, and they alerted the right people.

 _"_ _With all due respect, Neal,"_ Maria said kindly as he rose from the ground, dropping the scissors down onto the sidewalk next to the anklet. My heart thundered to see the proof that he was free. How tempting would that be? Was the indignity of being tagged and tracked twenty-four-seven enough to convince him to take his chances? Was the realization that it really was that easy going to give him any more ideas? _"We could make quite a fine pair."_

He looked right at her, but was not flirty or excited this time, instead looking over his shoulder in paranoia. I figured he was trying to give Maria the mental image that we were loading up our guns and calling in reinforcements. _"With all due respect, Maria, shut up and drive."_ That made me swallow nervously. It was all an act, but to play a part, it's best to identify with it, and he was doing an exceptional job. _"I'm getting rid of this."_

We had talked about it ahead of time, but Neal still made me anxious when he took the earpiece off and threw it down on the ground. Having learned my lesson before, I quickly unhooked the wire from around my ear and took it out, so when he slammed his heel down and crushed the bug against the concrete, I didn't get a bunch of static in my ears.

Completely stunned by our lack of reactions and purposefully kept out of the loop, Ruiz predictably had a fit. "He cut the tracker!" He yelled, pointing at the monitor as Neal and Maria jogged to different sides of the car to get in and make a vehicular getaway. Eric looked ready to have an aneurysm.

"Mm-hmm," I said, rocking on my heels and putting down my undamaged earpiece next to the recording equipment. It wasn't like a radio, so it wasn't wrapped around behind my neck and wound through the collar of my shirt or vest. "Right on schedule."

Ruiz drew himself up tall. "You knew about this?!"

"Of course." I smirked at him, still in charge, still the superior agent who took risks and actually got the job done in a timely manner and cut the losses to save lives and money. "Had to convince Fiametta he's rigging the system."

Ruiz gaped. "What if he really is?!"

I motioned for him to calm down, which I knew would really irritate him, if he wasn't worked halfway up to high cholesterol and heart attack risk anyway. "If my word isn't enough for you," _this goes for you, too, irrational side of my brain,_ "There's over a dozen unmarked vans in the area, loaded with agents. The local police has choppers ready in the sky at our command. There is nowhere for either of them to hide." They wouldn't even get as far as the county line, _if_ that far, before Maria got impatient and decided she wanted her money. I pointed to my agent in the driver's seat and leaned against the wall, spreading my legs a couple of feet apart to brace with momentum during acceleration. Riding in a moving car without a seat wasn't too unlike riding a subway, but less smooth. "Derek, drive. Follow at two blocks' distance."

* * *

"This is weird." I paced in the back of the van the moment that the car had given that final lurch as the brakes kicked in and stopped it. "What are they doing here?" Maria chose to drive to a fairly public location about a mile downriver from Ignacio's crime scene. I rubbed my hands together. It wasn't particularly secluded, it wasn't out of the way. It was right out by the water.

"What do you mean?" Derek turned sideways, leaning against the driver's door while his legs stretched out over the passenger's seat. I noticed Diana eyeing his shoes on the seat with a distinct lack of appreciation. "They never actually passed off the book and money."

"Well, yeah, but doing it _here?_ " She was supposed to be smarter than that. Ruiz stepped in front of me and tried to block me off, but I gave him a hard shove with one arm that send him stumbling back to the side. "His anklet is cut and she knows there's an alarm. If anything, she should've started driving out of state. Instead she tries the river?"

Diana shrugged her shoulders, stretched one arm out to the side, and raised the other to scratch at the top of her shoulder blade. "The river's where she got rid of Ignacio," she offered, closing her eyes as she reached the itch and just supplying ideas of significance.

 _The river is her dumping site._ I looked to the doors of the van in horror. Diana didn't seem to immediately realize the true relevance of what she'd said, but my overactive mind and instilled protectiveness had me jumping to the conclusion, and my bones told me it was right. She'd driven here because the water eroded trace evidence, such as DNA, and the river was where she killed her victims. It was such a public place that it was almost impossible to pinpoint a suspect, as long as she stayed away from cameras.

I threw myself at the doors past Ruiz. He got out a noise that sounded so stunned it was more like a half-strangled "what- Anderson?" before the doors were flying open and I was jumping out of the surveillance van, forsaking my own rule about people not being seen coming into or out of the van in favor of sprinting.

Thanks to my own orders, Derek had followed Maria's car here at a distance, but said distance had been a mistake. I looked ahead at the turn-off by the riverfront pier and pushed myself to run faster. We'd already been here too long, taken too much time to come to the conclusion, and it wasn't a marathon. I didn't want to pace myself, I wanted to push myself for all of the energy I could get.

My legs hurt from suddenly being forced into action, and my feet pounded against the concrete achingly. I pumped my arms until I got within a block, and then I got my gun from the holster, sparing a second of vision to look at the gun and turn off the safety, holding it out with that arm as fixed in place as possible.

"Paul decided that he wanted the money _and_ the book!" Maria shouted, voice carrying in the wind, out of the car.

I turned around the corner to see the red car parked up sideways along the edge of the street, right by a set of wooden stairs that led down to a small beach by the edge of the river, littered with rocks and plastic and weeds. Both of them were out of the car, Neal holding up the Book of Hours and Maria with a small gun trained on him.

 _Her purse,_ I realized, about to smack my forehead. _He didn't check her purse._ Neal was covering his chest with the scripture while Maria looked like her arms were shaking with duress. Neal, however, was unsympathetic.

"Yeah, that's what happens when you get greedy," he retorted swiftly, raising the book a little bit higher. Maria pulled the trigger on her weapon and I saw the flash before I heard the explosion of the gunpowder in the barrel, but I stopped running towards them and pulled up my pistol, looking at her over the top and aiming.

Neal fell down to the ground. It wasn't like in the movies, where it seemed like everything moved in slow motion so that the viewer could get the full effect of the scene. It happened fast, where he jerked back from force and fell over to the side, still clutching the Book of Hours. I trained my sights on the professor, who moved the barrel of her gun down to Neal as he laid still.

"Drop the gun!" I shouted, making her look up. Instantly, I saw the transition from cocky, self-righteous, and hypocritical betrayer to the caught, deer-in-headlights look of the betrayed. She curled her lip and started to step to Neal. "Drop it!" I snapped again, having no moral qualms with shooting her. "Now! You think you can shoot anything else before you're dead?"

Feet behind me from other people whom had finally understood what was going on made my moment a little bit brighter. More guns aimed at her changed Maria's tune. The criminal looked behind me and, with a roll of her eyes, turned to face us, holding her gun out to the side.

"On the ground!" I instructed, approaching with my range still aimed for her chest, prepared to shoot if she made any sudden moves. The perfect picture of a pissed teenager, Maria acted like she'd been caught sneaking out of the house rather than trying to kill someone. She straightened her hand huffily and the gun slid out of her fingers, falling down onto the ground and thankfully not going off. I reached behind my back to motion to whoever was nearest behind me. Derek and Diana both ran forward, Derek replacing his sidearm where it was meant to be and getting his handcuffs from his belt. Diana kept her weapon trained as insurance for Derek's safety.

I didn't even take the time to put my gun away, just heard Derek starting to recite the Miranda Rights, and ran to my friend. Neal was slowly drawing his knee up, groaning softly, and when I heard that pained noise, I almost cried in relief, tossing myself down onto the ground next to him. The Book of Hours over his chest had a hole punched into the front, but the bullet and its case were both still embedded in the thick cover and the front pages. Setting my gun down by my knee, I immediately took the book away and put it to the side.

"Caffrey, you alright?"

I was already pressing a hand over his chest, feeling for injuries or blood, but his shirt was dry and his chest firm. Definitely not bullet-riddled.

"Cutting it a little close there, friend," he answered, grimacing and wheezing slightly. His voice was up there in a squeakier register, the wind knocked out of him both from the bullet and the rude meeting his back had had with the ground. I bit my lip and took my hand off of his chest, reaching to put my gun away with the safety back on.

"You're okay, though?"

He nodded, shutting his eyes for a minute. He shifted on the ground, then held up both hands hopefully. I leaned over him, watching as his bright blue eyes opened again. I rocked back on my knees now that I knew he wasn't falling unconscious and gave him my hands. Neal pulled on me to sit upright and he stretched his legs out. He gave my hands an extra squeeze before he let go and moved his arms to prop himself up.

Panting, he looked down at the Book of Hours in his lap. "This enough divine intervention for you?"

I looked at it after him, considered, and then denied it. "I call that physics." He looked up at me, pretending to be upset, but that melted away in favor of an exhilarated smile that I returned, climbing up to my feet and offering him a hand to get back up.

Tires squealed and smoked, pieces of tiny rocks were sent flying and bounced on the ground. Neal brushed his hands down his shirt and then bent over to pick up the Book of Hours. Ruiz had since joined the commotion, deeming it worth his time. I glared at him as he approached and I positioned myself between he and Neal while a black vehicle pulled up next to Maria's and a mobster hopped out of the passenger's side.

"Right," the snarky bastard said a few feet away from me. "Now Barelli."

I really only had the energy to hate someone as much as I hated he and Maria one at a time, and considering Maria just tried to _kill_ Neal, Barelli was going to have to settle for me not quite wanting him incarcerated even half as much as I normally did. "How'd your cub scouts figure this out?" I asked him on the principle rather than actually caring. I couldn't say I hadn't been expecting him to show up. I gave Neal's arm a pat and he touched my shoulder gratefully before he stepped out of the way.

"I've got one of those police scanners," Barelli admitted freely. Ruiz took offense and he took a step forward as if about to start trying to take bites out of the shorter man. I was willing to let him, but Barelli just threw him a look, smugly asking him to try. Ruiz ground his teeth and moved away. "She's Paulie's shooter?" It was weird to hear a mobster speaking about family with nicknames. He looked at Maria as Derek tightened the handcuffs, forced against the hood of her car with her arms held behind her back. "Some kind of lover's quarrel?"

"Business transaction gone bad." I slipped my hands in my pockets and arched my back, standing on my toes and stretching. I couldn't wait for a good night of rest and a bit of sleeping in, this time without the additional tossing and turning. "Hate to break your heart like this, but your nephew decided to go freelance."

"It's sad." Ruiz didn't sound particularly like he cared for Barelli's sake, even though the point fit, and he looked at the mobster with apathy. "If you can't trust family, who can you trust?" It was mostly rhetorical, and probably a comment to the code that organized criminals tended to live by within their communities.

"That's bad news for your wife," I flippantly declared.

Barelli looked at Ruiz, then me, and saw the bad blood between the interaction. He rolled his eyes. I swear, he looked like he saw this kind of thing all the time. He probably did with his own henchmen (or whatever the politically correct term was). "If you guys are done, I'd like my Bible back." Just because we were working together didn't mean I should take Barelli lightly, and when he said 'if,' it was pretty heavily implied that he wanted it back regardless of whether or not we were willing to give it. "Mass starts in an hour."

"Would it kill you to say thank you?" I griped. I had put myself through a lot of drama to get that one little book for him. My consultant had been shot at retrieving that book for him, and he couldn't even muster up some at least feigned gratefulness?

Barelli placed his hand on his chest. His body jerked like he was choking or having palpitations, and his mouth opened slightly, face screwed up in a melodramatic attempt at saying 'thanks.' It was hard not to kick at his shin in payback.

"Of course, I guess it would." Barelli smirked and dropped the act. "Alright, just remember I'm checking out that restaurant this Friday, and it had better be an actual restaurant." The man made a motion like he was crossing his heart and swearing. "Neal, pass it over." I gave it a few seconds, but then looked over my shoulder. "Neal?" The CI had snuck off to a few yards away, looking out over the river and not realizing that he was being summoned. I stomped my foot and called him louder. "Neal!"

He twisted around and hurried back. "What?" He looked between Ruiz and Barelli, expecting one of them (or both) to be the reason that he was wanted.

I looked him over. He didn't have the Book of Hours in his hands, and it wasn't the kind of thing easily shoved into a pocket or hidden in a shoe. "What do you mean, what?" I asked, exasperated with his antics. "Give it over."

He looked honestly wide-eyed. "I gave it to some FBI guy," he answered, looking over behind us at the agents that had come to escort Maria to a squad car. Maria looked positively murderous as she stared at Neal as if she could telekinetically kill him just by letting her eyes bore hard enough into his back.

"Some FBI guy?" I repeated, having a hard time buying that Neal had given such a priceless thing to an FBI agent whose name he didn't even know. "That seems unlike you." I looked at him carefully, trying to determine what I was missing from the situation.

"Think you can get it over on me?" Barelli's casual tone like a guy at a beach rapidly became the growl of someone easily angered and dangerous, but Neal didn't flinch. "You'll wish you were never born, pal!"

"I seem to be getting this speech a lot lately," he remarked, unaffected.

"Just shut up, Barelli." Ruiz told the mobster, and for once I could agree with him on something – Barelli talked way too much.

While Ruiz and Barelli both stared down and up at each other respectively, Neal caught my eye speedily and winked. I blinked. Yes, I was right, he was up to something. The man then looked back to the other two and watched them go back and forth as if it were a tennis game.

"No, you stay off my back, fed. This book is my rightful property."

"As rightful as the civilians' facilities you threaten your operations into?"

"This ain't over 'til I get my Bible back, sonny!"

"Where is it, Caffrey?" Nostrils flaring and forehead creasing, Ruiz turned on Caffrey, releasing his anger at Barelli on the innocent bystander. Well… relatively speaking, anyway. "I'll let Barelli give you a ride home!"

Neal defenselessly put both of his arms to display how weak and helpless he was. "I'm telling you guys, I don't know! No one knows, apparently!"

 _"_ _Ooh,"_ I said, eyes widening as I finally realized what it was I wasn't remembering. The hint Neal snuck into his protest probably helped, and I got the attention of both overly-aggressive idiots. I was just glad I wasn't in a confined space with them. Then I'd either have to concuss myself or kill them both. Or let them kill each other, which they might. "No one never gave me my windbreaker back."

Ruiz, of course, dismissed it immediately. "Guess you'll just have to get it yourself, eh, Anderson?"

"I know where the book is," I stated confidently, placing my hands on my hips and sassily looking at Ruiz. _Not looking so stupid or dependent on others now, am I?_ Saying that and then not immediately spilling turned out to be a mistake, because both looked at me like I was a steak. I tried not to let it show how disturbing it was that I felt more like a piece of meat than a sentient human in that moment.

* * *

My hunch turned out to be right, and I was proud of myself and Neal for where we ended up. Barelli's church, the original home of the Book of Hours, had its belongings all back in place – and one former veteran and his dog were being granted the closure they wanted from it, Steve sitting on the mezzanine by the altar with Lucy up there with him. Steve had one hand on the book, the other petting down Lucy's back from her neck to the base of her tail, which was wagging back and forth happily.

"Hey, pal!" The warm feeling in my chest dissolved like salt in hot water when Barelli shoved past me, knocking into my right shoulder and not seeming to care. I stumbled into Neal as a result and, wincing at the mobster's fury, the conman caught me quickly, one hand on my elbow and the other at my side. "What're you doing with my Bible?"

"I've told you," I shouted down the aisle at him, any sense of camaraderie gone with being shoved past like that. "It's a Book of Hours!" Then I looked back up at Neal, who was staring at me in amusement with a quirked eyebrow. Suddenly I realized I was holding onto his arms still and I let go, smoothing down his sleeves for him. "Thanks for that."

"You're not the first woman to fall for me," he joked, and it was uncomfortably close to the – ugh – _affection and romantic attachment_ – that I was feeling, so instead of dignifying it verbally, I just rolled my eyes and reminded myself that blushing was not an option.

Steve obviously gathered that Barelli was bad news, even if he hadn't seen him before. He took his hand off the top of the book and held it up, offering it to the man with no trouble. "She would've died without it. If I'd-"

"Not so fast, whacko!" Barelli snatched the book away, despite apparently not being over it. I swear, he has the maturity of a spoiled child half of the time, and the other half, he has the patience of a bounty hunter. "Do you know who you're messing with?" He loomed over the sitting man and I approached from behind him.

Reaching out roughly, I yanked Barelli's shoulder back, tearing him off balance and out of Steve's space. "Knock it off," I scolded. Steve wasn't doing anyone any harm, and it wouldn't kill him to actually be charitable once in a while. "It's back in the church, so just leave him alone. Stop being such a bully."

"No, I'm not just gonna let this go!" He argued back at my face. At least he wasn't one of those people who turned away and then started muttering under his breath… He looked ready to fire up another sharp snap at me, but Lucy hopped down from the mezzanine and padded to the mobster, licking at the hand held tensely at his side. It distracted him enough that he turned his back to me again, forgetting that we were kind of trying to fight. "Eh? Oh, hey, sweet girl."

Barelli shrugged my hand passively off of his shoulder and lowered himself down onto his knees, taking his hands and moving them to both sides of Lucy's head. He buried his fingers in her fur and scratched behind her ears while she yipped at him thankfully. I looked at Neal in complete bewilderment. He just lifted his shoulders.

"Her name's Lucy," Steve said, patting Lucy's hindquarters. Her tail smacked his arm on accident, but she didn't stop wagging so hard that her ass was wiggling with it.

"Lucky Lucy…" the man alliterated, placing a hand on top of her head and smoothing down the fur he'd lifted up. "She don't look so good," he saw, touching her muzzle lightly and then rewarding her cooperation with a pat to the flank. She wasn't panting as much now, I noticed with a bit of relief. Lucy getting sicker would have been a sad ending. "What's the matter with her?"

"She's been sick," Steve said sadly, but then his entire disposition was so much more optimistic than he'd been in the past couple of days, and it was an inspiring transition to see in person. "Until today."

Barelli looked up at Steve, his anger quelled. "I've got this vet in Yonkers," he debated with himself before saying. Steve looked up, surprised at the complete turn of his temper and behavior. "He saved my pug from diabetes. Wanna take a ride, go see him? Have her checked out?" I'd have normally put my foot down there and said there was absolutely no way I was going to let Barelli get Steve into one of his cars, but he seemed so calm and genuinely affectionate towards Lucy that I wasn't too worried. Besides, waiting to get someone alone in a car with the pretense of helping them was low, even for Barelli. He was a fairly honest guy, even if he did like to mince words and turn phrases. It was Neal I had to watch out for.

Steve nodded. I couldn't really see any way he wouldn't do something that would help his dog. He was as much Lucy's as Lucy was his. "Okay," he said, and Barelli patiently waited while Steve put his hands down on the mezzanine and pushed himself up slowly, body old and not quite working properly. The slight favoring of his left leg went uncommented on as he clipped Lucy's leash onto her pink collar, and Barelli held out his arm in invitation to go down the aisle first. Steve made a clicking noise and Lucy took the instruction, starting to walk forward.

 _That is the most unlikely friendship I have ever seen,_ I thought, amazed. I mean, dogs are awesome, I never doubted that, but I'd never seen their amazingness work like that before. Damn. Barelli clearly had a hidden adoration for dogs, because he walked with his fingers trailing on Lucy's back whenever the dog trailed behind Steve's heel.

"I was going to give it back," Neal interrupted my marveling at the two as they left, sidestepping to stand next to me and watch them leave. "After-"

"I know," I said, feeling very serenely calm and wanting the feeling to last a while. Maria was going to prison for a very, very long time, Lucy would get medical care, one of Barelli's operations was down, and, most importantly, even though he had the opportunity to try to run, Neal hadn't betrayed my trust by making the attempt to ditch the law.

"How'd you know?"

"You like dogs," I stated simply. I'd learned it from watching him with Cinnamon, and then with Lucy. "And I'm far more inclined to trust you than I am Barelli, so of course I stuck up for you," I added, because it needed to be said. I'm inclined to trust him. I tried it today, more so than I had before, and it played out well because he held up his end of the bargain.

"Yeah, why'd you do that, anyway?" He asked, looking at me skeptically and probably remembering all of the reasons why someone could reasonably argue that I shouldn't take his word or vouch for him any more than I already had.

"I hate people that push others around." I would have pointed out Barelli, if the men were still in the church building with us, because he was a prime example of just that. "And I'll take a stand-up crook over a crooked killer any day."

He thought about that for a short time, and then he gently nudged my arm with his elbow. "I told you it's a healing Bible," he gloated.

"Not this again," I complained, throwing my head back but taking it in jest. It was a friendly argument. I was still feeling those happy, anticipatory butterflies fluttering around in my stomach and chest, and I felt like something small could make me laugh. "She'll get better because she's being taken to an actual vet."

"Not enough smiting, lightning, and apocalyptic visions for you?" He prodded, repeating what I'd said the first day of the case.

"Nope." I grinned with my tongue caught between my teeth while I tried not to laugh with him. I reached down for his hand, aborted and grabbed his wrist, and gave him a short tug to get him walking. We started to head for the doors after the others to get his new anklet on and go home. "Not enough people have been struck down in flames."

"I prefer to take my miracles where I can get them." Although I had actually had to remind myself not to grab his hand, Neal negated that decision when he caught my wrist like I'd done to him. Except when he did it, he slid his hand down over mine and slipped his fingers against my palm. I was surprised, but lightly curled my fingers around his hand.

I guess before I got any ideas, a couple of agents followed us in from the front of the church doors, Derek being one of them and dramatically holding up a box. I jerked my hand away from Neal so quickly that my arm hurt, but I swore that the others hadn't had the chance to see us holding hands like a couple.

"We have the honors?" I asked, taking my turn to elbow Neal.

Neal took one look over at Derek and his dramatic carrying of the box, holding it up like a prized trophy as he carried it straight to the convict, and he held out his hands to offer a welcoming embrace. "She's back!" He declared, sounding more delighted than I'd have thought. Maybe he liked the extra security and safety more than I'd thought.

 _Or maybe he's acting again._ I withheld a sigh and looked away from him at the pews before I could think too hard or start to get sad. I wanted to preserve this feeling like I could walk on water or reach up and touch the clouds. Cases didn't always end this happily. I had certainly never gotten to take my venting as far as arresting the target of my jealousy before. Something that didn't fit into the color of the seats caught my eyes and my vision snapped back to the dark blue.

"Is that my jacket?!" I exclaimed, running behind Neal while he bent down and pulled up his pant leg for the anklet.

"I told you," he returned, being a smartass while he could. "He works in mysterious ways." While he was clearly referring to God, it seemed much more likely that it was actually the work of "no one" that had gotten both the Book of Hours to Steve and proceeded to leave my jacket here for me to find.

I picked it up carefully, but what I hadn't expected was for it to be neatly folded. It was, at least, a polite way to return clothes that he'd taken and then used to commit a crime with. If nothing else, he had manners… when he chose to employ them, that was. Though it was folded, it wasn't zipped, so I swung the windbreaker around my arm and pushed my hand through the sleeve, rucking it up around my back to put on.

It didn't smell like cigarettes, which was a relief, because Kate would've killed me if she thought I was smoking, especially if I then proceeded to wear smoky clothes into the house. Actually, the strongest thing I could smell was a sort of neutral but clean smell, like laundry detergent. _Oh, he washed it overnight,_ and I didn't know if that was to be polite or to eradicate as much evidence as possible. Then, just over that, there was something like cologne, which I didn't recognize, but didn't really care about. I'd already made the decision to pretend not to be aware of the less-than-legal activities that the Dynamic Duo got up to, as long as they weren't actively causing trouble.

While Derek crowed triumphantly about putting the tracker back on Neal, Neal dropped his pant sleeve over the anklet and picked up his leg, swinging his foot back and forth. "It felt weird for my leg not to be chafing," he said, probably deliberately making a reference to the first time he'd complained to me about it.

Suddenly remembering my iPod, I pushed my hand into the left pocket and pulled it out. The screen lit up with a message left on the lock screen as soon as I pressed the power button to make sure that it was still working. (Although I don't know what kind of person would destroy an electronic but still be kind enough to fold up my clothes for me, I mean, seriously.)

_Make a harder passcode. –Odysseus_

"Ha!" I said out loud. "Challenge accepted," I added more quietly, with a wicked grin, turning back around to my colleagues. I felt another burst of pride erupting in my chest as I looked over them, Derek laughing at Neal's expense while Neal tried to pull up his sock under the strap on the anklet. "Ready to go, guys?"

* * *

Call me anxious, but after seeing Neal shot at from point-blank range, I was reluctant to let him take public transport with strangers, and after we got everything sorted at the FBI offices and confirmed that his new tracker was accurately marking his position, I took him back to June's myself, giving him a ride in my FBI wheels, and I felt much better in general about knowing where he was and seeing to it myself that he wasn't at all injured or trying to sneak off without telling anyone.

"Thanks for the ride." He leaned close to the window, looking up as far as he could before it was blocked by the frame of the door to try to see the top of June's mansion. I was pretty sure it wasn't possible. His seatbelt retracted quickly across his chest and he looked at me, casually nodding towards the front porch. "Hey, you wanna come in?"

"What for?" I canted my head curiously. I mean, if he gave me a good enough reason, sure. We were past the point of drawing firm boundaries between work and home – mostly because Neal had no preconception of such boundaries and he and Kate both took my idea of such a thing and shattered it. Where I could invite him into my house and not care, because I knew Kate would be happy (ish) to see him, I didn't really think that applied in vice versa. I didn't know June that well, and it was her property.

"Italian roast?" He suggested. I smiled and looked down to the steering wheel reminiscently. Italian roast coffee was a joke between us since he'd been a smartass about it.

I pointed out the windshield to the oranges coloring the darkening blue of the sky. "The sun's going down," I stated needlessly. It would be night soon, so really, what sense did drinking coffee make? Coffee wasn't going to help me sleep, just keep me awake and give me more time to waste on Tumblr or YouTube.

"When's that ever stopped you?" He asked me seriously. I kind of shrugged. He had a point. Coffee was a drink for all times of the day, in my opinion, but it had seemed like a reasonable excuse at the time. He pushed himself up in the chair and got his knee under him, bracing his forearm along the headrest, and leaned over the space between our seats. "The sunset's gorgeous from the roof," he promised enticingly.

* * *

With a mug of hot, expensive coffee in my hand, probably imported from somewhere in Europe, I stood by the door out to the roof and looked over the top of the wall around the balcony. The cream, tan, and white colors of the outdoor garden and swimming pool area were earthy but bright, and beyond that I saw the swirling of thin cirrus clouds over a gorgeous mixing of reds, oranges, and navy blues as the sun drifted further down over the horizon, setting here and rising again on the other side of the world.

"That _is_ pretty," I admitted, admiring the view Neal had lured me up here with.

He agreed with a murmur, standing next to me, looking out the door. It was a slider made of glass that he'd pulled the long, thick, embroidered curtains back from so that we could see. Emeralds and forest greens and gold outlined the picture of the sunset through the panes of glass.

"I might get around to painting it one of these days."

"You paint?" I started to look at him in surprise, but I realized that was a pretty stupid thing to ask. Of course he painted. He painted forgeries, I knew that. "Original work?" I specified, looking out to the sunset again before back to Neal, whose face glowed with the perfect lighting that brought out shadows from his jaw onto his throat. "For fun?"

"You can't copy another artist without knowing how to make your own art," he shared, looking down at me. I met his eyes and nodded slowly. I'm not the artistic type, but I tried to understand and I think I got what it meant – or at least pretty close to it. You have to know yourself as a person to act like you're anyone else, right? It felt like the same applied to the fine arts. Neal would know. I looked down into the swirling coffee and saw it in new light as a blend of colors and effects.

Then I raised my head again and looked to the sunset instead of my consultant with metaphorically opened eyes. The colors were great, but now I saw the contrasts and the comparisons between them, the differences between their places and the palettes that shades had in common. The blending was like God had taken a Photoshop editor to the sky, the hues like a painter had layered more strokes of their brush over particular areas where the color was richer and darker. The cirrus clouds misted over them like an accent, done elegantly in light, sweeping drags of a pencil across a canvas.

I blinked and looked at my coffee, which was less overwhelming, and instead of seeing it as a work of intricate art, I looked at it and I saw coffee. Just… coffee. Not intrinsic, not ethereal or idyllic. Just a drink I may or may not be somewhat addicted to.

I had to wonder if that was how Neal saw things all the time. Was that how he was able to lie so convincingly? Seeing every small piece of the puzzle, not just the bigger picture? Was it how he created such convincing falsifications that he was only ever nailed on one specific count?

Whether or not it was how he managed to make such a good criminal, it was still fascinating to think he thought in that detail and poetry all the time. How could he manage it? I'd have long since gone insane. I like hedonism and simple pleasures that don't require thoughts much more complex than _if I watch X more episodes of A, how many of B can I watch before I have to get up?_ As long as he wasn't up to illicit activities, I'd love to see how that could come together, how something so serene and incredible from the outdoors could be gathered up and concentrated and copied down onto a piece of paper, and all by hand.

"There's a mall nearby. It might be out of your radius, but I can go with you to pick up supplies." I offered it with a small voice, because this moment here felt like it was more intimate than his hot and heavy make-out session with the killer. Before heating my tongue and stinging my throat again, I asked, "Got any more wise sayings?"

He cocked his head towards me and considered. "Imagination is more important than knowledge," he tried, but he couldn't keep his face straight because he was trying not to smile, and not trying hard enough to force it down. _Albert Einstein._ "But, I dunno, knowledge certainly helps."

I giggled. "I don't think that last part was included," I objected.

He held himself up, pretending to be affronted for being called on inaccuracy. "What've you got?"

I thought about meaningful quotes, but the first thing that came to mind was Corinthians, and I'd had enough of religion to last me a long while. Then there was music, which I lived for, but I didn't really care to get all sappy, and those were lyrics, not the educational or novel-originating speeches born from the wisdom of people a long, long time ago.

"Mm," I started to shake my head, protesting that he please not even ask me. "I'm not really poetic. I don't collect quotes from books or fortune cookies. If I need life lessons on feelings or knowledge, I learn them myself. Usually the hard way," I added with a chuckle that started out forced. Then I realized that was true, and when it came to something that was actually important, I didn't cut corners or do things the easy way.

Neal looked down. He'd taken off his shoes when we'd gotten here and his socks slid on the hardwood floor between the sliding door and the kitchen space. "Is that…" He sucked on his lip like he wasn't sure he really wanted to ask. I stayed quiet, patient. "What you meant in the office, about being tortured…?"

I 'hmph'ed. The only thing about feelings I had learned from that torture was exactly how much pain the human body could withstand before it started drifting in and out of consciousness. "No." I decided not to share that with Neal, though – the man was so sensitive to violence that it turns out he _had_ known Maria had a gun, but had been through so little personal experience with firearms that, even though he lifted the extra clip, he forgot about the one still in the magazine. I had laughed until my face turned red. "No, I meant real, physical torture."

I looked down at my shirt past my coffee and decided, _what the hell._ I was in a more sharing mood than I'd been in in a long time. Because of how the room was designed, there was a kitchen island just a couple of steps to the side of the doors outside, so I walked over there, put my half-full cup down, and then worked on my jacket, rolling my shoulders back to shake it off.

I wasn't proud of the marks that had been left on my body. I wasn't ashamed of them, either. They weren't medals, they weren't stripes, they weren't signs of glamor and honor; yet, as much as they weren't any of those things, they also weren't representative of something shameful or hateful. I was a victim. There. That was it. I was a victim, and I _loathed_ being victimized, detested the reminder with every fiber of my being. There was no escaping the wake up calls when they were left permanently on my body.

No one was going to take them away. I had never been completely infatuated with my body but I hadn't had physical self-image issues to note until those scars had been left. My body couldn't heal itself any further, a doctor wasn't going to be able to remove the scar tissue, and for God's sake, a sweet, romantic man showing me some kindness wasn't going to take away the pain or the wounds, and his touch wouldn't make me any more whole than I had been five minutes ago.

Zarra would have wanted me to live, not to hide away or let society pressure me into changing the decisions I made. If my scars had been made from anything else – an appendectomy or something – I wouldn't have hesitated to let Neal see the proof. Being the victim of a heinous crime made me a fighter, not a damsel. I _had_ survived. I was just also paying a steep cost for the continuation of my life, which he would hopefully never have to understand.

I threw my jacket over to the marble island, Zarra in mind. She had never been such a large presence in my new life before Neal. I took her advice to heart a lot now that my consultant was part of my routine. She had raised me, shaped me into who I was. I owed it to her to see it through, not to back out.

I raised my eyes to the thief. Neal's face reflected his concern and his bemusement, unsure what I was doing or why I was doing it. Torture was the topic that had led to me beginning to take off my clothes, so he was expectably wary. Untucking my button-up shirt around the waistband of my slacks, I pulled it up higher and bared my midriff, swallowing tightly in my throat and holding my clothes out of the way.

Although a gentleman, Neal's eyes inevitably fell to the exposed flesh, and it took no time at all for his attention to drift to the silvery scars that stood out on my skin. Most were several inches long. The largest one stretched from close to my navel to my hip, the scar tissue widest over the muscle of my abs and narrowest as the wound had shallowed. I had to look away. Neal took a step closer and I steeled my reflexes, rolled my shoulders back, and shivered.

If it was uncomfortable to be the subject of his attention with my shirt up while he stood in front of me, it was somehow worse when he lowered himself into a kneel, reaching for me. I stayed still, anticipating the heat of his hands long before his deft fingers touched my sides, sliding his palms over the contours of my waist to hold me gently. The artist sat before me on his knees, sank back, and hungrily drank up the sight.

He took his right hand from my body. I held my breath until he was touching me again, running experimental fingers across the scars on the left side of my abdomen, testing the texture and the give of soft, pliant flesh.

His other hand slid down and grasped my hip possessively.

"That looks…" He was lost for words for once. Bitterness swelled in my throat. _Of course._ The man could chat up a killer with no problems, but seeing a woman whose body had been flawed left him speechless. Well, I sure felt sexy. I kept holding my shirt up but started to want his hands off of me.

"Bad?" I cut in when he didn't finish his sentence. _Bad_ was the general consensus, and hell, even I agreed. Creamy, toned skin was marred by the marks of a knife. If Neal thought he was seeing _bad,_ just in the physical imperfection, then he would never be able to perceive the true _hell_ that I was thrown back to with every look in a mirror. It wasn't just an imperfection, it was a memory.

It sucked that I had to carry it with me. I was glad that it hadn't killed me. I was relieved and grateful for every extra day I got. It gave me more time with Katie, more time with Derek, the chance to meet Diana and earn her friendship and trust, the opportunity to meet Neal and rediscover feelings and experiences that I hadn't had in years. Neal woke up potent jealousy and blinding fear and red-hot rage worthy of Bruce Banner. He also made me see things in a new light. He wasn't able to "fix" me and truly, I didn't actually need fixing, just therapy and closure, but what he _could_ do was show me that there were beautiful people out there too, a fact I'd started to forget when I surrounded myself with pain.

I hadn't expected the self-deprecating voice to come out of my mouth. I had intended to sound snide or sarcastic. Instead, I was just vulnerable and angry. Neal laid his right hand across my abs, fingers splayed widely, and leaned forwards, touching his forehead to the bottom of my ribcage. My breath hitched. My hands tightened in my shirt.

Neal stroked his hand down my front with the utmost care. "I was going to say _amazing,"_ he corrected in a reverent murmur. He turned his head to flutter his breath over me and I leaned my head back, reaching for his hair with one hand and balling up the hem of my shirt in the other. "They're signs that you survived when someone else didn't want you to." The conman pressed his lips to a scar and dragged a damp, slow kiss over the trail it followed. "And that's _awe-inspiring."_

I didn't want his hands off of me anymore.

I threaded my fingers through his thick, dark hair and cradled his head, even as he leaned forwards and nuzzled against my side in a way that would have been ticklish if it'd been his hands. Neal stayed kneeling, rubbing his hand in a small circle between the waistband of my slacks and the line where he could feel the lowest rib bone. My eyes shut of their own volition and I wanted to disappear, pause the universe where it was, with the tender touch of a gentle thief stealing away my nerves, even if it was just for a moment.

Mindful of how tightly I held, I fisted my hand in his curls, twisting his short hair around my fingers. "He didn't want me not to survive," I whispered, rocking my head back and sighing softly to the darkening skylight. "He just wanted me to stop living."

I felt every breath my informant took, heard every quiet inhale and felt every exhale caress my sensitive skin, and he touched another slow, compassionate press of smooth-talking lips to me. I was more than surviving. The intimate touch was a component of human life. I had fought so hard to keep mine; I deserved the benefits. I had the right to feel the vital signs of another living being whom I was free to connect with, to feel like I wasn't alone in this hell of a world that the rest of us were forced into.

I wanted to hold Neal's head to my throat and feel his breath on my neck while he tongued at my pulse point. I wanted to spread my legs and feel the fit of his hips between my thighs while he rocked. I wanted to arch my back and feel the planes of his chest pinning down my breasts. I wanted my feet to be cold and my neck to be sore and for my eyes to sting with tears and my walk to be awkward and off-centered the next morning.

And, after a bullet had come so perilously close to ending his life, it wouldn't have surprised me in the least if he wanted something similar. If _he_ wanted to feel my hands in his hair, guiding his mouth to where he should kiss and suck. If _he_ wanted to feel legs wrapped tightly around his waist with heels digging into his lower back. If _he_ wanted to be held so tightly and overwhelmed with sensations so that he could barely speak.

I was lightheaded, and not just from arousal.

He moved to stand up, slow and tense. He moved like I longed to be moving, with the slow stiffness of someone who both didn't _want_ to move and whose body protested the action. I unwrapped his hair from my fingers and let go and admired how he looked, face a little flushed, hair messed up and imperfect. _Gorgeous._ From one knee to his feet, he kept his hands on me, unwilling to stop gliding his talented fingers over both blemished and picturesque skin.

Neal lowered his head and I looked up. Our foreheads touched. _Just a little more,_ an eager, tiny voice in my head cheered. _Please, Neal, give me the okay to have you._ My sense of responsibility was misplaced, but not so badly that I was going to risk any confusion over who had the veto power. He had to make the first move. It had to be Neal asking McKenna, or it was handler asking parolee.

He was just as affected as I felt. When he swallowed, I saw his Adam's apple moving in his throat. I reached for his sides to mirror the way he held me, and in response, he brought me a little closer. Neal encouraged me close enough so that I could feel the evidence of his desire against my thigh.

"Did he succeed?" Neal asked croakily, throat tight and voice coarse.

Lust and gratification were what mattered to me, but I'd have been an idiot not to recognize and value the kindness, the compassion in his face that didn't look like it could possibly have been fake. The acceptance in his touch, the openness of his expression, the invitation in his actions, and the warmth in the smallest gesture of stroking his thumb over my waist were all genuine and caring. His beautiful blue eyes had to be being truthful.

I pressed my fingers into his shirt and itched to move. "I don't think so," I breathlessly answered, unable to focus on his eyes. I kept looking down to his mouth, imagining the taste of his full, pink lips, recalling the unclear sounds he made as Maria made his mouth her own territory. My weight shifted and I rubbed my thighs together subtly.

Just like that, a dam broke. Neal's eyes darkened and then it wasn't _my_ personal space or _his_ air, but it was the space that we _shared_ and the breaths that we _traded._ His breath ghosted my face and his mouth slanted over mine and the first kiss – the _true_ first kiss, the first kiss we'd had that was _us,_ not characters, not an act, not choreographed or discussed – was sloppy and insistent and passionate all at once. He opened his mouth to run the soft muscle of his tongue over the inside of my lower lip and I jumped, startled but _oh, yes,_ interested. He chuckled and clumsily tried to deepen it to make out, hand rising to my face and cupping my cheek, but bumped our noses together instead. It was a new dance, and we were bound to stumble.

I giggled and pecked the corner of his mouth, lifting my hands to the back of his neck, and I parted my lips to nibble my teeth over the plush, soft, wet upper lip. Neal moaned quietly and his mouth opened, breath mixing.

Explorative fingers drifted away from my waist and skipped up over my bra, focused on their end goal. A large hand slipped into my hair and blunt fingernails scratched up the back of my neck, pushing fingers up through strands that he rubbed, feeling the texture.

I whimpered softly as Neal pulled his hand back and took my hair with it. He bared my throat and hovered over me intimidatingly, yet left my neck unattended. He tasted like rich Italian coffee while my toes curled in my boots.

His hair was so _soft._ I highly doubted it would stay anything resembling styled or combed for very long, if no one stopped us. I pulled on the strands by his neck and he let out a throaty hum, tilting his head back and to the side. I latched my mouth to his neck, pressing my body up against his. I rubbed my hips forward against his hard-on and was rewarded by him fisting my hair, making a loud, appreciative moan. I hummed against his throat, leaving wet kisses over soft, breakable skin until I reached a part that made Neal pant, a soft hollow under his jaw.

I sucked on that sweet spot that turned him on and followed it up with soothing lavishes of my tongue afterwards, alternating between suckling and kissing while Neal tightened his hand in my hair and groaned. Such pretty sounds. I'd been right; they were excellent. They were so much _better_ when they were for me, asking for more, requesting my attention and my time and my efforts to make him feel good. Those sounds that fell from his lips got me going.

I wanted more and I wanted satisfaction and I wanted an easier way to create friction for us both. Conveniently, my memory pointed out the bedroom's alcove a very short walk away, where a double-sized bed sat waiting to be used. Getting in his bed, under his sheets – _"Ah,"_ I sighed against the taste of his throat, the heady mix of cologne and soap and a uniquely Neal-ish flavor and a bit of sweat, too. I wanted to be in his bed. More than that, I wanted to writhe and moan on his bed and have as much of my DNA in it as Neal's. Make it _our_ bed for a night.

It wasn't much of a surprise. I _had_ wanted to get my legs around him from the get-go.

Neal's right hand groped down my side, feeling for a grip. My shirt had fallen down when I'd stopped holding it up, instead eager to jump into Neal's arms and make out. The artist copped a feel of my ass through my pants and then picked up my thigh, hooking his hand underneath my knee and holding my leg up to his waist. I whimpered and pushed my hips against his. He tossed his head back and moaned. Somewhere along the line, he must've picked up on how big of a turn-on that was, because he did it again, opening his eyes and grinning cheekily at me.

"Bed," I all but commanded, pointing over his shoulder in the right direction.

His grin widened. Neal bent his knees to get lower than me, but before I got any clever ideas about him on his knees, he stood up again, strong arms wrapped around my middle and under my thighs. It was a feat I wouldn't have expected from him. 'Feel up his arms' became the next item on my agenda.

"This is not the mode of transport I was suggesting!" I squeaked in protest, laughing despite myself and tightening my legs around his waist. I clung to his shoulders.

Neal chuckled. "But Kenna, I _need_ you." He huskily whined against my throat, burying his face into my neck while he carried me across the hardwood floor to the alcove under the shorter skylight. The artificial lights from the kitchenette and parlor lit the way to the black comforter and white-cased pillows.

The deep, rough timbre of his voice surprised me and spurred me on. _That's officially added to my private materials,_ I thought dazedly. "You can have me," I found myself answering, babbling and tightening my legs, cursing the choice not to wear a dress or a skirt or something that could've just been pushed up out of the way. "Christ, Neal, _please_ have me!"

That elicited a growl. "You're mine tonight," he declared, lowering me quickly down onto the bed. _"Mine."_ I bounced and scrambled backwards, getting up to the pillows, and my hands flew to the collar of my shirt, desperate to get the buttons undone. Neal crawled up after me on all fours, slinking up between my spread legs and raising himself up on his knees.

"Yours," I promised, working the buttons out and loosening the fabric with every touch. Neal started from the bottom up, running his hands over the insides of my thighs first as he sought out the hem. My legs trembled and he laughed sensually. The tent in his trousers made me question why _my_ clothes were his first priority. "Take 'em off," I gasped, getting the last button and ripping my arms out of the sleeves, throwing my shirt over the edge of the bed.

While Neal leaned back on his knees, unbuttoning and unzipping his pants, I twisted my arms behind my back to unclasp the hook of my brassiere, then pulled the thin straps off of my shoulders and pushed it only as far away as to get it off of the bed. Neal pushed the trousers down his hips and groaned in relief.

I reached up for his shirt and helped out, nipples pebbling in the cool air. There was an air conditioner in the alcove, which didn't help, but it would keep us cool when everything else burnt hot. I pulled at his tie, loosening the part around his throat before I got to the buttons on his shirt. I wasn't so great at taking off someone else's neckties, so I did the part I was good at and stripped the shirt, pushing the sides apart and baring his chest.

I absorbed the sight like I was starving for it. Neal pushed down his boxer shorts and reached up to his neck, ripping off the tie and getting rid of it before he rolled his shoulders. Muscles rippled underneath his skin, through his shoulders, pecs, abs, and biceps. For someone who didn't look very intimidating in his clothes, Neal was in fantastic shape. I felt down his chest, scraping my acrylics cautiously over his nipples and harder down his six-pack. Neal pushed me down against the bed and cupped the back of my head with a hand just to further cushion the landing.

I propped my knees up and kept my thighs wide to give him room. I felt willingly caged and absolutely protected. I couldn't get my own pants off fast enough, and I helped Neal get out of his own. My underwear was wet and my sex ached and every part of me was unsatisfied. I felt hazy and drugged, like when my fever spiked to the high point before the sickness broke, except in this case my fever was heady arousal, the high point would hopefully involve Neal as close to me as was physically possible, and the sickness was the pent-up sexual tension I'd been carrying around for well over a year.

"How long has it been?"

We were both panting, both gasping with shocks whenever someone hit a new spot. He hovered over me, supporting himself with an elbow on the bed to the side of my left shoulder, and we kissed like teenagers, unsophisticated and out of breath and giggling with nerves and excitement. I almost didn't realize he'd asked a question.

"Um…"

I tried to think of the actual date, but it was lost on me. Fuck. Last time I'd _gotten_ a good fuck had been before my life took a turn downhill. It'd been with, um, with a local investigator in a city I'd travelled to, requested by the PD to consult on a series of murders with the same MO and signature. My specialty. The fact that I wasn't even sure I remembered his name correctly was enough to know that while the sex had been satisfactory, it hadn't been meaningful. It'd been way before my "involuntary surgery," as I liked to call it. I didn't have tons of sex, but if there was a time since I lost my virginity that I had gone longer without a partner, then it would've been when I was still sixteen or seventeen. I would try anything – er, any _one_ – once, but no partner had ever had a trait that lured me back, unless the sex was a side-effect of dating.

Neal chuckled, eyes sparkling. He looked up from my chest, his cheek pillowed against my breast while he fondled the other in his hand, repeatedly catching the hardened nipple with his thumb. Each time made a deliciously sweet jolt zip through my chest and race between my legs. "That long, huh?"

I slipped my fingers along his upper back, knocking one of my raised knees against his side in retribution. He didn't need to find it funny. "Been busy," I answered vaguely. I wanted him to take me and bang me into the sheets, not start talking about the obstacles in my emotional recovery. That would sure be a hell of a turn-off. "But I get tested regularly. I'm clean, and on birth control."

There was an expectation of reciprocity which Neal didn't fail to pick up on. "Work-release physical," he replied, gliding up my body and feeling up my thighs, warm hands caressing every inch of skin several times over. He explored my calves, my thighs, my stomach, my sides, my chest, my arms. "I'm good. Condoms in the drawer."

"Good," I echoed. "How long?"

He groaned into my throat and I turned my head to the side, baring more skin and letting my chest heave. My eyes fluttered shut. Neal sank his teeth calmly into the pale color of my throat and then licked over the indentations. Reaching for the table by the bed, I felt along the front for the handles and yanked out one of the drawers a little too enthusiastically.

"I was in prison a long time," he answered, sitting up and holding himself higher over me. I sighed softly and dropped my arms, lying prone on the mattress. "It's definitely been a while."

 _Over four years,_ I concluded to myself, fighting off a wicked smirk on my face while Neal distractedly ripped open a box of condoms. He checked the individual packaging on the first one he took out to make sure it wasn't tampered with, then tossed the rest back in and didn't bother closing the drawer. I stretched my calves and curled my toes, shuddering. The promise of being Neal's first in years delighted me more than I cared to admit.

"I told you, you can _do_ whoever you want," I couldn't help but remind him. It was still relevant; I wasn't a necessary fuck. His work-release was just as safe, no matter if we went through with this or if we both took cold showers and I went home.

Neal tossed the condom onto the pillow next to my head and lowered himself down, arching his back, bringing his mouth to my ear. "Did it occur to you," he started to ask, with as nonchalant a voice as he could possibly feign with a raging erection and a naked and keen partner before him, "That maybe there's only one person I _want_ to have?" He nipped at my earlobe.

I moaned loudly, bringing my hands up to his back and scratching my nails down his shoulders. It was unclear, even to me, if the response was to the touch or the words.

"You're the first one I've wanted since that was done to me," I hissed, holding his head down and pushing my breasts up against his chest, the pressure good but _not enough._ "The first man or woman I've even _wanted_ to take to bed and you have no idea how _infuriating_ it is that you're such a flippant and flirtatious bastard. I hated watching you seduce that bitch almost as much as I hated that she shot at you."

Possessively, I worked a hand between us, reaching for his thighs and inching my hand up, dragging my fingernails because his breath kept catching, his body kept quivering every time he felt them. "I'm yours," Neal promised, gasping. I held an arm around his neck and rolled him over, straddled his thighs, and looked down at the extraordinary man offering himself up to me. "I'm all yours, Kenna."

I knew it was all pillow talk, the sort of things you say that you don't actually mean once you've climaxed and hit that orgasmic cloud, but it was still sexy, still satisfying; still another build-up to the promise of intimacy that I craved.

Neal's body was gorgeous, my own personal Adonis. I told him as much, but he couldn't respond, was busy making those dirty, precious sounds as I used my mouth and hands. I definitely worked out that jealousy that built up from Maria. I could feel the wiry muscles under his skin when he moved, flexing and stretching to arch his back, to raise his arms above his head, to cover his eyes with his forearm once when it got to be too much and he let out a pitched cry. I leaned down in concern and nuzzled at his chin, gentling my attention and expressing it in closed-mouth kisses to his face and hands until, with a strangled voice, Neal begged for more. I teased so many pleas and cries of _my_ name from his lips that I lost count.

For the time being, we were the centers of each other's worlds, and it was incredible.

I let him move me onto my back again. I trusted him enough to give him that control. He ripped open the condom and slid it on with a long hiss. I cooed at him enticingly and wrapped my legs around his hips preemptively, holding him as well as I could while he held himself over me. I cupped his cheeks and kissed him, slower and sweeter, while we became reacquainted with what it felt like to be so close. Years for him and he still took it slow, didn't want to push me harder until I was adjusted.

 _"_ _Ah…"_ I moaned out, positively _needing_ to vent the exquisite pleasure I was being subjected to.

"I know," Neal gasped between thrusts. He reached for my wrist and pinned my right hand above my head and out to the side. "I know, Kenna, I know." He repeated it like he got stuck in a rut and laced our fingers together, holding my hand against the mattress. He rocked in deeper, harder, and ripped a muffled yell of his name from my throat. Neal squeezed my hand. I squeezed back and held his hand for as long as he wanted.

The night was sexy and fun and moving, and safe and close and genuine. I forgot how long it had been since any sex had measured up to having Neal as my partner. Even a night curled in with Katie could never compare to this mix of lust and passion, the fulfilment and satisfaction of human contact that we both desperately needed, yet that neither of us really knew how to ask for.

When it was over, I felt the exhaustion crashing over me in waves. Neal trembled. I was concerned maybe this, in addition to being shot at, had been too much in one day and cleaned us both up as much as I could without a shower, pulled the blankets up over him, and stroked his hair until he had stopped shaking. Neal vehemently insisted that he was feeling excellent and I was being overprotective, and once he was yawning, he seemed to genuinely be alright. Then I turned onto my stomach, shoved my arms under the pillows under my head, and fell asleep slowly, peacefully, while watching Neal's serene face as his breathing evened out.

We never did get around to taking his socks off. I did get the cold feet that I wanted, until I wised up and pushed my toes under Neal's legs in a fit of impishness while he slept. Most importantly, my lace-up gloves never came off. The strings from my wrists to my elbows were never so much as loosened.

* * *

**I gave myself to a boy who said he would love me, but a week later, I wished I hadn't. I'd had some beer and a fight with our parents (again) and being loved felt like a fucking miracle. It wasn't, not in that way. He's sweet and I could do worse, but I should've realized sooner that a 17-year-old boy's not exactly Prince Charming, and he's not my soulmate, literally in flesh or figuratively in spirit. I want to be angry and say he took something from me, something I can never get back, but I never really bought into the "virginity is holy" thing to begin with, and whether it was him or someone else, I was bound to lose that naïve association with love and lust someday. I'm glad it happened sooner rather than later. And besides, if I hadn't wanted to let him, he wouldn't have gotten the chance. I just hate myself a little for making that decision without thinking it through.**

**The people who told you to wait for the right person so it would feel great? They're fucking liars. I could've been fucking John Stamos and it still would've hurt. Just because the boy thinks he's a special snowflake doesn't make him** **_your_ ** **"one in a million." The sex was** **_bad._ ** **Holy fuck, it was terrible. It was rough, clumsy, and he may've figured out how to please himself, but he was horrible at pleasing** **_me._ ** **I'd have finished myself off later but I was too sore. I knew it would be uncomfortable, especially after the first time, but I'm pretty sure it wasn't supposed to hurt that much.**

 **I learned sex isn't love, and that it's not as big a deal to share your body with someone else as it used to be. I may wish I'd had a better frame of reference for the future, but my body's still my own. I don't feel intimately connected to that guy and I probably won't be doing anything like that again… at least, not until he looks up how to turn on a member of the opposite sex. My point is, don't let others commodify you. Live. Whether that means skydiving, or being celibate, or having sex with every single pretty face you ever see,** **_live_ ** **your life the way** **_you_ ** **need to. When/If you meet a real Prince or Princess Charming, if they're the one you should commit to, then their love won't be dependent on your dedication to** **_not_ ** **living your own life.**

**Just don't make the same mistake I did and think physical gratification has anything to do with love, alright, McKenna? I'm starting to wonder if making love is even real or if it's just a term coined by the church to convince girls like us that we need to be ashamed of our sexuality and submissive to the studs that we would've been married to at 16 a few hundred years ago. He promised he would love me, but he doesn't, not really, and I can be okay with that. What I can't be okay with is you having experiences that are natural and great and that are supposed to be wonderful, all while confusing them for something they're not. Sex is innately human and powerful. Just don't think for a second that someone who wants to see you naked also wants the responsibility of holding your heart. The two are entire worlds apart.**

**Hope you miss me… and live better than I did,**

**Zarra L**


	7. It's Only a Kiss... We Don't Have to Complicate It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> McKenna realizes she's made a huge mistake, and her solution wedges a disagreement between herself and her sister. The aftermath of her night with Neal effects their working relationship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Lucy Hale's "Love Tonight."

**_Chapter Seven – It's Only a Kiss… We Don't Have to Complicate It_ **

Kate and I falling asleep together isn't an uncommon occurrence, so when I woke up slowly, peacefully, with my cheek resting on warm skin and with the thumping of another heartbeat echoing softly in my ear, I figured that we must've fallen asleep while watching TV or something. Or maybe she came into my room if she was too cold.

I breathed out a few times, arching my spine into her side and feeling a tingling burn in my calves when I pointed my toes down and stretched my legs, too. I couldn't remember the last time I'd felt so relaxed. It was probably a while before I took Neal on as my CI. I hadn't realized how stressful having a CI could be – most are assigned to one agent in particular, and I'd never had my own personal informant before.

Then, as I lazily turned my cheek to nuzzle against her chest, it occurred to me that, although I don't make a habit of feeling up my sister, I was absolutely positive that I should've been feeling her breasts. My eyes snapped open and blood rushed to my face, my body tensing up. I finally noticed the arm wrapped loosely around my back and curled over my waist, the airiness between skin and blankets, and the good ache in places that generally aren't aching.

I was sure that my cheeks looked like a tomato as I carefully pulled up the blankets. Nope, my nerves weren't lying to me. The only way I could have been more naked was if I'd taken off my gloves, but thank God that at least those had stayed on. Incidentally, I was not the only naked person in the bed.

_I fucked up, I fucked up, I fucked up._

I knew exactly who I was in bed with, but somehow it was still a shock to look up and see Neal's face, calm and serene while he slept. His hair was mussed up both from my hands and the pillows, but the loose strands falling to his forehead and sticking up randomly against the pillowcase were endearing.

Except for the part about how I'd fucked my coworker.

_I fucked up, I fucked up real bad._

"This was _so_ not what I had planned…" I moaned quietly, and around that time I happened to see a light bruise becoming more distinct against the tan flesh of his chest where his collarbone met his throat. I licked my lips on impulse and then worked on figuring out the fastest and least painful way to get myself out of this complete disaster.

Neal was very deeply asleep, and it wasn't too hard to take his hand off of my hip and gently drop his arm to the mattress. The other was being used by him as a secondary pillow, so I didn't have to wiggle my way out of a hug, just had to uncomfortably get up to my knees to crawl to the edge of the bed. I was worried that taking the blankets off of him would wake him up, so I covered my chest self-consciously with one arm and prayed to all that was good and kind that the floorboards wouldn't creak.

It wasn't like on TV, where stripping down is exaggerated and clothes are just flung all over. There wasn't a bra hung over the back of a chair, a shirt wasn't flung on top of a lamp. My shoes were by the foot of the bed. My jacket was still in the kitchenette, my shirt and bra just to the side of the bed. My pants were covered by Neal's dress shirt, and then his white wife beater was layered over my bra and close to the shoes, and on the other side of the bed I imagined his trousers and briefs had made a home for themselves on the hardwood tile.

I picked up some of my clothes, then realized that my panties must've been with his pants, so I rolled my eyes at the sheer ridiculousness of the situation and quietly snuck around to retrieve those, too.

Luckily for me, Neal's penthouse included an attached bathroom. I turned on the light and then closed the door without making a sound. I wanted to see how sexed up I looked in the mirror, but first I pulled on my underwear, straightened out my bra straps, and grabbed at my pants. A weight in one of the pockets led me to pull out my phone. When I hit the home button, the lock screen came up and offered several text messages – four from my sister and one from Derek. All of Kate's were along the lines of where the hell I was and if I was okay or if she needed to come get me, and the one that my brother had sent was pretty much _stop ignoring Kate, you're freaking her out._ The last of hers that I'd gotten was from nearly one in the morning, and it was almost four.

I felt bad – but I hadn't intended to even enter the penthouse, much less his bed.

My reflection looked very much like she'd been laid, but I couldn't tell if it was because I had that many indications of it or if I was because I was reading into it. There was a hickey on my shoulder and several bruises from playful love bites over my chest, though I couldn't feel them anymore. I counted myself lucky that they were all easily concealed. My hair wasn't too bad, since it hadn't been taken out of its ponytail. After pulling up my pants and hastily buttoning up my shirt, I thought my face had more color, so a lot of the pallor was probably from embarrassment and anxiety.

I glanced at the door but didn't hear anything, so I dragged my fingers through my ponytail a few times to calm down the more obvious snarls. Then I pulled out the ponytail holder and dragged my fingers from my roots to halfway through my hair, getting the worst from the top of my head, too, before I tied it loosely at the nape of my neck and let the rest spill down my back carelessly. I'd fix it later.

All in all, after I did that, if I didn't know better, I'd have said I was just a tired person. Turned out that putting clothes on made a hell of a difference in my appearance. I could go home now, couldn't I? I looked passable enough. It wasn't like I was going to parade through the FBI headquarters in the clothes I'd worn yesterday. My face burned again at the thought of doing a walk of shame in the FBI. I'd just proved Ruiz right, hadn't I? I hated him so much for the things he said to me and then I did exactly what he accused me of.

 _I'm just going home,_ I told myself desperately. _The only one who will possibly know about this is Katie, and I trust her. … Well, and Neal will know, obviously, because he's the guy that fucked me, but it's his job at risk, too._

God, if anyone ever found out… fraternization between agents was discouraged and subject to internal review, even if they were in different departments. Fraternization between an agent and their _confidential consultant_ was strictly against the rules. Fraternization between an agent and her criminal informant was not just asking for reprimand, it was inviting half of the office to doubt my ethics.

When I stepped back into the bedroom alcove to get my shoes, feeling a lot more secure now that I had clothes on, Neal had rolled over in the bed. He'd taken his arm out from beneath his head and had turned to his side, both hands reaching out like he was trying to find me in his sleep. I felt my eyes soften fondly despite my resolve to get out and try to forget anything had ever happened, and instead of going straight for the door, I slowly walked to his side of the bed. Stepping over his clothes, I nervously pushed the short strands of hair out of his eyes. His expression relaxed minutely when I touched him. I stood back up and pulled down on the hem of my shirt, making a mental note to grab my jacket on my way out.

If I thought he was cute when he was awake, it was nothing compared to when he was asleep. People were always cuter when they couldn't talk back, but Neal just seemed so peaceful and uncomplicated while he rested. His face was relaxed, breathing even, and his body had practically melted into the foam mattress, so authentic and sweet. Even though the sheet had twisted around his left leg – and it seemed like it had gotten caught on his anklet, too – and been pulled dangerously close to revealing more than his handler needed to see, he still seemed precious and innocent.

I traced over the hard line of his jaw, the elegant curve of his back and the slender taper of his waist with my eyes before I even noticed that there was color on his lower back. I looked a little bit closer then – not out of curiosity, but because of the attention that a splash of color instantly demanded. Tattooed in intricate detail over the small of his back was what looked like an angel's wing.

Except this angel wing was inked crimson, the color that stood for blood and fierce passion and love. Each individual feather was told apart by needle-thin lines, and the edge of the wing was lined with soft down like on an actual bird. Wrapping symbolically around the red wing were smoky, coal-black chains, weighing down the feathers and threatening to harm the delicate little thing, trapping it, imprisoning it.

I was panicking before it even occurred to me to be surprised. I'd never seen Neal's soulmark before because I'd never seen him shirtless before. It hadn't even occurred to me that I might see it – how could I have missed it last night? _How did I not see it?_ Sure, most of the attention I had paid to his back had been in the form of filed nails raking down and curious hands exploring, gripping, rubbing. I'd definitely been a little distracted, to be fair, but…

 _Fuck!_ No, that wasn't even a strong enough curse. If I had taken a look at his back _before,_ there was no _way_ I would have gotten into that bed with him, no way I would've been a participant. The night before, drunk on jealousy and relief and release, I'd thought it was _great_ that being with the man felt so intimate and so… so… _right._ Now it was about the worst thing, like my beliefs, my fears, were being mocked.

With such a romantic idealist as a housemate, there was no way I could have not seen this trope on television before – person A sleeps with person B, person A sees person B's soul mark, and drama ensues, followed by a smooth happy ending. It always worked out so well for them. There was no way that could happen here! What was I supposed to do now? It's not like I could just come out and tell! It was such a huge conflict of interest – and what if people asked how I knew? How do I justify looking at my naked consultant's back without divulging that I'd crossed about a dozen professional boundaries that weren't meant to be crossed?

Kate could keep her fantasies, but I would have to stick to my realism. There was no way that this could come out. I knew that even as I was closing the bedroom door with a soft _snick_ and speed-walking away. If it came out, then Neal and I were _both_ screwed – in more than one way.

* * *

 _Creeeeak._ I winced. Even a tiny sound like the front door's hinge sounded like a tornado with the capacity to wake up Kate and leave me ambushed before I had the chance to get rid of the signs that anything abnormal had happened. _Click._ The latch clicked. I grimaced some more and very, _very_ slowly turned the deadbolt.

I still didn't know what I was going to say. Where had I been? Why didn't I answer her texts, call her back? Even if it weren't for the catastrophic news that made my hands shake, I wouldn't have been able to just casually say, _"oh, don't worry, I'm safe. I'm at Neal's and I didn't know you had tried to reach me because I was sleeping in his arms."_ So what could I do that excused being gone and ignoring my phone? Work, my go-to excuse, wasn't applicable, since I'd just wrapped up a case, and I'd have heard my cell if I were at the office.

After deciding not to turn on the lights, just in case, I stepped slowly through the first few feet of the hallway. It was entirely possible I was about to trip over a shoe by the mat. I didn't hit any obstacles, and by the time my eyes had adjusted, I was halfway to the kitchen. At the hooks in the hallway where we hung our coats, I started to take off my jacket before I noticed for the first time that I wasn't wearing my blazer. _Damn. Must've left it at Neal's in my haste to get out before he woke up._

Sighing, my shoulders fell. Everything was all going wrong right as everything had gotten on track. A successful case, a new pseudo-accomplice, and Neal and I weren't having any interpersonal disputes. I wasn't kidnapped and Neal hadn't put himself in danger trying to save me. And then _this_ happened.

What had gotten into me? I had had _coffee,_ not a triple-shot of hard vodka. My judgment should have been fine. Maybe not _perfect,_ since I'd just seen my friend's attempted murder, but I shouldn't have been so off-the-wall that I chose to sleep with him. Who had started it? Had we decided to kiss each other at the same time? I was a little lonely for intimacy, having not enjoyed that kind of company ever since my assault that left my scars, but I wasn't by any means so desperate that I was going to fall for the first person to be nice about them.

And then I knew both of us had instigated when it moved further, still completely sober and free to change our minds. We just hadn't. And now it was going to haunt me that I hadn't been more responsible, wised up, told him no and left before it went too far to take back. I could have lived a lot longer with my built-up sexual tension if it meant I would have avoided this nightmare.

Without thinking, I huffed and hit my fist against the wall, making a loud _thwack!_ and doing more damage to the side of my hand than to the drywall. "Ah!" I wasn't very loud but it seemed like thunder in the quiet I had forgotten to keep, and I shook my hand out in front of me like if I moved it enough, the breeze would undo the impulsive pain.

A light in the living room clicked on and flooded the hallway with yellow brightness that wanted to blind me. I put a hand up to protect my eyes a bit too late and groaned my displeasure, because so much for slipping past Kate. She must've camped out on the couch to wait for me and fallen asleep. Then I woke her up by hitting the wall. Fantastic. I wanted to shrink into a little ball and hide in one of the shoes I hadn't tripped over.

Her shadow preceded her entry into the hall. Kate's hair was untidy, in a ponytail that had come loose, yoga shorts, and a tank top that was roomy over her upper body. Sockless and makeup-free, and with a pink spot on her cheek from a pillow, she had very obviously been napping. Her eyes widened when she saw me and she covered her heart. The instantaneous relief didn't last in the face of the anger.

"Where the _hell_ have you been?!" She shrieked. Thankfully there was no one else in the house to wake up.

"Kate!" I said, forcing a happy beam onto my face and holding my arms out for a hug. If anyone could make me feel better, it would be this woman. Maybe if I just appeared pleasant enough, she would drop it?

"You didn't come home!" She yelled at me, accepting the hug but with a lot more aggression than a hug typically constituted. I wheezed, but she ignored the cue to loosen her hug around my throat. "I thought maybe Barelli had gotten pissed after all! What the hell were you thinking?!"

Right as I heard the break in her voice and remembered the mob man, it occurred to me that I had probably scared her a lot more than her texts indicated. When one of my last known affiliates had been in violent organized crime, of _course_ she had been scared that I hadn't come home. For all she knew, Barelli had seen an opportunity and seized it, getting rid of a fed that had been a thorn in his side.

Any sympathy and guilt that I might have felt piled on top of the soulmark thing was dissolved when the attack started, Kate yanking herself out of my hug and starting to beat on me with a barrage of weak but suitably stinging hits. I flinched and jumped back but she followed, so I held up my arms so she'd hit my forearms instead of my shoulders.

"I'm fine!" I promised very loudly to be heard as clearly as possible. Also to get the point across. I didn't like being hit. "I'm fine." Kate frowned and intentionally hit harder on my left forearm before she dropped her hands. "I'm sorry I didn't text or call, I got… sidetracked, and then I fell asleep." _It's not a lie,_ I defended to myself as Katie's fear subsided.

My sister's shoulders fell and she surveyed me for a second before she decided that I really did appear guilty. _You have no idea._ She moved for another hug, this one a lot less mean. "You've got to stop doing that!" I lifted my arms obediently to wrap around her back while she put her chin on my shoulder. "Your paperwork can wait. You're gonna have back problems from sleeping at your desk," she scolded, then sighed, and breathed in deeply and calmly… and that was where the real issue began.

She took her arms up, put her hands on my upper arms, and pushed me away, keeping a grasp on my sleeves.

"Wait a minute," she said, giving me a fish-eye and looking from my hair all the way down to my feet, inhaling deeply again. "Wait a minute…"

My heart was falling. "What?" I asked, just like I would in any other situation, in case I was wrong and there was something completely unrelated that she was becoming aware of.

She breathed deeply again. I stared at her. No matter what it was she was doing, it seemed strange. Evidently it served a purpose, because her eyes went wide and she pointed at me emphatically, stunned. "You smell like sex and someone else's laundry detergent!" She accused – not really surprised that I would have sex, but more because she didn't know who I'd be doing it with, and I was pretty straightforward about that with her, so why would I avoid telling her?

I looked away uncomfortably. This was not what I wanted to get into, but it looked like I had no choice. My shower would have to wait – if I didn't explain to Katie now why it _had_ to stay a secret, then she might tell Derek and unintentionally get me in a lot of hot water.

"You're kidding!" She half-laughed and half-scoffed, punching me in the shoulder. "You – you need a shower," she informed. "Is that what you meant by a distraction? I mean… good for you, but couldn't you have sent me a message?" She adopted a falsetto. " _Hey, Katie, I'm getting laid, talk to you when I'm clean again?_ "

"I didn't have time to shower," I said, and then, bravely, planned a hint to drop, swallowed, and added, "I ran out as fast as I could and I'm amazed I didn't wake up June."

I gave it a full three seconds before Kate realized that I didn't know a June that I would be sleeping with. "June," she repeated, saying the name herself to see if it jogged any memory. "Who's-" And there we go. Three seconds. "Oh. Oh!" She reached out and shoved my shoulders, rocking me back on my heels. "Kenzi! You _didn't!_ You slept with Neal?!"

Hearing it said by someone else somehow made it more concrete. It was different, I suppose; knowing it myself but not ever hearing it stated, because the sensations, the ghost of feelings that tickled my nerves could just as soon be a delusion, an episode of hysteria, but having Katie affirm what had happened made my knees weak. I leaned on the wall so I didn't buckle and collapse.

Not knowing the effect it was having on me, Kate just kept talking, gushing in amazement. "I mean, I was almost expecting it sooner or later," she claimed. "But not right after Ruiz started harping on you about it. And running out on him was pretty unnecessary," she added chidingly, as if the situation was as simple as someone being rude when it wasn't called for. It was so much more than that and she just didn't get it and God, even _I_ didn't fully know what it entailed for the future. How could she?

"I saw his soulmark," I stated bluntly, staring up at Kate and silently begging for help.

I cut my sister off when I had tuned her out and interrupted, but she clicked her jaw shut, heard my words, and then seemed to soften with understanding and compassion. Which I adored her for, really, but she didn't know most of the story still, since I couldn't seem to tell myself to speak the full story.

"Oh…" she said slowly, digesting, and then tentatively put her hand on my shoulder, patting in comfort. "Everyone has them, McKenna," she gently reminded, pulling me out of my trip halfway to another living nightmare. "I'm sorry it upset you." Of course, she thought I was just upset because it reminded me that Neal wanted this other person, not me, even though I'd been in his bed. I didn't respond, just kept blinking and swallowing and trying not to overload. Katie moved around me to stand at my side and took my arm and shoulder in her hands, steering me around towards the kitchen. "Come on, you look like you can use some coffee."

I let her lead me because it was easier than fighting. "You're supplementing my caffeine addiction?" I asked cynically, laughing nervously.

"Sometimes it's necessary," she responded, taking a new stance on my coffee intake. "You're showering as soon as you're done with the mug though," she added as a firm afterthought, limiting me to one cup. Oh, well. I'd take what I could get.

She led me over to the table and I was sitting down before I realized I hadn't turned on the Keurig. Kate didn't take a seat with me, instead walking across the kitchen to the counter and starting up the coffee machine. She took my favorite kind of coffee from the drawer and popped it into the machine while the water started bubbling and heating up.

I appreciated more than I could say that Kate was even just still in the room. It convinced me I was awake. I felt like I wasn't alone. Not being alone sounded amazing, and I didn't want to be alone in my moral predicament. Which was more important? Honesty regarding something I didn't even believe in, or our legal protections and the security in intentions? He didn't know my soulmark, so I knew for sure that he had wanted me because of me, not because of the tattoo.

"I think I need to tell you something before I convince myself I'm going insane," I ventured into the quiet of the kitchen, broken only by the water's sizzle fading out and ceramic clinking when Katie got a mug and started filling it up.

"Okay," she said without pause, accepting and warm. "Shoot." I took a long breath through a sharp ache in my lungs. How did I phrase it? How did I tell her? Should I just come out and say it as bluntly as possible or should I try to have more tact? Which would be the clearest? Which would be the least painful? She brought the mug back over to me and put it down a few inches away from my right hand, steam rising from below the rim, and pulled out a chair across from me. "Did you have an epiphany?" She guessed after a bit longer passed and I didn't follow through with the information. "Are you considering celibacy?"

 _Stop teasing, you don't have any of the facts yet,_ I complained with a soft groan, and then thought, _Facts, I can do facts._

"Neal's soulmark is on his lower back," I said plaintively, stating the facts the way I considered them relevant. Katie's first reaction was surprise. I cared very little about the soulmarks of people around me for the purpose of my relationship with them, because I didn't care what their soulmark looked like. I didn't care about their soulmate. I just wanted some level of trust and friendship from them. "It's why I never saw it before. He has a – an angel wing." I stumbled as part of me wanted to stop, but Kate's shock was transitioning to confusion and a hint of suspicion, and I couldn't quit. "That looks like it's on fire," I continued thickly. "And there are chains wrapped around it, like it's being… held down."

I reached for my coffee. Wrapped my hand around the mug. The heat made my hand tingle. The coffee reminded me of my last drink. I pushed it away, disinterested.

" _Neal's_ soul mark," Katie clarified disbelievingly. "That's Neal's?" She shook her head, palms flat on the table. "No way."

"Yeah," I breathed, more astonished than even she was.

I moved at a normal pace, but to my eyes, it seemed like I was in slow motion as I pulled at the strings keeping my glove up on my right hand. I pulled out the loose bow with the long string, slipped the loop through the knot, and undid the tie. It was tedious work with quaking, trembling fingers to pull on the strings over my forearm, loosening them up enough to slide off the entire glove, baring my inner wrist to my eyes – that flaming angel's wing, imprisoned by chains keeping it down.

"His mark… and my mark… are the same mark." I concluded with a shaky breath, tears pricking at the backs of my eyes, gently tracing my thumb over the arch of the wing. While it was centered on Neal's back and only took up a portion over his lower spine, mine was on a narrower space, and so it covered my inner wrist. I imagined that I was following the lines on Neal's back with my finger.

Katie looked at my soul mark, trying not to smile secretively. "You do see the humor in this, don't you?" She asked, reaching across the table and taking my hand. She covered my soul mark with her hand until I looked up at her, then patted my wrist and let go. "You're acting like someone died," she informed laughingly. "I think it's kind of ironic that your soulmate is a criminal. It's cute."

I read into that that it was like one of the cliché tropes she watched in movies. I was only _not_ alarmed because I knew that if Neal were a different kind of criminal, someone who liked to hurt others, then Katie wouldn't be nearly so accepting of it.

"Yeah, cute," I said scathingly. Kate frowned while I glared hatefully at my own skin. "I slept with my soulmate without knowing it." _Absolutely fucking adorable._

"I think it's romantic," she ventured. I looked up at her without moving my head, staring through my eyelashes, and she winced back. "Sort of… a little bit." I kept glaring. It wasn't cute. This was a disaster. "Alright, okay, you don't think it's good. I get it," she chuckled, relenting, not taking this as seriously as I would have preferred for her to. "You don't have to throw hot coffee at me." I lowered my eyes back to my mark, transfixed. "What did he say?"

 _What would he say?_ I let myself wonder for a few moments. Would he be delighted to have met his soulmate? Or would he be bitter that his soulmate held legal authority over him? Would he be pleased with me, the reality living up to the ideal? Or would he think I was lacking when compared to his fantasies?

"He doesn't know," I reluctantly told Kate, knowing that this was the part she would have the most difficulty with swallowing. I didn't want to face the possibility of rejection from Neal, but there was also a lot more to consider than just not meeting his expectations. If it came out that I had such a huge conflict of interest, then his custody would be revoked. He might even be sent back to jail instead of just reassigned. Not as big of a deal, but also very important to me, was that I wanted his attention, but if I was going to have it, then it would damn well be because he wants to give _McKenna_ his attention, not his soulmate. "I ran away while he was sleeping."

A cowardly move, even for me, but at least now I felt like I could breathe again.

Kate stared, aghast, like I had just done one of the most heinous crimes. "You have to tell him," she declared breathlessly.

"I don't have to do anything," I retorted childishly but determinedly. I was not going to give on this! I didn't even know how _I_ was feeling – deal and FBI to handle or not, I wasn't going to take on Neal's feelings on top of my own at the same time. "You don't have to look at me like I killed someone."

"McKenna!" Kate snapped my full name to impress upon me just how very strongly she disapproved. _As if this is an ideal situation for me, either!_ Did she think I wanted to be in this mess? "I know you don't believe in soulmates, but it's not just that he's yours. You're _his._ " Katie's eyes got big and bright and earnest, the way they always did when she got passionate about something. I wanted to object to being called Neal's – I own him, not the other way around – but then I thought of the allowances I made for Odysseus and how willing I was to suffer from my coworkers for him, and maybe I was around his finger as much as he was mine. "Aren't you at least happy that he's not a psychotic?" She asked, a little desperate to get through to me by touching on one of my own paranoid fears. "You should tell him. He has the right to know."

"I don't put much stock in soulmates," I refuted again, sounding like a broken record between how many times I had to say some form of it in my head and now out loud, too.

"I know you don't," she declared in exasperation. "But you slept with him, so obviously it's not _completely_ off."

"Yes. I _slept with him,"_ I stressed. "I didn't go on a date with him. I didn't elope. Sex is a long way off from love!" I fixed her with a deadpan. There were dozens of people I'd bang if I had the chance, but they weren't my predestined lovers. "We both know you'd do Shemar Moore if the situation came up," I reminded her, and she had the decency to blush a little. "If you need to revisit this lesson, maybe you haven't watched enough sappy movies," I suggested snidely.

Katie wasn't going to take it. She sat up straighter and glowered, hitting me with the fire in her eyes sharper and hotter than my tongue. "Don't be a bitch to me, Anderson," she warned, growling out my name in an extra caution. I had hit a button there – soulmates were a topic Katie didn't like having attacked. "I'm not the one who ran out on my bed partner." Grinning impishly, she asked, "Exactly how do you plan on smoothly getting out of that one?"

Luckily for me, I had already thought of this and had an answer. "I'll tell him you told me to come back to help you."

Kate frowned. "Help me what?"

"I dunno," I shrugged, seeing that she was less angry. "Build something?" Katie didn't like manual labor. Neither did I, but when it came to assembling furniture, out of the two of us, I was the girl. "A bookshelf?" That sounded good, actually. "A bookshelf!" I perked up. "That's it. Katie, I need you to go to the store and buy a bookshelf."

She went from marginally amused to mostly worried in a few seconds and slowly reached out to cover my hand, looking into my eyes with concern. "You're really freaking out about this, aren't you?" She marveled, seeing that I was completely serious about going all the way to the store, buying furniture we didn't need, and putting it together just so that I would have an excuse to hide behind.

I smiled slightly with a break in my defenses. "If you could listen to the thoughts going on in my head, you would be deafened by the incessant screaming," I said with an anxious giggle.

She smiled, half in pity and half in sympathy. She knew how I got when I was tired and had too much on my plate – I started running myself ragged and overdoing it, having a hard time slowing down enough to rest, but there was simultaneously too much for me to focus on resolving any one thing without help. She picked up my hand enough to slip her fingers through mine.

It felt weird not to be wearing gloves while I held hands with someone.

"And there's absolutely no chance that I can convince you to just go back to June's and talk to him?" She asked with a disappointed expression, but no longer as pushy or as forceful in her assertions. Katie was making a last-ditch Hail Mary and she knew it, but her own ideals regarding soulmates mandated that she at least try.

"Ha, ha," I sarcastically laughed. "No chance in hell."

She bowed her head. "Alright then…" She nodded to herself, her eyes a little dull. "Just this once, I'm going to indulge you and your terribly lacking social skills and poor life decisions." She picked her head up and gave me a weary but supportive smile, showing she still had my back. "I will go to Wal-Mart at four in the morning to buy you a miniature book shelf."

Both of us heard it said out loud in the summarized context and we both giggled a little.

She pushed the mug I'd shoved away closer to my left hand and let go of my right, standing up from the table. Katie pushed her chair in and retrieved her car keys from the decoratively painted bowl on the counter, swinging them from her keyring. Then she leaned over and pressed a kind kiss to my forehead when I looked up to her.

"You finish your coffee and then take a shower. Put on some clothes that don't look like they've been on the floor," she instructed, unable to help but make that final quip. I nodded. I knew very well that they looked like they'd been on the floor. After all, they had been on the floor for several hours. Several very good hours, at that.

Actually, what I was going to take as the lesson was that I should have remained in bed and not gotten up, much less come home, because if I had left my clothes on the floor then Neal would have gotten his first and I would _not_ have seen his – my – _our_ soulmark on his back. I would still be dealing with the consequences of screwing around with my consultant, but at least I would still have been ignorant to the more traumatizing issue.

* * *

I liked to work when I was having trouble finding peace elsewhere. The end of a long day came way too quickly when I was dealing with things giving me issues in my personal life. I had always been a good worker with a lot of self-motivation, but it reached new extremes when I joined the bureau and realized that I would see things that would haunt me. Moving in with Katie and having another living human nearby helped. If they were _really_ bad, I knew I could go to her to reassert that nightmares were just nightmares. Eventually, though, I was bound to get to the point where it didn't end with nightmares; not when I saw the bodies of stabbed children in morgues and talked to rape survivors, constantly a step behind the aggressor.

When the nightmares were all that it came to, I could take sleeping pills. When it started following me around in the daytime was when I did the dumb thing and buried myself in my office. Instead of trying to outrun it, I just hid, in other cases that hadn't hit me quite as hard. Maybe there weren't as many victims, or the crimes were less sadistic, or I had the reassurance of knowing that the person responsible for the terrible crime scene Polaroids was very securely tucked away in jail.

Lumping in what amounted to mind-blowing sex with some of the worst cases I'd seen in my career would have been a silly thing to do if it weren't for the context. I kept trying to review my personal report on Maria Fiametta, but had to stop and restart the same sentence every time I lost my flow, which happened about every twenty seconds. My body still sang from the endorphin rush, my hips were a little sore, and with every chance notice of my gloves, every time my eyes caught my wrist, I knew what was out of sight and had to stifle a sigh. What used to be a normal part of life was now like a rollercoaster – thrilling, not entirely in a good way, and made me nauseous to think about for too long.

Finally, I just pushed my keyboard away and closed my laptop entirely as an afterthought. I wasn't getting anything done. Leaning over my desk, I massaged my fingers into my temples and stayed hunched over, thinking through things as logically as I could.

While it was a problem that Neal was my CI and that was a major fraternization violation, the much more worrisome matter was consent. Isn't it true that consent from someone you have authority over can't be considered real consent? That rule wasn't tailored to my situation with Neal, but I definitely had a position of power over him. I could lust after him all I wanted as long as I didn't act on it. Why would he initiate something if he didn't want to, though? Neal was a conman, but he had to know that I would never force him to sleep with me under threat of any sort of retribution, personal or professional. And he already had plenty of leeway with me, so intimacy to gain favor seemed like a stretch. He was getting away with a lot and he knew it. So the consent issue seemed pretty clearly to be a matter of Neal wanting it and me wanting it and neither of us being smart enough to say "no."

Next were the catalysts. What had happened that had been so severe that it had completely shaken me out of my senses? Neal had almost died. What had happened to shift his perspective and bolster him to make a move? Aside from threat of near-death, but that could have worked when I was kidnapped by the Israeli counterfeiter, yet nothing had happened then except a hug. There was a very obvious theme of sex to the entire case – Ruiz.

Ruiz's insults and accusations had brought to mind something I hadn't considered. I had known from the start that Neal was pretty. He could be beautiful or adorable or walking, talking sex without any effort. I just hadn't thought about it in any greater detail since I'd met him. It had been like the way I acknowledge I'm attracted to some people I don't actually know, celebrities or strangers I met once or twice, and then I had left it at that, because what was the point?

But then came knowing Neal as a person and growing fond of his quirks and learning about how he responded and behaved. Suddenly, thinking about sex seemed like the obvious thing to do, even if I hadn't realized I was doing it. The emotionally-sensitive artist was physically sensitive, too. Neal had more than surpassed the expectations I'd had for responsivity, but I was startled that I'd had expectations at all. Little things, like where I was surprised or where I was pleased by something that had felt so innately accurate, suggested I'd toyed with the idea a lot in my subconscious.

He had overheard part of Ruiz's taunts and yelling from Hughes' office. Had overhearing the dialogue meant something to him, too? Had it started Neal thinking that, hey, his pretty handler was _really_ pretty? Or had he read into it without realizing, like me, and seeing the scars on my stomach had incited some protective empathy that spiked the desire to be closer?

And closer he definitely got. In the afterglow, I had been exhausted from a long day and longer night and I had settled in against the bed. We stayed on our own sides for a few minutes, just our arms touching, before I had decided it was cold and rolled over to use his arm as a pillow and held my hand over his heart, feeling the pulse of his heartbeat through his chest until I passed out.

I wasn't proud of running out. I liked to consider myself an attentive partner. I put myself in Neal's place, waking up alone after a night like that, and I didn't like it. My stomach twisted nervously and I started to feel dejected, a little bit used. In a way, I wished I had stayed – or at the very _least,_ taken the time to handwrite a note rather than sending a text message as an afterthought. Neal hadn't been the most responsible with his choices, but I wasn't going to start berating him on decision-making skills when I was even worse, and as much as I wanted to ensure he knew that I hadn't left to be rude or because I'd been taking advantage of him, I also wanted to move on and forget it. Plenty of friends had sex with each other and were fine. We could do the same.

A knock on my office door and a slip of hinge as it was opened. _Speak of the devil and he shall appear,_ I quoted in my head, aware that I looked like I could use a nap, but at least I was clean and no longer doing a walk of shame. "Hey," I called to Neal, who came right into the office like it was his own. "Did someone call you in?" It wasn't busy and it was still very early, so I'd have been shocked, and not necessarily pleasantly.

The first thing I could see when I looked at him wasn't his clothes or the fact that his arms were conspicuously behind his back – for a second, I was seeing his naked torso, abs taut and chest glistening with sweat, nipples tightened and wet from my mouth. Arms stretched up over his head, delicate hands clenching like vices into the sheets, muscles straining underneath _beautiful_ tan skin for self-control, resisting the urge to arch his back or buck his hips up for friction.

When I thought about it, there was really very little I could do to avoid Neal. My safest places were my house and my work, and not only did Neal work for me, but he also spent a lot of time at mine, his tracker even being altered to allow him to come over to see his handler without sending a panic message to the US Marshals every time.

"No," he said, producing a coat from behind his back. Neal was smiling at me warmly. I guessed there weren't any ill feelings about being left alone in bed. "You forgot your jacket in my room," he explained, having the sense to talk quietly as he held it out for me.

My eyes riveted on my blazer against my will. That was a piece of clothing that had been in Neal's kitchen while I'd been only a room away all night. "Oh. Right." I swallowed and looked away, smiling politely back at him. "Thanks."

Neal walked around behind my chair. I sat up to get up, but before I could, he was lying it over the back of my chair for me and then picked his hands up to my shoulders, resting his fingertips over the hollows between my throat and shoulders.

"Did Katie get it up in her room alright?" He asked conversationally, pressing in and massaging gingerly.

"What?" I asked dumbly, missing whatever it was he was referring to, a little preoccupied with not melting back into his expert hands.

"The bookshelf," Neal clarified. I could have smacked myself. "That she called you home to assemble for her?" He prompted further when I didn't respond, and I cursed myself for practically digging my own grave by not thinking before I questioned.

"Right," I said in slow realization, hoping that the density would be written off as tiredness. "Yeah, it's up. She was reorganizing and needed somewhere for some extra books… hence, uh, bookshelf."

 _Could I be any stupider?_ I seethed.

Neal must have leaned down, because his voice was in my ear before I knew anything about his position had changed. "What are you working on today?" He inquired interestedly, his breath blowing over the shell of my ear, possibly unintentionally. Normally it wouldn't have bothered me, but this morning…

Another miniature thrill ran up my spine and I struggled to repress it. "I'm waiting on some fingerprint analyses for a case that was emailed to me last night," I said the half-truth, indicating the desktop monitor, open to my email.

"Mick!" A loud voice chimed, disrupting the six AM calmness before people started to talk too loudly or make a lot of noise getting up and down and moving around, printing things on their printers or making and taking phone calls from other departments. Much as I wanted to be alone, having Derek in addition to Neal's company sounded like being joined by the cavalry.

"Hi!" I called, staring eagerly at the door, sounding him in with my voice.

Derek took a first step in with his hands rubbing together in front of his abdomen, saw Neal standing behind me with his hands still firmly on my shoulders, and he raised a single eyebrow in a question I didn't want to answer. "Am… I interrupting something?" He asked. His voice was teasing but his eyes were genuinely intrigued.

"No," Neal asserted before I had to. Taking note that he was standing too close, he moved away from me and to the right of my desk, looking between Derek and I like a passenger curious where the ride was going.

"He's trying to bother me," I confided with a roll of my eyes. Neal grinned. I just figured that if Derek thought it was just Neal being a little pest, then it wasn't anything worth telling anyone else about, because everyone knew Neal could be a lot to handle. Unexpectedly, Derek was not amused. My convincing smile faded. "What's going on?"

"Kate's here," he said, with a glance at Neal. The way he said it like it was nothing made it clear which Kate he was talking about, but that didn't explain his attitude up front. Derek was Kate's number two fan, second only to myself, I preferred to believe. "And she's not alone."

Neal turned to me and cocked his head. "What's your sister doing here?" He inquired plainly, as if I had planned for it.

"I dunno," I replied with a little raise in my pitch. Why was I expected to have the answers? I don't make Katie's decisions. She does have her own autonomy which she sometimes chooses to exercise. This time I jumped up from behind my desk before anyone could come behind my chair. From standing up at my full height, I could peer between two of the descended blinds and see part of Kate's face in the bullpen. "Oh, no," I groaned, seeing the pinch of her brow first. "She doesn't seem sad to you, does she?" I asked Derek anxiously.

Derek and I both moved towards the door, keeping it ajar while we looked out without the window blinds getting in the way. Kate coaxed another woman her age up towards the mezzanine. This other woman was unfamiliar but pretty – not very unlike Kate, actually. Their hair was almost the same color, but Kate's was shorter; the girl's cheeks were all red while Kate's were frowning in concern, but not streaked with tear tracks.

If the woman she was with was sad, then Kate was angry. Understatements, both of them.

"They both look upset," Derek reported, stepping back away from the door and leaving me to be the front line.

 _Coward!_ I accused through a betrayed stare.

"Who's she with?" Neal asked brightly, happy as always to see Katie, standing up on his toes to look over the edge of the mezzanine railing to get a good look at the person she had brought with her.

"Don't know," I replied unhelpfully, truthfully just as puzzled. Katie had friends that she kept in touch with through the internet and she also had adult friends, mostly the parents of the children she took care of during the week, but as far as I knew, she hadn't met anyone who had suffered some trauma worthy of being escorted directly to trusted federal agents.

Derek slowly shook his head. "Never seen her before in my life," he agreed.

As my sister led her friend up the steps, I sent a pleading beg to Derek, but he chuckled and vigorously shook his head. Resigned, I stepped out of my office, knowingly dragging Kate's attention to me. Her arm wrapped safely around her friend's shoulder, she led the woman right to us. Without the stairs messing with my view or perception, I could get a sense for her height: smaller than me, even in her heels. She was probably only five-four or five-five.

"Hey, Katie," I said kindly. I recognized when someone had been crying and, contrary to popular belief, I can be good at understanding people. I can be good at being a nice person. "What's going on?" I asked as respectfully as possible in case something had gone terribly wrong somehow and we needed information that only Katie had in her brain. Which seemed a little unlikely to me.

Instead of directly answering, Katie rubbed her friend's shoulder. For the first time, her friend looked up to me. A crumpled tissue was held close to her face with her right hand, either for blowing her nose or for dabbing away at the tears. Her eyes were bright hazel, sparkling with amber flecks where the women paused in their path right under a lit ceiling panel.

"Dana, this is my sister," Katie introduced soothingly, rubbing her hand over her friend's back, picking up to her upper spine again, and then stroking down in the same motion. Dana looked over me. "McKenna Anderson, and our friends, Derek Johnson and Neal Caffrey. They all work here." She started in the direction of my office. The boys must have either heard, seen, or done both, because they popped their heads out to look. "Guys," she informed with a violent cringe. "This is Dana. She's a friend of mine from high school." She took Dana's elbow lovingly through the process of pushing on through the awkward introductions. Surely knowing better than to cross my sister, Neal and Derek both stepped out, Neal first and a little defeated. Derek probably won some stupid competition of rock-paper-scissors to get out of being the first one to say hello. "She knows my sister works in the FBI, so she came to me for help."

Usually I was against things being parachuted straight to me, especially when it would normally be handled by a different division, or a different agency entirely, but Dana's eyes glittered with unshed tears and looked legitimately one word away from going into spires of more misery than I knew what to do with, so I could afford to do it Kate's way and let her have her shortcut. Besides, Katie wouldn't bring her to me if it wasn't for a good reason.

I hoped. Then again, this could also be some revenge plot for making her worry all night and go buy a bookshelf in the early, early morning hours.

I stepped back and motioned to the direction of my office, down the mezzanine a couple of doors. "Come on in," I invited generously. Derek and Neal hastily parted out of the way to let the other women inside. "Have a seat."

Kate kept her arm around Dana supportively. Dana didn't look like she needed it to walk, but she was staying very close to my sister. "Derek, can you take Dana to get some coffee? Please?" Kate started to loosen her hold to give Dana the option of moving away from her side. Derek looked over at me. Kate stayed focused on him, her gentle request punctuated by the sternness and discouragement from being told 'no.' "I know you have a kitchenette somewhere around here," she joked.

Derek went with it, stepping forward to the two ladies and picking up Dana's free hand. He knelt down onto one knee and kissed the back of her knuckles, holding her hand in his as he stood up again. "Of course. It'd be my pleasure."

Dana looked uncertain, but Kate nodded reassuringly and nudged her towards Derek. Dana let my brother lead her by the hand, but kept her tissue gripped tightly and looked at him intently, not too thrilled at being sent away. Derek was a courteous gentleman, walking by her side instead of dragging her behind, talking in quiet, kind words.

Now came a new question: Did Katie send them away to get rid of Dana or Derek?

"That's the Dana whose husband had the barbeque you went to last year, right? Same person?" I asked. Having never met or seen a photo of the Mitchells, I wasn't completely sure, but it seemed like a reasonable guess. They'd held a late-night dinner and a movie, so Katie had driven up to Queens and stayed overnight with them. She nodded, pleased that I remembered. "Is she in legal trouble?"

In spite of not being a huge fan of hanging out with me at work, Katie was comfortable enough in the WCCD to go straight for a chair. She pulled it out from in front of my desk and turned it to the left so she was still looking at Neal and me, but sat down suddenly and crossed her legs at the ankles.

"She isn't directly, no," she answered while she made herself comfortable, after giving a long, sad sigh. "It's about her husband, John. He finished his overseas tour and came home last month."

Sensing that there was a bit more to it than that, I reached my arms up in a long stretch, bending one at the elbow behind my head and using the other to pull it as far back as I could. I walked past Neal to go to my chair and after switching the positions of my arms, I sat down. "Is he injured?" I questioned once I thought that I could efficiently tackle a new problem. Neal reached down to my desk and pushed my laptop a few inches further out of the way to sit up on the edge, body turned to Katie.

"No," she assured, then hesitated, looking up at Neal with a wince that asked for sympathy. "But… the FBI issued a warrant for his arrest this morning…"

_No wonder she didn't get him to leave, too._

"They don't really do that without a reason, Katie," I promised. We're not a completely tyrannical organization. She made the doe-like eyes at me. I could feel my will crumbling. I was already asking her to do something she _really_ didn't want to do by just expecting her not to blurt out my secret to Neal. I pulled up my keyboard to the desktop computer. "I can look up what it's for," I gave in, waking up the screen and logging in.

She perked up, pleased with herself. "Mitchell," she informed. "Jonathan Mitchell, two 'L's." Neal's left hand wandered further back, bracing himself up while he leaned to look at my computer. I typed in the man's name. Immediately, the server came up with the charges against him in an arrest warrant. I clicked on his name to bring it up. Kate kept talking, explaining the situation as well as she could, while Neal and I read through the allegations. "I don't really know what's going on. I don't think Dana gets it, either – then again, she's practically panicking because she doesn't know what to do. Some stolen gold was in a shed and they think that her husband brought it back from overseas."

"Jesus," I muttered, amazed at my family's poor luck. Of _course_ Katie would be friends with someone accused of international smuggling from the Middle East. That would be the one thing I needed to make my day worse. "It's a vault of gold artifacts from Iraq, and Mitchell's fingerprints have been lifted from several places around the crime scene. They have DNA evidence," I told her, turning the computer monitor around for her. Kate picked up the arms of her chair and turned it around to face the desk, peering at the profile picture of the suspect.

Kate stared at it and then squinted thoughtfully. The moment Neal noticed, he was getting off of the edge of my desk and trying to light-footedly scram.

"Neal," Katie said casually, stopping the thief in his tracks. "Sit down."

"Neal," I contradicted her, shooting Katie an exasperated look and putting my hand over the edge of the desk where he'd been sitting. "You can leave." If this was going to become something about bending rules and weaseling into another person's investigation, then that needed to be my call, not something that Neal was pushed into from fear of Katie being mad at him.

Kate cocked her head at me. Her eyebrows were raised. Neal stayed frozen, unable to tell who to listen to. "Neal, if you leave, I will drag you back in by the ear," she said cheerfully. Somewhat alarmed, Neal reached to cover his ears and looked at the door longingly. I stifled a giggle. Katie turned around in her chair to look at him over the back. "Just because someone's been accused of something, that doesn't mean that person is guilty, does it?"

My consultant looked like a dog who had been given two different commands at the same time. He kept looking between one of us like he expected us to fight out or reassert who had more authority over him. It really shouldn't have been a debate, what with me being his legal caretaker-slash-keeper and all.

Katie wasn't going to just let this go; I knew her, and I also knew Neal. He had a fairly limited social circle, thanks to his radius and his status. Odysseus was the only person I'd noticed he communicated with semi-regularly, even when he was stealthy about it, and aside from Katie and I, most of the agents in the WCCD were reluctant to make friends with a convict, outside of coffee runs and office jokes. He didn't have many friends who would _stay_ his friends once they weren't obligated by their job to be in the same space. I threw myself back in my chair and waved at Neal, giving him permission to answer her.

"Define 'guilty,'" he prompted Kate, turning to her with his hands behind his back.

Rolling my eyes, I stretched my legs out underneath the desk, propping my feet up on my heels. "The convicted forger is probably _not_ the best person to ask," I reminded flippantly.

Katie glared at me and then turned it on Neal for not being given a straight answer. "Neal!" She scolded.

Neal looked apologetic. _Sorry, Kenna, I tried,_ I could imagine him thinking. "I… _suppose_ it's possible…" he hedged. It was cute that he was fine with going undercover against a murderer, but got anxious about making Katie or me mad at him.

"See?" Katie took Neal's half-agreement very seriously and smugly grinned. "If you're not going to listen to me, you should listen to him."

I stared flatly. We both knew very well that I took Neal's suggestions with skepticism, and I would hardly say that his halfhearted, hesitant mumbling counted as his loud and emphatic agreement that something was up with the legitimacy of the warrant.

"The report on him with the warrant has him listed as 'whereabouts unknown.'" I gave her a tried-and-true suspicious stare to try to break the truth out of her. "Is he running away from the police?" Even Kate couldn't tell me that that didn't look shady. She may have known Dana through school, but she hadn't known John nearly as long or nearly as well, only meeting him through Dana and focusing most of her time on bonding and catching up with his wife.

Katie shook her head. "He's just visiting with his brother," she told me with a bright smile. Oddly enough, I wasn't comforted. It was a very convenient time to visit. She put a hand up. "Don't bother asking me where that is," she added as a second thought, miming zipping her lips.

" _Kate,"_ I begged with her name.

"I don't know the address!" She defended. I could believe that, but just because she didn't know the address didn't mean she didn't know where it was, and it didn't exonerate her from not telling the police who were actually responsible for the warrant. There's a tip line for a reason.

"If you're withholding information, you're aiding and abetting him on the run!" I loved her, I really did, but while part of her was full of devotion and loyalty and she would screw over the authorities if it protected her friends, I didn't want her to have to test her willingness to jeopardize herself. Neal may seem really cool, but I could be positive that his life as an ex-con and current person of interest in practically all heists in New York, even the ones we weren't anywhere near, wasn't as incredible as it may sound to someone who didn't get to see the downsides and do damage control firsthand.

Katie could consider her first responsibilities to be looking out for Dana and John, but my first priority had to be to protect _her_ , not someone who seemed really suspicious of what he was accused of, so I crossed my arms, hands in fists, biting my lip. Why didn't she turn in John and _then_ come to me with Dana? That was the thing a good Samaritan would have done, not crept up to an agent she knew she had influence over before giving away any information that would lead to Mitchell's mandated arrest.

Neal bit softly down into his lip and pointed with his thumb to the door, again attempting to make an escape. "I think this is the time when I go keep Derek and Dana company-"

I snapped my fingers and pointed authoritatively to the desk. "No, stay." Neal sighed, dropped his shoulders, and traipsed obediently back over, leaning on the table. I thoughtlessly patted his lower back appreciatively. "My turn to take advantage of your presence. If we have prints and DNA on the scene of a crime and you're running away, what are the odds that you're guilty?"

"Oh, so _now_ he's the best person to ask?" Kate whined since it was no longer conveniently helping her to have Neal's opinion.

Subtly, my fingers pressed a little bit harder against Neal's back, literally prodding at him to respond to me. I didn't really care whether or not his answer supported me, because I'd rather be irritated than lied to. Neal flinched – obviously at the drama more than the pressure, because I wasn't doing it hard enough to be worthy of cringing – and earnestly told Katie, "Honestly? I think your friend should turn himself in."

"Thank you!" I expressed, stroking my fingers down his back gratefully, then resting my hand on the desk. I was being a little too tactile for my own comfort.

"I completely agree," Kate promised Neal respectfully, not fazed in the least. "Which is why I told Dana to tell him what to do – turn himself in." She nodded and smiled at me proudly across the table, leaving me dumbfounded.

"Great." I threw my hands up and fixed my jaw. It seemed like the entirety of this discussion had just been a waste of my time and an unnecessary stress on my nerves. Was this a form of revenge for making her promise to keep a secret I knew she hated to withhold? "Then why have we been doing this back-and-forth about whether or not he's guilty and should keep running?"

Katie's grin should have told me something was up, I reminisced later. She wouldn't seem so happy if one of her friends' husbands was turning himself over to authorities on such serious charges with nothing more to it. "Because he is turning himself in to _you."_

_To me. Of course. Making me the arresting officer obligated to have a part in the investigation, and ensuring I would take him in as such with my civic duty._

I stared at her, either horrified or enthusiastically gleeful that she really was learning and listening to me when I talked. I had to be one or the other. I just wasn't sure which one to choose. Manipulating the system so that her sister would be on the case she disagreed with? That wasn't just smart, that was downright _cunning._

 _"_ _Kate,"_ I moaned simply, staring at her, offended at being pulled into such a plan and simultaneously proud of her for learning how to make the law work in her favor. It was a very interesting emotional combination.

* * *

We went to the place where John had agreed to come, a block away from the bureau building, and all four of us from my office stood on the sidewalk, awaiting his arrival. Kate didn't seem to know how he was planning to get here, but I suspected a taxi or subway, since there was a BOLO out for his license plate and vehicle registration.

Dana and Kate got to talk between each other, subdued and quiet, because Dana wasn't in a mood to start talking about anything bright and happy when she was waiting for her husband to come back to her just so that he could be arrested by her friend's sister. This left Neal and I standing together, me hyperaware of the calm hand on my lower back that he'd rested there when I had stumbled and that he hadn't bothered to move. I knew that Dana and Kate weren't exactly having a pleasant conversation, but I wanted to switch places with my sister.

I tried really hard not to notice everything about Neal, but it was like I'd been fine-tuned to zone in specifically on _him._ Everything else about the open city block dulled in comparison to _Neal._ The dash of cologne, how close he was standing, his hand touching my back – incidentally right over where the soulmark was on his own body. _Is that intentional?_ Even the little breezes that occasionally picked up and made me cross my arms in a warm self-embrace made him more interesting because they played with his hair.

It felt like a wait in hell, so I was all too relieved when a taxi pulled up to the curb. We had to wait a minute while the passenger paid the driver, but then a man came out. He matched the profile of John Mitchell from the computer. Dana also agreed that this was her husband, leaving Kate talking to midair and flying for John, throwing herself at him, desperate for some time with him before she lost him to federal custody and the uncertain outcome of the justice system.

I averted my eyes, being a decent person and turning so I was facing Neal. His hand being unsettled from my spine was just a happy bonus. I looked at him so I could claim I didn't even see John anywhere nearby. _Selective blindness… I'll give them a minute._

"Well, I feel massively guilty," I told Neal with a heavyhearted sigh, then looked up into his eyes and asked, "Do you think he actually did it?" I hoped I'd get a straightforward answer from him now that Katie wasn't also paying attention and putting him on the spot.

Neal looked away from me and over my shoulder at the temporarily-reunited couple, uncertainly lifting his shoulders. "The artifacts are from the royal cemetery crypts of Per in Egypt, thousand-year-old gold. Lots of money's always a motive," he noncommittally remarked, then looked back to me, clearly uncomfortable with being asked. I nodded slightly and looked at the concrete. I wasn't too surprised. No one had died and even though there was evidence, it would still upset Katie if John was guilty. Neal wouldn't want to upset his friend, and the consideration for my sister's emotions was part of the reason I trusted him to be around her even before I trusted him at work. "It's a shame he apparently melted some of it down," Neal added a little wistfully.

I thought it had been long enough for an agent to actually be unaware and slowly looked back to them. Kate nodded thankfully to me for letting them have a moment. John happened to look our way at the same time, saw the professional way Neal and I were dressed, and he looked down to his wife, who only came to his chest.

She glanced at me, but then flattened her hands over John's lapels and stood up on her toes to peck his lips. "You be safe," she ordered despite her trembling voice.

He smiled lovingly but sadly with a hand caressing her face. "You too, honey," he instructed. She let her hands slide off of his shirt, and instead of leaving her to be the one to step away, he made the painful approach towards his own arrest.

"John Mitchell?" I asked, not with nearly as much zeal as I usually possessed when I handcuffed someone.

The soldier, although in civilian clothes, nodded and saluted before he stood at attention. Then he shifted his hands behind his back docilely in invitation, coming willingly and without a fuss. I personally opted not to cuff him. Technically, he was turning himself in, so it wasn't really necessary unless he tried to run, was it?

"Agent Anderson," he said, looking straight at me with the utmost solemnity. "I want you to know that I didn't do this. I was set up."

He made a convincing argument, and not just because Dana had started to cry again into Kate's shoulder. Even Katie was starting to look uncomfortable with the amount of crying that was going on and the tears coming from her friend's eyes, but she nonetheless stood her ground in her role as comforter.

"Your fingerprints and DNA are all over the crime scene," I reluctantly told him. He needed to understand the position he was in, whether or not he was guilty – which I hadn't decided yet. It was pretty convincing evidence, but I could be lead around by the nose for a little while, for Dana's sake. I just needed something to go on, and his reactions counted. Fittingly enough, his mouth opened in surprise to suck in a sharp breath, and he appeared to go rigid. "It really doesn't look good for your case," I added apologetically. I was a civil servant, not a dictator, and I couldn't make it go away. "I can't make promises I may not be able to keep."

"Wait, my _prints?"_ He repeated, asking in case he'd heard wrong, leaning in.

I nodded. He looked genuinely stunned, but I didn't want to give him hope when I had no reason to think that it could come to anything. "If you want me doing something about it, we need to go," I told him, vaguely motioning to Neal to include him in the pronoun, too.

"Listen, please." He started to reach for me but stopped himself. I just kind of tipped my head to the side to show that I _was_ listening. John looked up at Neal but then back to me, since I was the one who Dana and Katie were actually vouching for him to come to. "My lawyer says I shouldn't say a word to you," he prefaced, and internally I groaned. That wasn't promising. "But when I was overseas, a guy asked me to help him bring some goods back to the States. I said no."

"Mitchell," I started to tiredly interrupt before he dug himself his own nice, new grave.

"His name was Aimes," he cut me off to make sure that I would be told. "Patrick Aimes. He's in the state department." Doing another internal cringe, my shoulders fell. The suspect was nice, but did he _have_ to be another government employee? "Just look into him, please," John begged.

With Dana and Katie looking on, Neal to be a model for, and the injustice of a potentially innocent man about to be taken into harsh custody by apathetic guards, I couldn't just dismiss something when he seemed truly desperate for someone to listen. If his lawyer didn't want him to tell anyone, then he probably considered it to mean that it wouldn't come out in a trial, making the freelancing white-collar agent the last life vest.

"I will," I promised after a second. Even if John was guilty, maybe Aimes still had something to do with it – and if he was innocent, then taking his revenge by setting up someone who rejected him and his plan was a really pathetic thing of Aimes to do, whoever the guy was. I held out a hand in invitation and turned to the side, nodding down the sidewalk where the FBI building loomed nearby. "Come on."

He looked up in foreboding, but nodded again to steel himself and walked beside me while Neal followed, dutifully making sure I had backup.

* * *

Neal was already in my office, feet up on the edge of my desk, flicking through the file of the stolen gold when I joined him after giving Mitchell a personally-ensured safe escort to the US Marshals on the premises.

"It looked like genuine surprise on Mitchell's face when we told him his prints were on the gold," Neal said speculatively, looking up to the floor-to-ceiling window behind my desk that my back usually faced, the blinds pulled but the light still streaming in through the glass. He didn't even look at me, just told apart my gait from the other agents he regularly saw.

"I saw that, too," I admitted. The earnest shock on Mitchell's face for that second when his expression had been entirely unguarded had reminded me of Leo Barelli's look when he'd heard that his nephew had been working against him to steal the Book of Hours. "But that doesn't necessarily mean he's innocent," I reminded Neal. "Maybe he'd just thought he'd wiped down all of his prints."

I hung up my jacket on the back of the door while I pushed it closed with the toe of my shoe, then turned to step towards my desk. Before I was even close enough to reach out and give his legs a shove, Neal sighed audibly and picked his feet off of the desk, sitting up in the chair and touching his shoes to the floor. "There's something else…"

"I'm listening," I told him, sinking down into my chair, rotating it to face him, staring at his eyes so I didn't tempt myself to look to where I _knew_ I'd suckled a pretty bruise underneath his shirt.

He hesitated slightly, his tongue poking out briefly and biting lightly down on his lower lip. "Before I say anything, what's the statute of limitations on-"

"Neal," I interrupted him, grinning a little bit. I found it funny that I actually _wasn't_ surprised when he prefaced an explanation with a question regarding whether or not he could get into trouble for the experience he had under his belt.

 _And what fucking wonderful experience that is, too,_ some perverted part of my mind purred, making me want to slam my face into my desk. I stopped myself before I could do more than think _don't blush_ and, thank the lord, I had enough self-control to prevent myself from blushing. _Damn it, brain, that is not what I meant and you know it._

"C'mon," I persuaded easily, trying my best not to let it show that even talking with him was harder since the night before. "You're talking to me, not Hughes."

My lover – well, that's jumping the gun a bit, isn't it? – my _consultant_ looked down to his lap with a slight, handsome smile – one that wasn't blinding, teeth-and-charm-and-dimples, but rather striking because it was sincere, not part of an act. "Alright. You can't melt down precious metals like gold without getting splash blisters on your arms, no matter how careful you are. It's got too high of a reactivity."

 _Would he know that first-hand?_ Well, I knew his arms didn't have scars from burns on them, and I was pretty qualified to make that statement, even if it was only in the privacy of my own thoughts. That didn't mean he hadn't run a scheme with someone else who had, though, so I decided to take his word on it.

"Mitchell was unburned," I said, cocking my head to the side and chewing with gentle, slow bites to the cellulose on the inside of my cheek. "Maybe he has an accomplice."

"I think we should check out this, uh, Aimes guy." Neal looked up at me, either expecting a complaint and an excuse as to why we shouldn't or waiting for me to get fully on-board and tell him what to do next to look into it.

"We?" I asked with raised eyebrows, denying both of those potential reactions. Why would I need two people to question one guy and look into a seemingly cut-and-dry case like this one? I could just as easily put him on some boring insurance fraud task and assign him to one of my agents for the day.

"If I walk out on this case, Katie's gonna drag me back into the case by my ears," Neal said with big, hopeful eyes, begging me not to put his ears through that kind of trauma. "You heard her." Yes, I had; and I knew better than to think that she was just blowing her potential reaction out of proportion.

Deciding to show my hand, I went ahead and demonstrated that I had already started questioning the validity of Mitchell's arrest. "Aimes works for the state department, and was overseeing the reconstruction in Mosul at the time when the gold was stolen."

"And where is he now?

"Collaborating with a private security contractor locally," I answered grudgingly. _As if_ I could just write this off as another closed case; not with Katie upset because her friend is in tears. If an innocent man was looking at a long prison sentence, regardless of his connection to my sister, I would make sure that he actually was guilty of what he was being charged with.

Neal pursed his lips. "Seems like he's done well for himself," he said, likely questioning if a guy with such a nice little résumé would bother to go steal gold from Iraq and frame honored soldiers for it. I found in the blue-collar division that a lot of the most twisted people were the people others would never have suspected – the most twisted, the most frightening, were the ones that knew how to blend in, camouflage themselves as normal, compassionate people, who would never hurt another human being.

Wasn't that a dark tangent to go off on?

"I'm about to go see exactly _how_ well," I informed him, and the way I said it meant that I very clearly intended to go see if he had done steal-ancient-gold-antiques well, or just work-hard-and-reap-benefits well.

Neal conceded that he wasn't going to go with me to talk to Aimes. I didn't mean it to be mean or exclude him, I just needed the time to myself – to get it into perspective – to retrain my brain to think of him not as the man who I slept with, but as my partner, whom I respect and trust but don't mindlessly lust after and certainly don't love, no matter what some stupid tattoo on his back says to the contrary. I _don't_ love him. I think of Neal and I feel a sort of affection, sure, but that's a far cry from a profession of unconditional love that leads someone to outwardly declaring that another person is their soulmate.

Which I couldn't do even if I did love him, so… I swallowed and stood up to get my jacket and leave again. There I was, saying that I was going to leave specifically so that I could clear my head, and all I did was sit and make it even cloudier.

"See you later for lunch?" He asked, twisting in the seat and setting his arm along the back of his chair.

I paused verbally but didn't stop the process of pulling my jacket on, straightening the cuffs over my wrists and checking the collar to make sure it was turned down around my neck. "I don't know yet," I said truthfully. Would I need more time than just a morning to recalibrate? Would being without him help me to shake the confusion, or would it just make my feelings murkier without him there to elicit new emotions to remind me how I usually felt? How _do_ I feel, compared to how society says that I should?

* * *

Aimes' secretary gave me the address of a meeting that he was meant to be having with the contractor, but when I pulled into the parking lot beside the construction site that the two were overseeing, it became clear that the meeting had been set for the last full hour on the clock and if I had been a few minutes later, I'd have missed them entirely. Even as I pulled into the parking lot no one was supposed to have a reason to use, they were walking side-by-side, slowly inching away from the edge of the lot by the site and wandering back towards their cars, a black model and a larger one that looked like a shortened limousine parked side-by-side.

I pulled my keys out of the ignition and adjusted my rearview mirror to look at myself. I pushed a curl of hair that sprang out of my ponytail back behind my ear and smiled at myself. It felt unusually empty in my car. It was unfair. I'd never been bothered by Neal's absence in my car until I deliberately chose not to have him in it.

My smile fell in the mirror and I sighed shakily. _I have to put myself together._

Strangely enough, I was always at my best composure when I was working. The distraction of being dedicated to a case didn't leave the time or the mental space to be bothered by something completely unrelated. I got out of my car with my keys in hand and at the same time as I deposited them safely in my pocket, I also pulled out my badge and credentials, heading over towards the three men. One of them I recognized as Aimes, but the other two were unknown. The largest one, who was built at over six feet tall and had a _lot_ of highly-defined muscle, stood behind Aimes and walked with his hands in front of him, not participating in the discussion.

 _Bodyguard,_ I guessed, being no stranger to seeing bodyguards around someone, and that wasn't an unusual demeanor for them to take.

Meanwhile, Aimes put up a hand, raising it up to emphasize something that he was saying and selling an idea. "Every window, every room, every child gets that view, every morning!" So far it sounded good. He sounded convincing; as charismatic as Neal, even.

When I was a few feet away, all three of them started to actually acknowledge my existence. I held up my badge so that the bodyguard could be put at ease, and he dismissively unfocused from me. "Mr. Patrick Aimes, Agent McKenna Anderson, Federal Bureau of Investigation." Aimes' smile faded. "I'd like to speak with you for just a moment," I requested politely, but my face added _make no mistake, we're talking whether you like it or not._ I was _not_ in the mood to be crossed.

Aimes sighed jokingly to his contractor and looked to the green-eyed man in jeans and a polo, dressed casually compared to the overseer. "Do you mind waiting for me by the cars?" He laughed apologetically and motioned to me in explanation, as if the man was too dumb to have overheard who I was. "We'll finish this in just a minute."

The contractor basically just said 'yep, cool' and left, walking past me with a polite breadth of space between us, heading over to the cars. He stepped in between the two of them and climbed into the lithe black convertible, leaving the door open so Aimes could easily get his attention when he was done addressing the interrupting bureau agent.

"Thank you," I said, grinding my teeth and at least pretending that I didn't feel I demanded the respect of pleasantries. There was really going to be no winning with me today, since I normally hated niceties anyway. "I have a few questions regarding some Iraqi artifacts smuggled into America."

Aimes was, no doubt, someone equally used to getting what he wanted, except our wants were vastly different, according to the possibly-innocent man who was just arrested for smuggling. "Right," he said, with an attitude that rubbed me the wrong way. He wasn't particularly rude, it was just the way he said it, with a little too much emphasis and a little overuse of surprise. "I read that some important pieces were recently recovered."

I nodded and shortly supplied him with, "We have a suspect for the crime in custody."

"Good," Aimes rewarded me with a smile that showed prettily white teeth. Not to be judgmental or critical, but they were white and shining to the point that I strongly suspected he used whitening strips or gel. It wasn't unusual – I bought strips for use several times a year – but it did tell me that deportment was evidently important to him. "I'm glad to hear that justice will prevail."

_You're damn right it will._

"Given your history in the area, I wanted to ask you if you had any insight regarding how a large shipment of gold from Mosul manages to find its way to a storage shed all the way over in Fort Monmouth." He expected me to be charmed? I decided to act less seasoned and more like fresh blood to the investigating business, smiling a little bit shyly at his grin. If nothing else, that way it would be even more of a kick in the pants when I caught him on smuggling and tampering with evidence.

"Of course!" Enthusiastically, he nodded his agreement. "If you call my office, we can set up an official meeting."

 _Screw you!_ I knew a 'piss off' when I heard it. I had very clearly asked his secretary for his schedule and I had gotten back a 'he's here for now, but his schedule is clear.' He didn't have anywhere to be. The most he could do was ask to finish his conversation with the contractor, but no; he was trying to get rid of me.

Spite motivated me with the topic I wanted to touch on next. Casual and a little bit nervous, I chuckled. "There's one other thing that I really don't want to wait to ask," I folded my hands uncomfortably, the way someone who wasn't raised around intimidating people might act if they weren't accustomed to interrogating them as suspects. "It's kind of important. The suspect we have in custody is accusing you of stealing the gold and framing him for it." Then I giggled like it was a joke and hoped that I got on his nerves. "Any idea why he might be hurling such unpleasant accusations at you?"

He exhaled and took a little too long to answer. "Oh, man," he said, buying time with his sigh. "I wish I knew!"

He wasn't as convincing as he thought he was. I made to step forward to invade his personal space, but his bodyguard evidently saw my motion as a threat to Aimes' safety (I _would_ like to wring his neck, but I have more self-control than that) and he crossed his arms very clearly in front of him, standing right next to the state department employee instead of behind him.

I got the message and wondered if I could take him, or maybe if I could threaten to press charges if he hit me, but then I looked at his arms, an instinctual response to the very _obvious_ intention of reminding me exactly how muscled he was, and happened to see burns on his forearms… painful-looking red and purple marks about the sizes of large water droplets. There weren't many, but there were enough to raise suspicion about how he got them, and they weren't in any sort of pattern like he'd touched something hot.

I pushed my tongue against my teeth and looked up to the bodyguard's face slowly. He stared down at me unblinkingly, stony and unimpressed.

"You might want some burn cream for those," I advised icily.

I don't know if I had pissed him off of if he just knew that I was onto him. If I hadn't been before, there was no way I was going to miss the blisters consistent with melting down gold. "Is there something else, Agent Anderson?" Aimes asked testily, probably about two minutes away from lawyering up, crossing his arms in a mimic of his bodyguard. His coat covered his arms, but I was sure he wouldn't have burns on himself. That would be too easy.

I looked between the two of them again. I didn't know if the bodyguard had been promised a cut or why else he would go along with it, but I smirked knowingly.

"No thanks," I said slyly, turning around. "I've got what I need," I added ominously.

I didn't do them the honor of looking back, but I did go straight to my car while reaching for my phone. Hopefully they saw and started getting their nerves up that I was actually preparing to call for backup or another sort of legal action that would have them pinned.

The phone only stopped ringing when I was in my car. _"Hello?"_ Derek answered, tone absent with his mind focused on something else.

I pulled my door shut and smirked again into my rearview mirror. There was a lot more confidence in my expression now that I had something to go on. "My mind's changed," I declared without preamble, starting the engine and looking at Aimes and his bodyguard, staring at my car and waiting for me to leave in suspicion. I liked seeing them antsy. "I think Mitchell's onto something when he says he was framed. Have every artifact the bureau recovered moved to the WCCD ASAP. I want to reexamine the evidence against him."

Now _this_ was the distraction I needed.

* * *

I came running into the conference room with files and Polaroids in my messenger bag and a cup of coffee in my hand. Enthusiastically, I raced to the table where Neal and Derek were already waiting for me from the head's up I'd given. I put down my coffee first, then glared at both men in warning, before I took out the pictures from my bag and slapped them down onto the table.

"You had a breakthrough?" Neal asked, very interested in exonerating a potentially-innocent man. Long fingers dragged the thin images off from on top of one another and spread them out over the table for curious eyes.

The pictures were all of the crime scene of the looted gold that had been recovered. The pictures documented practically every inch of the space. These versions were special – each fingerprint that had been lifted had been highlighted, and had an image of the fingerprint that had been taken from it enlarged in a clear white box next to it, ordered specifically from the crime labs.

"I found something on the forensics work," I declared proudly, looking up to Neal – then I quickly avoided his eyes, my face flushing, and looked to Derek instead, bringing back the satisfaction I had originally felt from picking up on something that the lab didn't necessarily catch. "Check out the dust where they lifted the prints."

Derek pulled the pages close and bent over the table to look at them. Neal moved over so he had more room to do so. "They're very… precise," Derek acknowledged suspiciously.

I pointed at him. That had been my point exactly. The evidence against Mitchell was strong and compelling – but it was also a little _too_ strong and compelling for a normal case, especially one that involved smuggling. Smugglers were usually a hell of a lot more careful. "When have you ever seen such clean and easy fingerprints at a crime scene?"

Derek looked thoughtful. Neal asked, "They're all Mitchell's prints?"

"Correct." I gave him a short smile in praise. "There's something else, too," I hinted, wanting them to work to figure it out on their own. Bettering each other was part of the deal of working with Derek, and teaching Neal to be a sharper CI by showing him what to look for could only work out well in the long run.

Derek looked at the pictures, but didn't see what I meant. "What else is there?"

"They're all left-handed," Neal realized, comparing two fingerprints side-by-side.

"There we go." I patted his shoulder.

 _"_ _Ah! Ah!" I panted and pressed my hands against his back, one over his shoulder blade and the other over the side of his hip. He moaned into my ear and grunted out my name, spurring me on. "Neal! Ah, fuck!"_

My face heated up and I took my hand away from his shoulder quickly, wondering if there were still imprints or even small bruises from my fingernails, and I pushed both of my hands in my pockets and hoped that Derek was too focused on the Polaroids to pay attention to my tomato-colored face.

"That's impossible," Derek balked, standing up from the table and crossing his arms at the pictures like they'd personally offended him.

"It's improbable," Neal corrected.

"But what does that mean?"

"I'm not sure yet," I said, keeping my head down in mortification. Luckily, both men were completely immersed in studying the crime scene photos and digital records of the fingerprints. "But what are the odds that he didn't use both hands while hurrying to loot some gold?"

Neal didn't seem to realize that I'd just embarrassed myself in front of my brother, for which I was thankful. It didn't seem fair! How come my memories of the night before kept forcing their way back up, while he seemed unaffected? What made it so different that I couldn't concentrate, and he could act like nothing had happened?

It couldn't be just because it was him, could it? Neal was special, but he didn't mean that much to me. He wasn't so important that he made all other intimate partners pale in comparison; it had just been a while. Neal wasn't such a big deal that I couldn't function normally around him anymore. And it couldn't be because of the – the soulmark thing, because that soulmark had been there regardless of whether or not he'd fucked me, so what was the point of that being something to obsess over?

I wondered if – I didn't want to say that I _hoped_ – he thought back to it and it made him the same mix of awkward and aroused to remember the cries of his name or the bounce of my breasts or the way I wrapped my legs around his waist. Didn't he remember the awkward fumbling to get his briefs off, or the pulling at his hair when something felt really, _really_ good? Was he a better actor than I gave him credit for, or was he genuinely able to concentrate without remembering how easily we'd fallen into a rhythm, my hips rolling to match every thrust?

 _What would feel really, really good right now would be a cold shower,_ I thought miserably, coming back into the present and shifting my stance, rubbing my thighs together. _Oh, and an arrest, damn it._

* * *

I took Neal to lunch to swap theories. It wasn't untrue, but I was also using it to re-acclimatize. This was familiar. Familiar in a way that made logical sense; not familiar in that I'd recognize the feel of his thighs or the sounds he made in pleasure, biting his lip and trying to be quiet. This was a lot less sensual, but much more comfortable; much more stable, because we'd done this many times before. Me and Neal, sitting next to each other at a twisted-metal picnic table underneath a red and white Coca-Cola umbrella in the fenced-in property of a restaurant, our chairs angled to slightly face each other, my legs spread casually and Neal's crossed classily.

 _I want it to go back to normal,_ I was desperately thinking, and it was that desperation that led to me ordering a bottle of beer to go with my lunch. My alcohol had been served at the same time as Neal's ice water, and Neal had skeptically surveyed my choice of beverage, but had refrained from commenting. Maybe he guessed why I'd made the unwise choice. I just kind of hoped he wasn't insulted. It wasn't a regret of sleeping with _Neal,_ it was a regret of sleeping with my consultant. Who also happened to be my soulmate. _Fuck, it didn't go away._

"What, so you think the prints were planted?"

"If you know what you're doing, it's not hard." I paused, eyed him innocently, and then added, "In theory," almost teasingly. In complete truth, I _had_ planted fingerprints before; it had been a forensics experiment that I'd read about and then toyed with, using my own fingerprinting kit and my own fingerprints to see if it had worked. It was more fun to leave Neal hanging, though I doubted he'd believe for a second that I'd ever done it maliciously.

"But it starts out with getting a clean set of prints, and somebody got Mitchell's," Neal contemplated, looking up to the fabric umbrella. There was a seam between the red and yellow that was beginning to come undone, but so far, only about an inch had ripped apart. At least it wasn't raining. He reached for his water on autopilot.

I mirrored him, going for my beer, and by the time I realized that I'd done the mirroring, it was too late to put it back down without doing so awkwardly. _What the hell, I ordered it for a reason._ Beer wasn't the best-tasting drink, but the standard size was more than it was with wine or hard liquor, so I could have more of it before my judgment was impaired.

"Except the only prints he got were from the left hand." I, being right-handed, put my bottle down at the same time as I turned my left hand over and wiggled my fingers. "I don't think that's a question of _how_ as much as it is a why. Why only get the prints from one hand?" Wouldn't it have been more convincing if there were prints from _both_ hands? And why go to the trouble of stealing some prints, but very specifically only taking the prints from one hand?

Neal shook his head, not having any answers. "I don't know, Kenna." I playfully scowled at him before I looked back at the table, staring at the pole holding the umbrella that came up through a gap in the center of the circular picnic table. "Something that's been bothering me is how the gold was even found to begin with," he remarked, disguising his question as a way to further the conversation.

I snorted and looked up to the rip in the umbrella. "An anonymous tip was called in from a burner cell." Even that seemed suspicious. Why call the cops on himself? Who would know about the gold if not someone involved in the crime? Was Mitchell really innocent, or was there a deeper game, or was he just dumb? Were there multiple criminals involved?

Neal chuckled quietly. Hearing his laugh triggered an unwilling pull of my lips upward. "There's a red flag."

"I thought so, too," I agreed, tipping my bottle a little to the right to feel the sloshing beer inside and then taking a long drink, knocking it back to fill my mouth and swallowing a lot at once.

"Easy there, darling," Neal interrupted. I stopped since it was bothering him and unwrapped my lips from around the rim of the glass, licking my lips of the lingering taste, and replaced it right in front of me – within easy and fast reach if Neal did something that brought back the flashing images. "Katie might wring my neck if I take you home stumbling."

I knew my own tolerances, and I was pretty good at hiding my consumption until I was a couple of beers in. It wasn't being told to lay off that bothered me, it was the thought of being taken home – back to the place that I currently wanted to avoid. I was seriously considering taking a hotel for the next couple of nights, safely away from both hysterical criers and alluring, sexy informants whom should be well-marked as off-limits.

"Please don't make me go back," I griped, venting. Neal couldn't _make_ me go home, but I also didn't expect him to do anything about the situation, just maybe laugh at my misfortune. "I think I'd rather just… stay at the office and work all day and night."

"Why?" Shifting into concern, Neal fidgeted and uncrossed his legs, reaching across the short space to touch my knee. "What's going on?"

"She's letting Dana stay with us… which is fine," I remembered to add in the nick of time, although going by Neal's cynical expression, I hadn't been very convincing.

"Uh-huh," he understood, equally unconvincing. "How's she doing?" His hand was still on my knee and he made no move to take it off. I didn't _want_ it off. Which bothered me. I should _want_ space between us.

"She's…" _Avoiding_ complaining was _weird._ Typically, if something was annoying me, I had plenty to say on the subject, or had to actively try _not_ to voice my issues. This time, Dana was important to Kate and really, I wasn't completely heartless; I understood why she was so upset, I just don't like being around upset people. I feel guilty for not being able to make them feel better, though it's stupid to think I could possibly solve all of their problems. "She's been through a lot," I decided to say, hoping that it was meaningless enough to dismiss the topic entirely.

"Yeah, this has got to be rough on her," Neal murmured compassionate agreement, but his eyes stayed locked on my face, expectantly awaiting an actual answer.

I broke. It was just too hard to repress every single thing I wanted to say, which it felt like I was doing today. I wasn't on my knees thanking my sister for her discretion and I wasn't saying mean things to the blistered bodyguard and I wasn't telling Neal _last night was awesome but we shouldn't do it again_ and if I thought it might go over well, and could trust that it would _stay_ a secret, then I might have also added _I saw your soulmark, now check out mine._

Neal wasn't like Ruiz – he wasn't going to take my words out of context or use them to misrepresent my character. And, honestly, at this point there was physically very little of me that he hadn't seen, so why _not_ add some emotions to that list? "I am trying to be patient, and understanding, but I don't like when my clothes get soaked with tears, you know?!" I sighed and looked down, a little ashamed. I had always been bad with that and had never gotten better.

"So it's the crying," he summarized, the quirk of his mouth threatening to become a full-blown smile.

I breathed deeply while I grimaced. "I am okay with the crying from people I know," I asserted. "I mean, if it's Kate, it's comfort first and deck some people in the face later, but what the hell am I supposed to do with someone I don't know?!" Probably the same comforts I would offer Katie, but I was a lot less emotionally attached to Dana, and so the awkwardness and discomfort wasn't overwhelmed by compassion and distress. "Why is it _my_ responsibility to drown in tears and rock her back and forth?" It sure as hell wasn't; Katie was up for the job, so I was going to go do mine. The one I was good at. And that I was paid to do.

Neal grinned. "Because you're a very cuddly person, deep, deep down," he exaggerated, his wink belying exactly what he was talking about, and I felt my face flare up redder than the crimson stripes on the overhead umbrella.

"Shut up," I snapped defensively, tucking my hands into my lap and refusing to look at him, face flaming in embarrassment and anxiety. I had to count to keep my breath even and it was all I could do not to look around. It was paranoid, but what if someone from work was here?

Neal did not shut up. He laughed at my plight. "The moment you were asleep, you were all over me," he teased, as if he hadn't also proven himself an avid cuddler.

"Can you not!" I hissed miserably.

His voice changed; instead of being happy and ready to laugh, Neal sounded almost hurt, his voice steeped in upset and a little bit of affront. "Sorry, I didn't realize we were being stalked and recorded," he sarcastically and primly said, rolling his shoulders back and crossing his arms, leaning into the back of his metal chair and putting more space between us, both physically and in attitude.

I covered my mouth with my hands and blew out. Hot air puffed up on my face calmingly. I put my hands down and turned my head to look at him, begging him to understand. We _had_ to be on the same page or this could fall apart. I wasn't ashamed that I had slept with him. Neal was excellent and admirable and, despite his mischief-making hobbies (putting it lightly, of course), he had a lot of qualities I adored in a partner. I was just abhorred now that it was over by how badly it could come back to bite us. Both of us.

"You know what happens if someone finds out?" I asked, fairly confident that he didn't. If he did, then he wouldn't be so blasé about the whole thing.

I locked eyes with him and made him look into my irises. Both of our eyes were blue, but the more I saw his, the more I hated mine; mine could look flinty and cold, but they were never as bright as sapphires, like his. By the still-upset look on his face but the minimal discomfort, I guessed that he hadn't thought that far ahead. It was all nice and dandy for him to have someone protecting him legally, but I couldn't protect him if I was the one in jeopardy.

"Someone who doesn't trust my judgment goes to OPR and they open up a full investigation." I started to go through the steps quietly, a bit louder than a whisper but not by much. Our lunch hour was late, so the midday rush had already passed through, but we were by no means alone in the vicinity. "In the meantime, I'm forced to hand over your power of attorney, and I can't look after you. That's a prime time for a lot of people to get you handed back to prison guards."

Just talking about it worked me up even more, into a lather of nervousness while compulsively opening and closing my fists. Neal being in prison didn't bother me when I'd met him; he broke the rules, and it was unfair to add four years to the four years he'd already done on such grounds as trying to find his sister, especially after model prisoner behavior, and when no one was going to listen to him to check on her on top of that, but the law was the law. In fact, if I hadn't promised to meet him a week after I arrested him, I probably never would have talked to him again, only thought of him in passing.

Now it brought on a slew of fear, very little of it for myself. Neal was calm and polite and sophisticated and gentle. He didn't belong in the same kind of facilities where the most hated and dangerous criminals were housed. Neal was of a class completely different, but they were all put in the same place. They didn't hire bodyguards to protect every inmate. It would be easier than I would like to consider for some psycho to stab him with whatever was handy, or gang up on him in one of the few places they were afforded their limited privacy – the showers, for instance – to further their sentences by adding assault and rape, and most of them didn't care because they were facing life in prison anyway.

Summarized, Neal didn't belong in a place where he could be so easily harmed and I wouldn't be able to get to him fast enough to do anything to stop it or make it better, and it _terrified_ me. At least with Maria, I had known exactly where they were, thanks to the tails and surveillance. If he was attacked while he was in jail, I wouldn't know what had happened until _hours_ after the fact, possibly _days,_ if I was ever even informed.

My eyes fluttered shut and I covered my mouth again, breathing into my hands to hear my breath magnified and feel the heat on my lips. I slouched forward and tried to calm down. I could usually handle fear a lot better, but the worries about repercussions were only magnified by the storm that was brewing with every minute that I knew about Neal's matching soulmate mark. Until I had the time to process those, the battery of confusion and guilt and relief and anger and pleasure that they would bring, and sort through why I felt them, I couldn't handle thinking so long on the possibility of someone quickly becoming very important to me placed in what was potentially mortal danger.

I knew I hadn't wanted to be touched, but at the same time I kind of did, and it was all really confusing. For the first time in the entire morning, I was _glad_ when Neal touched me, with no reservation or inhibition in feeling relief when he leaned forward, splaying his fingers over my upper back and covering the most emphasized part of my shoulder blade, the reassurance of his presence doing a lot more than covering my face had done.

With a hushed voice and soft, careful tone, he talked me through it rationally. "What do they find if they open an investigation? If I were at your house overnight, that would be one thing, but they have no way of knowing where you've been. I'm the one wearing the tracker, and there's nothing suspicious about me staying overnight in my own penthouse."

 _Yes. Yes, that's all true,_ I realized, feeling like I could start to cry when a large part of my deal with freaking out was alleviated. Short of myself, Katie, or Neal _telling_ the bureau that we'd had an affair, there was nothing on us, nothing proving we'd done anything. Maybe they could find my DNA in his sheets, but there would never be enough evidence without that to warrant getting a court order. Not against me, a stand-up agent who most of the higher-ups pitied.

 _Whew._ Still not okay, but much better than I had been, I reached over my shoulder with my right hand and found his on my back, pressing my fingertips into the back of his hand, silently asking him to keep it where it was.

"Kenna, if I didn't know better, I'd say you've been avoiding me," Neal said casually, the same airy voice he used when he was reminding me that his vast knowledge came from _alleged_ crimes and there was nothing I could do to prove otherwise.

I absolutely had been, but now that someone had finally spelled out to me that neither of the secrets were actually written in giant capital letters over every part of me, I felt silly for doing so. Maybe I could've been talked down a lot sooner if I hadn't. I still wasn't prepared to spend my every hour with Neal, but it seemed dumb now to leave him out while I went alone to talk to a suspect. Especially one with a trained bodyguard who carried a concealed weapon, according to the paperwork. A general rule, although not heavily enforced in the WCCD, is that agents go out in pairs when they walk into the field situations.

Neal didn't need to know that I'd been avoiding him. That might just perpetuate what I'd been trying to keep him from getting into his head – that I wished it had never happened, because I was glad it had. I guess it would have been nice if it had waited another four years so that there would no longer be the legal dilemma, but I had an answer to one of my darkest fears.

My soulmate is actually _not_ someone I would have to hate. Since seeing the families and mates of the criminals I apprehended, I was closeted with my concerns that I was going to end up like some of them – abused, tortured, tormented, harassed, threatened, stalked, victimized in any way by their soulmate. I didn't have to fear any of those; I trusted I wouldn't be brought to any physical harm. I didn't entirely trust I would never be manipulated or lied to, but I had enough faith in Neal that he would never do anything like that out of malice.

"Yes, I always go out to restaurants with the people I'm trying to avoid," I agreed, rolling my eyes. "For some reason, it just never seems effective." I sat up straight from the table and pushed my shoulders back. Neal took his hand off and relaxed back into his chair. "No, I'm fine, I mean, I screw my coworkers all the time."

"And here I was, thinking I was special," the conman joked.

"You're definitely something," I promised and sighed again, putting my right elbow up on the table's edge and looking to my left at him. I pushed my fingers through my hair and resisted a yawn. Neal was good company, but I might not have been so tired if I had gotten more than four, five hours of sleep.

He was quiet for a minute, considering, and before I knew it, the conversation had taken a turn all the way back to the drama taking place at my house. "If you don't want to go back while Dana's there, you can stay with me tonight," he offered, pressing his lips together.

I looked up and right at him, eyes blown wide. _"Neal!"_ I exclaimed, shocked that he would say that _right after_ I freaked out on him about the very same thing.

"I'm serious!" His voice went up defensively and he held his hands out, showing he was an open book. I very highly doubted it. "I'm not trying for anything," he insisted. "We can watch a movie, drink some coffee. June has a Monopoly game she's been trying to get me to play, but it's only so much fun with two people."

I did love Monopoly, and he was right; it wasn't the most fun when you only have two players warring for properties. Derek and Diana aren't big fans of it, so it's harder to get an actual, decent game going than it would be to convince Katie to let me adopt a puppy from the shelter.

I rolled my tongue to the side of my mouth, pressing against the inside of my cheek thoughtfully. It was just like a sleepover. No intent of sex, friendly motivations of helping out a partner, a third party to keep things from getting personal, things to occupy my mind so I didn't remember the night before.

"I do like Monopoly," I admitted grudgingly, unwilling to commit right away and seem like I was anything but reluctant to think it was a good idea to return to the scene of the crime. "I might actually decide to take you up on that."

"Good," Neal decided triumphantly. I picked up my beer bottle and took another drink, wondering what the hell was taking so long on our entrees. "It's the least I can do." _Well, it certainly is less than you did last night._ I almost laughed, which would have made me choke on my beer. Before he said something else that elicited a facetious, snarky comment from my conscience, I set my bottle back on the table.

Neal was frowning and staring at my hand. I kept it wrapped around my beer, uncomfortable with the intensity of his gaze. Had he been watching me hold my drink like that ever since he'd last spoken?

"What?" I asked self-consciously, looking to the alcoholic beverage. We'd already been over what time of day it was.

Neal answered with narrowed eyes, completely fixed on the bottle. "We've been here half an hour, but in that whole time, you've only touched that bottle with one hand." He declared.

Suddenly enlightened, I too looked to stare at my drink. There was condensation around the lower part of the bottle, but most of the water had either been absorbed into my skin or had slid down in droplet form to the table. I pressed the pads of my fingers against the red-brown colored beer bottle.

"Glass is a good carrier for fingerprints," I said, startled myself. Was Mitchell left-handed? I couldn't remember anything indicating such, but I also didn't recall anything that suggested otherwise, either. It was as good of a guess as any as to why there were only fingerprints from one hand found around the gold. "He had drinks with whoever took the prints, and whoever took them probably framed him," I theorized. Then I let go of the bottle.

Neal looked away, too. "Can you ask him?"

We were back to business as usual. The kind that we were good at, the kind we specialized in in different ways. "Not quickly," I made a face in complaint. "The US Marshals are keeping him pretty close. Going through the channels to talk face-to-face would take a while." Which really made no sense, since I was trying to investigate… Ah, there are really more faults in our judicial system than there are in our stars. "But," I added, coming to a new option when I remembered the book Katie had seemed obsessed with for about three weeks right after the movie came out. "There is someone else he may have talked to."

Neal nodded, smirking at me. "Dana," he finished my thought, enjoying that I was going to have to go home and face the wife, even after all that talk about how I was uncomfortable with her crying and how I was going to have a sleepover with him just to avoid being around it for too long.

Someday, I was really going to get him back for finding so much to be entertained by from my misery and things that made me agitated.

* * *

I came home keen on seeing Katie again and giving her a big hug. I really owed her for not calling up Neal and telling him herself, and for not letting it slip while they were both in my office. I hadn't doubted her integrity in my secret-keeping, but I knew she was doing it under protest and wished I had a suitable way to make it up to her.

"Katie!" I bellowed from the entry hall instead of going to find her like a normal person. I picked up my left foot, then my right, and pulled off my black, sole-supportive loafers, tossing them down by the door next to Kate's sandals and an unfamiliar pair of shoes that were probably our houseguest's. "I'm home!"

Murmuring was coming from further down the hallway, now that I had actually silenced my own voice long enough to listen. "We're in the kitchen," Kate called back to me at less than half of my initial volume.

I shrugged and followed her voice and her information, wandering into our kitchen and finding it much more cluttered than I had left it. Cookie sheets were out and covered in chocolate chip, peanut butter, and sugar cookies. Half of those cookies had ginger and cinnamon sprinkled over them. Something else was in the oven, too, the red light on and the dial turned and the scent of chocolate slowly but surely filling the room.

 _…_ _It's a comfort food day,_ I explained it all to myself simply, going to Dana and Kate, both sitting at the dining table, Kate completely at home but Dana a little less so, her hands in her lap and her shoulders down unobtrusively.

"Hey, ladies," I greeted fondly, walking behind Kate's chair and bending over into a bow, flicking my eyes to Dana in greeting and pressing a kiss to my sister's cheek. "I'm not staying long," I informed, moving to the side to grant Katie her personal space. I looked across the table at the army wife and smiled brightly, hoping to be reassuring and welcoming. "Just wanted to talk… how're you doing, Dana?"

Dana sniffed. Her eyes were red and there was a slight smudge of dark grey or black by the corner of her eye, from running mascara that hadn't been completely wiped away. The salt had left trails of dried-out tears on her face that she should probably wash for the best skin care results. Looking at the evidence that she had been sobbing her eyes out made me falter just a bit.

"It's hard," she admitted. I hadn't expected anything less. Most of the time, unless I'm really snappy or really obsessed with something important, I actually _want_ an answer to 'how are you.' If I really didn't, I probably wouldn't ask. "You know, it's the _not knowing_ that's eating at me."

 _But not the part where your husband is in federal custody?_ I was sure that skepticism showed up on my face because for a second my sister looked a little awkward before she jumped in to distract me.

"Do you have any news?" She asked hopefully, making Dana light up hesitantly, just now remembering that I was working on her lover's case.

I winced between the two. "Good or bad news first?" I asked, trying to be considerate to how Dana would like to receive the update. The good news was the potential breakthrough, but the bad news was a lot to do with the lack of evidence we had to prove it.

"There's bad news?" She squeaked with dread. Kate shot me a 'thanks for nothing' glower and she scooted her chair closer to the corner between them, reaching out to twine her fingers through Dana's.

"No, not – not any _new_ bad news," I hurried to try to fix my blunder. Sometimes I forgot that I thought about things differently. I was so used to putting myself on the outsides of these cases that I didn't always think through how my words sounded when I spoke to people I was comfortable with in a familiar setting. The office was always about work, but someone over as a friend was supposed to be a friend, and I wasn't used to controlling my mouth so tightly. "Actually, I think I rescind that," I hastily tried again when Kate's disapproval and Dana's watery eyes told me that it wasn't working. "I'm just gonna tell you the good news. There are some weird things with the evidence that suggests very strongly that his fingerprints were planted."

Dana lifted her head up a little bit, her hands lowering just a couple of inches from her face, but still covering up her mouth and the tip of her nose from view. "So… you mean… he really _was_ framed?" She asked painfully, squeezing her eyes shut for a second.

"It's looking more and more like that," I replied gently. Finally I got a look of _congratulations, you got something right_ from my sarcastic and miffed sister. Then I got excited. That was good news, so it should be even better news that I have a lead regarding it to go on, right?! "Um, did he have drinks with anyone recently?" I asked, clasping my own fingers together and flexing the muscles in my hands. "It's okay! Neal and I noticed the prints came from something made of glass, and the pattern is like someone drinking from a bottle or cup," I explained to Katie, who, for some reason, was now staring at me in _what the fuck is wrong with you?!_

Well, that was possibly the shortest period of pride that my sister has ever held for me.

And, of course, because it wouldn't be my luck if there wasn't another fuck-up in my day, Dana started to cry again. _Again!_ Wasn't she cried out by now? "It's not okay," she whined, her voice going up in octaves and getting a little bit nasally in response, her eyes and nose scrunching up and hiding behind the protective shield of her hands.

I… there was no dignified way to confess that I saw the waterworks about to start, and in a fearful panic, I tried to repair the damage. "Wait, yes, yes, this _is_ okay, this is the part where the news is _good!"_ I emphasized desperately. _Please stop crying!_

Conflicted, my sister looked between me and her guest. I was looking more lost than the characters on the island, so she groaned, closed her eyes for approximately ten seconds, in which Dana's breath started to heave and shudder, before she lifted her face back to me.

"I'm going to borrow her for a second," Kate said to Dana, sounding wretched inside for leaving a friend in so much distress just to have a semi-private talk with her sister who was, at the moment, the most distressed by Dana's tears. "I'm sorry, Dana, really, we'll be right back."

Dana gave a wet "it's fine" and snuffled loudly against her hand before her breath caught a hitch in her throat and she gasped for air, sucking it in like she was suffocating. I looked at her sadly. I really had thought I'd come bearing good news.

That little piece of guilt in mind, I let my sister drag me all the way out of the kitchen and into the hallway, being led by my wrist and feeling like a kid who was about to get her wrists smacked. Kate's grip was never painful, but she did have a very firm hold that felt like it was only one smart remark away from a bruise.

When she deemed that we were far enough out of earshot of Dana to talk to each other in whispers, she dropped my arm and turned to me, leaning her left shoulder along the wall. I looked back at her in dismay. "What did I _do?!"_ I whispered desperately, needing to know what mistake I'd just made so I'd know not to repeat it.

"I'm not sure," Kate informed unhelpfully, but then jerked her hand over my shoulder. Reflexively, I moved my head to the side and further out of the way. "But can't you see she's _crying?!"_ She was hissing and glaring at me, unimpressed with what I thought had been perfectly decent behavior. I had been _trying_ to be nice and reassuring; at this point, with the effort I put into it, was it really considered my fault that Dana had reacted badly?

"Yes," I informed sourly, turning to a resting pout of my lower lip to be discontent. "Believe me, I noticed that she's crying." We listened to a sharp intake of breath and a muffled moan into clasped hands over her mouth. I sighed and looked to the ceiling. What was I supposed to do?! If she were a kid, I would've offered her ice cream. As it was, she's an adult crying about something much more serious than a skinned knee, and I barely even knew her. The only thing I could really do to make her stop crying was to solve her problem, which I couldn't do if Kate was going to drag me out of the room before I could ask all of my questions. "I need to know if Mitchell-"

Kate punched me in the shoulder. _"John,"_ she corrected me stonily, daring me to disagree. I covered my shoulder with my opposite hand and stared at her meanly. There was really no call for violence here. "His name is _John."_

"Fine," I said, attitude turning a little nasty. "I need to know if _John_ met someone for a drink." I dripped with venom as I talked to Kate. She was protective of her friends, but Dana must've been a special one, because she had to be pretty pissed at me to actually hit me, even with that little force. With Kate, it was more the principle of being hit than any physical result. And I was annoyed, too, because she _knew_ me; _obviously_ I didn't start the crying on purpose.

Speaking of, Kate threw up her arms in distress when I had asked what could have been an insinuation of infidelity. It became apparent that Katie had been wrong about us being far enough away to be out of earshot when Dana's crying intensified and she sniffed, then a second later, her chair squeaked and she blew her nose into a tissue or paper towel.

I covered my mouth with my hand. Both of our tempers had been cooled. At least this time I wasn't the only one who had made a mistake.

Still, I was riveted on solving her problem. "Maybe he just didn't tell her," I mused to myself, wondering who would know if it wasn't his own wife.

Kate's disbelief went right back up to the sky-high extreme it had been at only moments ago. "Yeah," she snorted derisively, crossing her arms huffily. "There's no _way_ I'm going to let you talk to her now!"

Now equally as irate as she was, I held my hands out. She was the one that wanted me on this case to begin with! What did she _think_ I talked about with my leads? Hockey? Music? The _Glee_ series' finale? "Do I need to reiterate that this is important?" I demanded of her, remembering at the last minute to at least _try_ to be courteous and dropping my voice down into an even lower whisper across the foot between us. "If I don't find this information out, he goes to _jail._ Like, _jail-_ jail. Where Neal was." Kate's face lost some of her righteousness and she looked to a framed photograph of herself, me, Derek, and Diana. She knew I was right, and using our friend who had suffered in prison to illustrate the point reminded her of what was at stake. In the grand scheme, Dana crying a little bit wasn't going to hurt anywhere near as much as seeing her husband convicted and incarcerated. "And he will stay there," I pressed to make my point. "For a very long time."

Dana sniffled weakly again from somewhere much closer. Kate and I both looked towards the kitchen doorway and our shoulders fell, mocking each other's actions in time. Dana was standing just in the hall and had been hidden from Kate's view by my body. My sister started to wring her hands, not knowing how to respond comfortingly, both of us knowing that she had _definitely_ heard me say that last thing.

_I should just move to Timbuktu and this would be a lot easier._

"I'm sorry," Dana apologized plaintively, holding a Kleenex to her face and rubbing at her reddened nose.

Even I felt guilty then. She shouldn't apologize for crying, and it wasn't her that was making my job difficult; it was Katie. Understandably so, but still, that was on Katie, and she should have known that if she wanted me to intervene in the investigative process, then a scene like this would have to have happened.

"Don't be," Kate soothingly rushed to Dana's side and rubbed her shoulder, pulling her into a hug, standing on her toes, and fitting her chin over the brunette's shoulder. She beat me to the whole 'comforting a stranger' gig. "It's not your fault. McKenna just… forgets she's not always an FBI agent sometimes."

 _What the hell?!_ I knew she was trying to be placating, but _come on._ What did she want me to investigate as, then?! A vocalist? An expert on every episode of the British Broadcasting Channel's _Sherlock?_ A sign language interpreter?

"No, it's… it wasn't her." I rolled my eyes. _Still here, guys, and only a couple of yards away._ "It's John." Pink eyes looked to me mournfully from behind the soft edges of a tissue and my expression softened. I couldn't stay angry with Dana for long. "We had a fight before all this happened, about a woman who took him for a drink," she explained, clearly emotionally anguished.

"But you _know_ John," Kate assured, rubbing her hand over Dana's upper back in large, wide circles. "He's not the cheating type."

"What if he's not the guy I think he is?" Dana fretted, coming to face a very important question that I think everyone comes to in their long-term relationships sooner or later. Hers was just brought on by a very atypical catalyst. She chewed on her bottom lip and whimpered, an odd, half-strangled noise from her throat. "What if he really did steal that stuff? I mean-"

"You heard McKenna, didn't you?" Katie interrupted, her voice soft and smooth and sweet, like honey or cold ice on a hot summer day, the perfected voice of someone who needed to be listened to, even if nothing she was saying made sense. She wasn't naturally charismatic or legality-savvy enough to talk someone into committing crime, like Neal, but damn, those children might have her under their grip, but they were around her finger just as much. "The evidence was _planted."_

My stomach twisted, but even I knew better than to correct Kate with the technicality that that hadn't been proven beyond reasonable doubt yet. So far, I was working on a hunch and some convenient blisters, and I had about as much to show for it. If Dana needed to hear it to talk, then…

"She needs to know who it was that took him for drinks." Kate coaxed encouragingly. "She may have had something to do with setting him up."

"No, no," Dana objected, but it wasn't clear exactly what she was protesting _to_ as she dabbed at her teary eyes with the partly-crumpled Kleenex. "She, uh, she was a reporter embedded with John's unit and she called about a month ago and said she wanted to do a follow-up story. Something like, uh, the life of a returning vet kind of thing."

Knowing what Neal and I had discovered on our trip out to the restaurant, Kate caught my eye in a little bit of alarm like she was making sure that I, her probie, was paying rapt attention to her well-practiced means of collecting information. "Wait, so they went for a beer?"

"Yeah." Dana chuckled, a hysterical mix of anger and sadness. "And I was mad at him for not telling me about it beforehand instead of after."

I shrugged. "Yeah," I said, but didn't see why it particularly mattered. He told her; that was the important thing. When it comes to a relationship, I don't think you can micromanage your partner's life. If you're both consenting adults, then you should have the right to make your own choices. Someone he knew, a friend, invited him for a drink. It wasn't Dana's decision whether or not he went, it was _his_. If he'd gone out of his way to keep it a secret, that would have been another matter.

But then again, what did I know? I was obviously terrible at understanding the woman's feelings.

"That night," she laughed, looking at Kate with watery eyes like she forgot I was there. _What am I, invisible?_ "John was more mad about his Yankee cap than he was about the fact that I had just accused him of cheating on me."

Well, had she gone and said it very bluntly like that? Because I'd have been majorly offended. _One drink with a friend who happens to be of the opposite sex does not an affair make._ "What happened to the Yankee cap?" I asked, clueless as to what relevance it really had but floundering to stay in the loop, even in a small way.

Dana paused. Even her crying subsided for a moment, her tears coming in waves the way grief did. "I don't know," she said thoughtfully, but then had to sniff and cover her nose with the tissue. "He left it at the bar, I guess. It never turned up."

 _…_ _A missing hat._

* * *

"That's not all," I heatedly paced in my office, ranting about my findings while Neal, the bastard, seemed comfy as a bat in a dark cave. Here I was, wearing a hole through the carpet and hardly able to look at him without remembering my mistakes and the way that the universe was conspiring against me to make my life as hard as possible, and he was just sitting there like it was no big deal, just a cut-and-dry case on a boring, average day. "He lost his hat that night, too, which explains the hair fibers they pulled DNA from."

"You let Kate ask questions about the investigation?" I faltered when Neal's eventual response was a curious, interested question about the way I'd gotten the facts, not the much more important facts themselves. I pursed my lips at him, rolled my shoulders back, and threw myself hard down into my chair. It bounced. I almost hit my knee on the desk. Neal looked me over intently and then started to grin. "Dana started crying again, didn't she?" He guessed knowingly.

"I don't know what happened!" I cried, throwing my hands up. I couldn't seem to lie to him, and any ability to lie to myself had been compromised. By him. It may take two to tango, but when it was a solo picture, I could still _lie,_ so that part was definitely on him. "I said a few facts and then the waterworks started, it was like I got caught in a hurricane or something." I folded my arms and leaned back with one leg crossed over the other thigh, pouting. Neal was still grinning at me like I was just too sweet for words. "I have no idea when they start," I grumpily complained. "I get, like, fifteen seconds' warning."

He chuckled, his voice a low rumble in his chest that – damn it, instead of making me laugh along, it made me look away from him and huff. If I started laughing, it would be a _nervous_ laugh, and I did not need any more anxiety, thanks.

"So, who's this other woman?" He asked between breaths, covering his mouth with his hand and trying not to find it so obviously amusing.

I answered, but nothing was going to stop me from pettily glaring. Snidely, my inner ego thought it was really funny that my discomfort was so hilarious to him when he'd been getting off with me not very long ago. Neal thought he could handle himself and looked up to my eyes again, saw me glaring, and giggled some more.

I was losing my touch.

Sighing, I went on. "Dana says the journalist's name was Alicia Teagan, segment producer, a reporter embedded within Mitchell's unit overseas. She invited Mitchell out for a beer, took the opportunity to lift his fingerprints, and lifted the hat when he wasn't looking for some more damning evidence." And she had done a good job of it, too – if it wasn't for Katie, this case probably wouldn't have been deemed even worth coming through my desk, so simple it seemed.

Neal moved his fist from in front of his mouth, his lips still in a little childish smile. "So we just have to connect her to Aimes and then prove one or both of them was connected to the gold," he summarized.

It was much easier to summarize than it was to actually do. As is usually the case, levels of difficulty between paper and practice vary. "The only commonality on paper between the two is that they went to Iraq at the same time." Along with many, many other people, which meant that there was no feasible way that would hold up. Not with prints that seemed to have been taken clean from Mitchell's hands… _clean hands…_ "If Aimes took the gold, he wouldn't have shipped it back himself. He'd have gotten someone else to do it, so that his hands stayed clean in case the shipment was intercepted."

Slowly, Neal nodded his head down. "Thinking practically," he suggested meaningfully, "Press credentials aren't a bad way to get by customs."

I breathed a short exhale of hot air into my palms and rubbed my hands together in front of my face. Now we were getting somewhere. Start with Alicia and she could take us to Aimes, and one – or both – would get us to the stolen antiques. When I looked up Alicia after Dana gave me the name, I'd also gotten the studio that she filmed her scenes at. It would either be a long walk or a slightly shorter taxi ride, but it was doable.

Picking myself up from my seat made Neal push his chair out, prepared to get up, too. I grabbed my jacket from over the back of my chair and slung it over my shoulders, pushing my arms in and shaking my head to get my ponytail out from underneath the collar trying to get to my throat. As a last thought, I picked up my bag from where it was stashed under the desk.

"Do you want me to go with you?" My consultant asked when I was halfway to the door, having just _assumed_ he'd be following me. Confused that he wasn't, I looked back at him with a cocked head and puzzled face.

Neal looked hopeful, but hadn't moved, _expecting_ to be told to do something here and let me go out alone. I'd talked to Aimes and Dana on my own, avoided him for a good part of the day, and had run out on him after we'd had _sex,_ for God's sake. I suppose my signals were pretty damn blaring.

I swallowed. It was irresponsible to stop Neal from upholding his end of his deal to consult with me just because I felt awkward around him. I'd have to learn to get over it; compartmentalize better. Going out alone once or twice was one thing, but when it was so frequent that it became surprising when I wanted his company, there was a problem.

I nodded out the door and softened my expression. I wasn't mad. Disappointed with myself, yes; my lack of control over my own thoughts was going to drive me insane. Disappointed with Neal? No, not really. He had given me more than ample opportunities to say "no" and I had never once felt like I couldn't tell him to stop at any time. It was my responsibility as the agent to have ended it before it began, and I hadn't. It was my responsibility as the person with the knowledge to tell him we had matching marks. I failed to do both of those. It's on me.

"Whoever's beds we end up in, you're still my consultant," I reminded him lowly, ducking my head as I said the words, almost embarrassed that I'd had to admit that, or even make the implication, in a public place, never mind that no one else was around to hear. "C'mon." Neal, relieved, brightened up by several degrees and jumped up with renewed thrill, bounding out in front of me and cheerily calling hello to someone he nearly ran into in the process.

 _Did I take custody of an adult or adopt a child?_ I thought, shaking my head fondly while I turned out the lights in my office – then promptly blushed as, again, my uncontrollable memories flooded over their dams and left me with no doubts that Neal was absolutely _not_ a child.

* * *

**The boy I gave my virginity to kept asking and asking and eventually he gave me an ultimatum. I kept saying no. He broke up with me. Pretty much asked what the point was if I wasn't going to put out.**

**He made me feel like I wasn't worth anything but the pleasure my body could give other people. To get back at him, I snuck one of Mom's debit cards and went to an adult store online. The charges will show up as they are, but she doesn't go through her own banking history. She has an accountant do that for her, and he's not gonna ask questions, not after the fight she and Dad had last time they met with the mathematician. My body is** **_mine,_ ** **for** **_my_ ** **pleasure, and at** **_my_ ** **leisure. I won't say he didn't hurt me, but he didn't bully me into compliance, either, and I'm proud of myself for that.**

**When the shipment came in, I took a picture of the label and sent it to him with the message, "I said to go fuck yourself, so I'm taking my own advice. Glad you're not here. XOXO" and didn't hear back from him until I got a photographic message of his soulmark. It's the polar opposite of mine. Small, grey and orange, like smoke on fire. It looked cool. It also rubbed me the wrong way. He said he knew I wasn't his mate and so he had no obligation to stay with me if I wasn't going to respect his "needs."**

**I blocked his number after pettily saying that it should be easy for his next girlfriend to meet his needs, since they were so small. Yeah. Not my proudest moment ethically, but I wouldn't undo it if I had the chance.**

**And that day was a double success for me, because I'd bought the quality toys. I went to sleep a little less angry and with the knowledge that sex isn't a bad thing, and that that bastard was just in need of a hard punch in the face. Or kick in the groin. Whichever.**

**I dunno what moral there is for you to take away from this, but, um, it was an important story to me, so I would imagine that you can get something from it, too.**

**Love (and love your body too),**

**Zarra L**


	8. Kiss Me Like the First Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> McKenna finally meets Mozzie and she gains some closure regarding her decisions and her newfound soulmate. Katie's friend is given back his freedom after a guilty reporter is flipped on her partner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Lucy Hale's "Kiss Me."

**_Chapter Eight – Kiss Me Like the First Time_ **

It would be a lie to say I'd never had to go meet people or hold appointments in media offices, but it had been a while and it wasn't very frequent. My last time had been almost a year ago, when I had been asked to comment on a particular crime involving a lot of bureaucratic tape that got in my way. It wasn't in this building, though, and I had certainly never had an interview with Alicia.

It was busy – not in the sense that a public place got busy, because there was a level of restricted access that my badge got us through – but there were a lot more people out in the lobby than I would have expected. Silver elevators, gleaming white tile floors, and a shining receptionist's desk were the first things that I saw, but then there was a lot of blonde hair and dark-colored clothes and the reflections of artificial overhead lights on slick cushion covers on the chairs and benches. After the elevator, which was towards the window at the side of the building, the wall turned at a right angle in the opposite direction and a pretty brunette with long, slim legs and tall, almost knee-length boots was sitting down at a bench, repeatedly checking her phone and killing time impatiently.

Maybe it was something to be ashamed of, but I saw the brown-haired girl and my first thought was _yay, a distraction for Neal._ I reached beside me to touch his arm for his attention. "I'm going to check us in," I informed, nodding towards the man sitting behind the desk who was riveted on his computer. "It might take a minute. Do you want to go sit down with the pretty girl?" I indicated the woman's bench.

He didn't even look over in the other direction, which was kind of irksome in that, like Ghovat, Neal was supposed to be easily taken by social settings and female company. He certainly seemed to enjoy Maria's… up until she shot at him, at least. Instead, he kept his hands behind his back and looked down at me sweetly. "The prettiest girl in the room is standing right next to me," he answered flatteringly.

 _You certainly thought so last night,_ I privately agreed, but shook my head at him and looked away before the smile drew me in. "Aw, Neal," I sighed dreamily and then warned in the same pleasant voice, "Don't push your luck."

Chuckling but shrugging like he had tried, Neal nodded and sped up to pass me. The artist made a beeline for the bench on the other side of the elevator. I turned to the front receptionist desk, but kept glancing at him every few seconds. In less than a minute, the unfairly charming conman was taking up a comfortable seat less than a foot away from her and had her laughing at something he'd said, wary tension in her face melting away.

I shook my head again. _Unbelievable._ Neal was a social little butterfly, alright. Which was worse for him – his anklet restricting his freedoms in where to go, or restricting his social circle? It certainly didn't deter him from catching up with Odysseus, but he had to have had more contacts than just the one, especially to travel abroad and evade much harsher authorities than America's FBI.

I looked to the secretary or security guard (his outfit didn't give away which) and forced a short, polite smile. "Hi," I greeted, trying to capture Neal's enthusiasm for meeting people. "I'm here to see Alicia Teagan." But also staying on track, which, if the talk about cameras a few yards away was anything to go by, Neal had a bit of a weakness regarding.

The secretary looked up to me and the dark-skinned man gave me a returning smile. It didn't meet his eyes and it was rushed, but it was hard to be offended when I wasn't exactly genuinely enchanted to meet him. I was here to do a job, not meet my Disney prince. "She's not in yet," he informed genially, looking back to his computer.

"Ah…" I fished out my badge, having put it away without thinking I might need it again. When I made noise, he respectfully looked back up to see what else I was going to say. He got a nice look at my credentials when I unfolded them over the side of the desk. "Agent Anderson. I'm from the FBI."

"Oh…" I saw that he realized that, too. He looked up with another halfhearted smile. "I'm sorry, miss. Would you like to wait upstairs?" He offered. Apparently having a badge superseded the clearance levels that the rest of the visitors had to wear in the forms of cards on lanyards. "She should be in any minute, I imagine it'll be more comfortable in her office."

 _For you and me both,_ I agreed, fully aware that an FBI agent might seem a little intimidating in some contexts – situations where news was reported being one of them, since everyone knows the media can be fickle and controversial. He'd probably like to get me away from the middle of the lobby, and I'd like to just get this inquisition over with, preferably before Neal got carried away with the second-nature flirting and got the brunette's number.

"Oh, that would be great, thank you," I said with a relieved smile. He indicated the elevators behind me. There was a plaque on the wall above the directional up and down arrows with the names and office numbers. Alicia's was only a couple of floors upwards.

I took a couple of steps to the left and looked around the side of the wall. Neal was still paying attention to his new friend and really didn't seem at all concerned about checking up on me. For all he knew, I could be making out with the receptionist. _I think I've done enough making out for this week,_ I thought wryly, decisively smacking the 'up' button with the heel of my hand. It was a very short wait until the elevator dinged and the doors slid open.

No one else was inside, so it was a very quiet matter of just stepping in the doors and turning to the panel. I pressed the corresponding button, and then, as an afterthought, the 'door close' command. While the steel doors slid together, I took out my phone. By the time I had drawn up my frequent contacts, there was a lurch of inertia under my feet and I was rising higher from the ground.

Neal answered pretty quickly. _I bet he told his new friend that I'm his boss, not his handler._ I was both. _"Hello?"_ He asked into the phone, voice sounding like he was smiling, clearly distracted enough not to have looked at the caller ID.

I smirked. "How's the pretty girl?" I teased.

I wished I could have seen his face. _"Where are you?"_ He started to question. I imagined him turning around in a full circle, finally noticing that I was no longer in the lobby. _"You left me in the lobby!"_ He accused when he caught on.

"You looked busy," I deadpanned. "Do you call all the girls you hit on models?" I liked to think that he was wincing guiltily, but then, he had nothing to be guilty about, did he? "The secretary says Alicia's on her way in. Watch how she reacts when the guard tells her there's a bureau agent waiting for her. Thanks," I added before he had the chance to get a single word in around me. "You're not the only one who can do the snooping thing."

During my last sentence, the elevator started to slide the doors open. I moved to the right to let another person on to my left while I hopped out on the right floor and looked around. _Oh-eight, oh-seven, there._ I fixed my eyes on the empty office, separated from the outside hallway by full-length glass walls.

 _"_ _No, wait,"_ Neal started protesting in a whine. Not giving him the chance to complain to me, I hung up the phone without needing to look and see what I was doing.

I felt strangely empowered after hanging up on him. It wasn't that I'd been a bitch, it was that I was investigating without my consultant – reminding myself that yes, I enjoyed his company, and yes, he was useful at least seventy-percent of the time, but I could still operate on my own, and he wasn't essential to my job. My work was still its own component, not reliant on him. My function with him being compromised didn't set off any alterations in my competence.

Alicia's door had been left unlocked, which was probably a security issue, but then, there was a guard pass-checking everyone who tried to get to the higher levels. I had to question the point of having a door when there weren't even blinds on the windows. What was the point of having walls if everyone could always see through them? The carpet on the entire floor, not just Alicia's office, was a light grey, almost uniform in color, and the quiet mumblings of fax machines and computer monitors made it seem alive in a very peaceful sort of way, like a therapist's office or a library.

 _I can do the snooping thing._ I could probably do it better than Neal, too – or at least better than he could manage without breaking a half dozen laws in the process. He had a knack for finding trouble. I was good at keeping myself out of it. _I was invited into the office, so everything in plain sight._

The convention of privacy in a public place like an office was moot when there was nothing to reinforce it, and I kept looking up to see the surroundings out through the walls. There were people, of course there were, but many of them were in other rooms with similarly-fashioned translucent divides, immersed in something else entirely, and no one matching Alicia's online pictures was anywhere that I could see. I wasn't exactly looking straight at the elevators, but I'd see her quickly when she got off, and probably before she saw me. So, without further hesitation regarding being nosy, I skipped over behind her desk and started looking at her things without touching.

She had papers out, but they were only transcripts; transcripts that I realized were uneventful and scripted after a recorded interview she'd had with someone, another veteran like John, going by the full title at the beginning of the first page. I blew a long sigh through pursed lips and it was just plain convenient that it _happened_ to shift the top page up out of alignment. The bottom was the same as the first – not in dialogue, but in idea.

I couldn't even see her computer screen without touching the keyboard or the mouse. She likely carried a laptop with her, but the desktop monitor had gone to sleep and had a screensaver of neon-colored pipes winding their way in lines and geometric angles around the screen in a three-dimensional aspect of abstract art, and I wouldn't be able to wake it up without touching. Once I had, there was still a good chance that it was password protected.

Looking over her office again, I cursed her tidiness and organization. It left very little out in the open that I could peruse. At first glance, it was a busy space with a lot of personality to it. Upon further inspection and a few minutes' experience inside, it was only a representation of Alicia if the woman was half-android. Very little was personal. There was a photograph of her in a foreign city, that looked like it was somewhere in southern Europe, but aside from colors that she obviously favored (black, metallic silver, pink) and her taste in office supplies, I couldn't tell much about her from her space. The décor was catered to be appealing to whoever else came in, potted plants with floor vases past my knees and ferns almost to my waist, chairs wide-backed and inviting, a shaggy black-and-white rug over top of the carpet underneath the chairs opposite her desk, held in place from sliding by the corners of her desk, which was half on and half off of the throw. All so that people would feel more secure sharing their secrets, no doubt.

Very frustrated and a little sour that I apparently _wasn't_ very good at snooping around legally, I crossed my arms and glared up at the wall.

And found myself glaring right at Neal, who was carting a cardboard drink carrier and delivering coffee cups to the other staff in the hall offices, suit jacket discarded and an ID card clipped to his white lapel. It was too far away to read, but I was willing to bet it wasn't his own identity on the card.

I whipped my phone out and used speed dial this time, staring right at him the entire time. Neal had his back to me as he leaned into another office, taking a man who had been on his phone by surprise. This employee, who shared a slight resemblance to Rob Lowe, was startled by the intrusion, but thought whatever story Neal told him was not only buyable, but humorous, too, and they were motioning to the coffee and discount-Rob Lowe was taking a drink, giving him a thumbs-up and an encouraging smack on the shoulder.

I knew his phone had to be vibrating like mad in his pocket, but Neal didn't even act like it existed. The phone call went to voicemail while he was still playing friendlily and I hissed into the receiver, _"I don't know what you're doing, but stop it immediately,"_ in such a quiet growl that it probably wasn't very loud on the recording, despite the microphone being right by my face.

I drew my shoulders up a little bit higher and glowered – then the bastard happened to turn in just the right way, making to leave Mr. Lowe over there's office, and he caught my eye and winked at me in the briefest second before he was back to not having any clue who I was or that I was even there, and it turned out to be good timing because then Alicia Teagan got off of the elevator, and I walked out from behind her desk and to a plant to seem like I'd been looking at it instead of her transcript. Because plants were obviously so riveting.

Alicia spared a glance to Lowe's cousin or whoever, who was indicating his coffee and then made a gesture like an explosion by his head. _That must be some coffee._ Alicia blew him off as sweetly as she could, her right shoulder falling under the pressure of her tote bag, and came into her own office to join me, swinging the door closed. Before she was even inside, she was taking off her bag and turning it to set it carefully on the floor by her desk, leaning the contents against the side. I saw a Macbook underneath a calendar.

"Agent Anderson?" She asked for clarification, reaching up behind her neck to push her hands under her hair and fluff it out, then shook her head a little and pulled her hands through the ends.

"Hey," I greeted, waving with one hand. "Alicia Teagan, I presume."

Alicia looked exactly like her segments on the news channel did. It wasn't just an on-screen makeup art, it was how she legitimately presented herself – gloss that made her lips shine, amethyst and burgundy-colored eyeshadow that made her dark brown eyes pop. Her skin was pale like mine, but where mine had a contrast with my hair and a smooth complexion, Alicia's hair was bright blonde and she was wearing a lot of foundation and powder. It didn't look like she hadn't had her cosmetics expertly done, just that there was a very clear difference between the kinds of makeup I use and the kinds she uses. Her hair was curled, parted pretty far to the side and the rest pulled over, sprayed in place and with the ends curled in large waves.

She might be as sociable as America's Sweetheart in front of a camera lens, but she was dismissive and uninterested to me. Maybe because she didn't want anything from me.

"I hope this won't take long," she said shortly, with actually very little regard for how considerate she sounded. "I'm on a deadline."

 _And you think your issues matter to me, why…?_ Instead of asking her what I thought was a grade-A question, I refrained, remembering that if Neal were here, he'd be playing the understanding and patient (coffee boy) one and I would be standing to the side uselessly, watching him flirt with Alicia and trying not to be jealous and wish I had his attention, like I had in Maria's office at the college. What a dumb comparison! Why be jealous for his attentions when now I'd had too much of them?

"I'll try to keep it fast." Spitefully, I intended to sound sarcastic, and I succeeded. Alicia picked her eyes up from her desktop monitor, which she had just jolted out of screensaver mode by knocking the mouse over its desk pad, and fixed me with a wary and weary stare. "Have a seat with me, please. I want to ask about the article you wrote on Captain Jonathan Mitchell."

"Mitchell…" she looked like she took a moment to remember, buying herself time by looking over her shoulder and slowly sinking down into her desk chair. "Of course."

"Can you tell me what your impression of him was?" I inquired more specifically. Much as I disliked the woman after less than a minute of interacting with her, I still couldn't entirely dismiss the possibility that John or Aimes had set her up themselves. Until I had reason to believe otherwise, Alicia was innocent. Rude, sure, but innocent.

Her jaw fell half-open and she picked her shoulders up, shaking her head slowly with a lack of response on the forefront of her mind. "He… seemed like a good soldier." Her offer sounded too much like the kind of thing you say about someone you never met.

I raised my eyebrows. Someone who took him out for drinks should have a bit more to say about him than that pitiful reply. "That's it?"

She took a deep breath. "To be honest, I… didn't really find him that memorable." It felt like a lie even as she said it, because if you didn't find someone memorable, you wouldn't specifically seek them out with the intention of using them as part of your broadcast on live television. It was stupid, and she hadn't thought it through.

"You found Captain Mitchell relatively unremarkable, yet you had a follow-up meeting with him for your journalism piece." I summarized sardonically. "Well, that makes sense."

Challenged, Alicia picked herself up from her seat and stood up to me, the desk space the largest obstacle between us. "I was doing a series of segments on returning vets and how they're readjusting to civilian life," she expanded on her own project and returned with a snide attempt at a smile that ended up looking more like she hoped I stepped on a tack. She could have at least tried to be more civil. I rolled my eyes to the side but stopped before I finished the thoughtless impulse, instead staring at Neal, who was standing at a photocopier mere feet away. Talking to me like I was dumb, she added, "Segments, Agent Anderson, don't necessarily have to be very long when compiled."

Alicia looked down and sought out her tote bag with her eyes. If she went to get it, then she was bound to see Neal, the stranger she didn't recognize, with something in his hands that he was trying to feed through the machine. Something told me it wasn't as innocent as a grocery list, so I distracted her by stumbling into my next question with lacking finesse.

"How did he seem? About returning home?" I clarified, putting a hand on my hip and telepathically commanding Neal to get the hell out, wishing that my message might, in some alternative universe, be received and, even more impressively, heeded.

Exasperated, Alicia shrugged again. She struck me as not just someone who was lying, but someone who really didn't care about the answers anyway. "He seemed fine to me. Just eager to get back home." Probably what most people expected to hear.

"You took him out for a beer," I prompted, keeping some focus to Neal's figure in my periphery, keeping Alicia talking until he finished whatever shenanigans he thought he had a loophole to get into now.

Alicia glared at me, deducing what I was getting at. "He was only one of several soldiers I offered a night out to," she staunchly defended herself against the implication. "I treated him to a friendly, well-known bar for just a conversation. He was fully aware of my intentions." She fixed on me like a razor and asked suspiciously, "What exactly are you investigating, Agent?"

 _No time like the present,_ I reminded, and announced, "Captain Mitchell was arrested yesterday for the theft of Iraqi antiquities."

So far, Alicia had been a little callous and a lot rude. Had she continued to be, then I would've written her off as a bitch, but one that didn't really know what was going on with John or the Iraqi treasure. Instead, she made the mistake of caring, looking in surprise at her computer and down-casting her eyes uncharacteristically. "I'm sorry to hear that."

Neal was still at the photocopier. Alicia got over her troubles with the ethical dilemma of someone she most certainly knew doing something she almost certainly knew about and started to swivel her chair. I had intended to prove myself a functional individual unit, but instead I caught myself playing cover-up to his antics.

"You're sure there's nothing else you can tell me about him?" I stole her gaze back stubbornly.

"Like I've told you," Alicia sighed long-sufferingly, as if I was the absolutely most tedious person she had ever had the displeasure of talking to. I could be entirely dynamic and interesting, thank her very little. "I'm on a deadline. If you're out of questions now…" She quite literally showed me the door. "… I would like to get back to work."

"Hold on," I said again, eyes flicking to Neal and then back again in a second. I started patting down the wrong pockets intentionally, making a show of searching for something. "I have it somewhere…" Obnoxiously rolling her eyes _(how is this woman a television personality)_ , she only indulged me because doing so promised that I would leave sooner.

_Neal, hurry up, there are only so many nonexistent pockets I can pat._

Maybe we were getting the hang of the telepathy thing, because Neal pulled out a slip of paper from the print-off rack to the left of the machine and took another out from underneath the scanner, turned them both over, held them side-by-side, and then swept out of there rapidly, knowing he was crunched for time.

I took that to mean he was done and I stopped awkwardly patting my body. "Ah!" I exclaimed, delighted, finally finding my 'misplaced' index cards in my back pocket. "My card, for when you think of anything else," I extended it to her.

The blonde took it and then just put it straight down on her desk. It was either going to be the desk or the trash. _"If_ I think of something else," she corrected me, looking across her table at me reproachfully.

I put up innocent eyes and pretended not to notice the intended guide of slip that had unfortunately been caught out. "Same difference," I told her straightly with complete solemnity. At least, it certainly was in her case, and that was the one that mattered.

* * *

"Pray tell, exactly what were you doing in there?" I may have been outwardly praying for him to tell me, but inwardly I was just praying that it wasn't something I'd have to lie to anyone about. "You had me off my game," I accused. Thinking back on it, my almost-slips and sudden, fumbling attempts at keeping her attention made me embarrassed. "I was awkward," I complained, looking down at my feet.

Neal shrugged. He didn't particularly care that I had been forced to improvise and hadn't done a very good job. "You told me to watch her reaction, so that's what I did," he said innocently.

"You broke and entered into someone's office," I corrected him. Maybe _he_ thought he was watching a reaction, in which case I would just have to spell out for him what he'd actually been doing, but I had a hard time believing that he didn't know exactly what line he had crossed.

Damn it, I was supposed to be a better actress than that. I'm supposed to be good at lying and faking and coming up with things to say on the spot, winging it as I went along. What was different? Distraction from what Neal was up to? The knowledge that it wasn't just Alicia who could spot him, and I couldn't occupy everyone? Or was it that I was still remembering with dread my hookup with my coworker? Even worse, was my mind so stressed from seeing the mark on his back that I couldn't work up to my usual standard?

"Phil let me in," Neal defended. Okay, so technically he hadn't _broken_ in, but that still left a lot to be desired, and who the hell was Phil, anyway? "And I only went into Alicia's file cabinets," he swore, which I had seen for myself.

"Who's Phil?" I queried first.

"The guy at the door," he said breezily. "Do you want to know what I found or not?"

Illegally obtained evidence posed a challenge. Did I want to know what he'd found, even while knowing that not only was it inadmissible in court, but I could never tell anyone on the job that I knew it? Was it a temptation that I could afford? … Well, responsibly, I wasn't even sure whatever it was was a temptation that _Neal_ could afford, and I can't protect him if I don't know what to keep him from doing.

"Okay, yes," I answered, conflicted.

Neal picked up a higher swing in his step as a response to my grudging involvement. "She was rattled when she heard FBI," he reported, clasping his hands behind his back. I looked up at him – sun shining through his thick hair made it look lighter than it was, made it seem like a lighter brown. I looked away before I was blinded and chose to tell myself I would be rendered sightless by the sun, not by Neal. "She went to the cabinets and locked something in a drawer."

"She locked it in," I said with a growing pit of dread and sighed. "Oh, no." From there, it was easy to put the picture together. Neal had the self-control of a child when he saw someone try to keep a secret – he wanted to prize it out of them, through sneaking around or through pressing the right buttons at the right times. He had done it to me when we'd met, testing my limits and finding what he did that made my temper flare.

"I didn't steal it, I just photocopied it," Neal assured, like that made it a whole lot better. It was still illegal. What about that did he not understand? I've explained the law to him a dozen times; I honestly do not know how to make it any clearer. "It's a pawnshop ticket, and I bet I know what she was pawning," he sang with satisfaction, producing a crinkled little bill, thin and printed with black ink, from the inside of his jacket.

I saw the name of the shop and the ticket number before my brain's message to look away made it all the way to my eyes. "On the record, neither of us saw this," I stated in no uncertain terms, staring forwards at the surprisingly lacking New York foot traffic.

"But I _did_ see this!" He objected with a pout.

"Nope," I flatly denied, refusing to acknowledge. It's like telling a prosecuting lawyer something that puts a hole in your story or doubt in your ethics. You don't do it. And when you do, you damn hope the lawyer had selective hearing. "No, no, no!"

Flipping a hand in the air carelessly, I waved and sped up to get across the next crosswalk before the light turned, not willing to get stuck at the intersection and have to argue about whether or not Neal had seen the inadmissible ticket or if it had all been in his head.

* * *

For the second time in only days, I tried to sneak into my own house. The light in the living room window was turned off and the house was dark, but shadows and colors from the TV were flickering through the slightly-opened curtains. The porch light turned on on its own when it detected the motion of me walking up the steps, but I hoped it hadn't bothered the other women if they were asleep. I felt horrible for the situation Dana was in, and although I wasn't comfortable being around to get caught up in waterworks (Dana had always been easily overwhelmed and cried when it happened, so I knew it wasn't by any means a stretch), I absolutely wanted her to have a stable environment to stay in while I tried to help her in the way I best could – freeing her husband.

I fit my key into the lock and twisted it slowly so the deadbolt wouldn't slide too fast and make a loud noise, then twisted the knob and pushed the door open slowly. A distorted rectangle of yellow fluorescent light from the porch came filling in the front hallway, bathing the tile and the wall in a glow. I pushed it back and twisted the knob again, pressing it all the way into the frame before I let go. The jam caught without having to click that way.

Now inside, I could hear the TV playing. I listened to a couple of sentences while I walked towards the kitchen to get food before going to Neal's. The scene playing made it pretty obvious that not only was it a soulmate-themed romantic drama, but one of the couple was in the armed forces. I'd have to be dumb to miss the parallels.

I put down my keys on the kitchen island with as little jingling as possible, but didn't plan on staying long enough to take off my shoes or coat. I moved to the oven and turned it on to preheat so that I could throw some shrimp in the oven, bake the pan for a dozen minutes, and eat quickly. While it was cooking, I could go shower up in my room in advance. Or put on headphones and watch my own TV. Something that didn't involve sitting in the dark and staring at the window, or closing my eyes and flashing back to the night before, or listening to a movie about soulmates that taught the classic lesson that your soulmate is your true love and you can't be happy without them. The audio quality sounded like it was filmed between forty and fifty years ago, probably a black-and-white. Back then, most romantic movies were tailored to young adult females and gave them a lot of ideals that appealed to the young men – women should wait for their soulmate to marry, let alone lose their virginity, women should leave their futures open until they knew what their soulmate had planned, women should do this, do that.

It was only fairly recently that soulmates had become a topic that could be taken with choice and not be overly stigmatized for it. There was never the complete expectation that the relationship between mates be sexual, or even romantic; too many couples didn't feel those inclinations for the notion to develop. However, there was the association between the level of devotion and the worth of a person. As LGBTQIA+ communities became more accepted, so did the variation between traditional relationships and modern ones with soulmates. Some could barely talk, but still be content with their lifestyle, just knowing they had someone who they could call if they needed support. Others were practically attached at the hip like Siamese twins.

And then there were others, I supposed, that were like Neal and I – sleeping together without being in love, maybe or maybe not wanting more but having no intentions of reaching for it. _Neal would._ But the problem was that I knew Neal would because I knew how he felt about soulmates. Neal Caffrey was… well, he was infuriating, for one.

He did illegal things all the time. He lied as easily as he breathed. He was so opposed to violence that he didn't even remember that guns are usually loaded when they're being carried by killers. He only did as I said a third of the time, another third he ignored me completely, and in the other third, he twisted words and told half-truths or found loopholes. He kept secrets and made no vows about being on the straight-and-narrow because we both knew that he wasn't. He was smug and had an ego where his "talents" were concerned, and got snarky when he felt like they were being belittled. He pushed for class and sophistication, wanted Paris and hundred-dollar champagne, turned his nose up at Walmart or Sears brands and fast food joints. By all counts, I shouldn't want him in my life any longer than necessary.

Except there was the admiration he clearly held for me, the confidence he held in my abilities in my job which I wondered if sometimes surpassed even my colleagues'. He held me in high esteem not to turn in him or his friend when they did things they knew they shouldn't. He trusted me and he showed it, more and more, and he never outright lied to _me._ He treated my sister like a friend and they got along like they'd known each other for years. He adapted to being under my control with charm and acceptance, if he was a bit witty and tongue-in-cheek, which I liked because it meant he still had the spark in him. He was brilliant, artistic, impressive, and he had more ingenuity than anyone I'd ever met. His real smiles lit up a room and I wanted to kiss the sexy little smirks off of his face. He was sweet when he wanted to be, he liked dogs, and he had more compassion than I could have guessed.

It totally didn't hurt that he was _awesome_ in bed, or his eyes so brilliantly blue, his hair so soft and his face so sharp and handsome. His mystery and danger was thrilling and the earnestness and passion was too precious.

Neal Caffrey was the kind of man I could see myself falling for, hard and fast, and that scared me more than it excited me. I had been prepared for a lot of things to go wrong when I made this deal, but the last thing I had considered was that I might have to safeguard my heart before I tripped head-over-heels. I wasn't prepared to stop myself from that, yet I'd already managed to fall into bed with him. I didn't know how many times I could do that before I gave in in other ways.

But, in all of these reasons, his soulmark didn't come up a single time. The mark on his back was completely irrelevant to the way I felt about him, the feelings I held. If the day came where I could honestly say that I loved him, it would have nothing to do with that we were "supposed" to be together, or that I was obligated to feel it. I knew that for sure because I already seemed halfway there, and I'd only just found out myself. Not only that, but I didn't really care who had whose soulmark – what mattered to me was how I cared for them, not a colored tattoo on their skin.

Neal was the opposite. He loved the idea of soulmates. He wanted his mate, he told me as much multiple times. The only way I can be content with him is knowing that he wants me, McKenna Anderson, for who I am, not for something I've covered up and hidden away on my wrist. We're already in a precarious place. I absolutely _can't_ let him know that I'm the woman he's been wanting to find. I don't feel certain I can trust what he says half of the time anyway – how the hell can I be sure when the fifty percent of the time I'm trusting him, he's not feeling something out of fantasy or idea?

"I did not give my life permission to get this complicated," I murmured when I realized I'd been standing over the stove for close to three minutes, staring down at the inside of my right wrist where I knew for a fact there was a mark proclaiming I absolutely had the right to fall in love with Neal and trust that he loved me, too, but that was jumping the gun both rationally and emotionally.

The light flicked on when the switch was flipped and I squeezed my eyes shut tight against the brightness. I felt a little like a vampire. "McKenna?" Kate asked quietly, yet her voice didn't have the heaviness of sleep.

I turned around, leaning against the counter by the oven and plastering a small smile on my face. Keeping this a secret from Neal was going to either keep me sane or kill me inside – keep me sane because I'd know he wasn't being influenced by ideals, and kill me because I knew I was keeping something he really wanted from him, in large to protect myself. Maybe that was selfish. Kate already expressed her disapproval. I didn't need to give her another reason.

"How is she?" I asked empathetically about Dana instead of spilling my guts to her about how I thought Neal was nowhere near perfect but he may be who I want, if I gave myself the time to find out.

"Better than she was earlier, now that she's not sobbing." Kate rubbed at a spot low on her shoulder, along the line of the seam on the sleeve of her – dress? No, it was a nightdress, light purple with blue flares at the bottom that went well past her knees and kept a higher neckline. It looked pretty soft and satiny. "Do you mind if I go back and finish the movie with her?"

"No, of course not," I assured her. I was a little bit aggravated at the situation I was in, and I wanted a place to be where I wouldn't be confronted with it. Kate was usually that place, but now the problem was following me around on my wrist. Ripping my skin off seemed a little extreme, so I'd just have to… handle this in an unusual way. "I'm just here to eat and get an overnight bag."

"What?" She blinked her eyes a few more times and looked a little worried. "Where are you going?"

I didn't want her to think that having her friend over had pushed me out of the house, so I phrased it more like it had been a mutual agreement rather than something Neal had offered persistently. "I'm having a sleepover at June's."

"You're kidding, right?!" She looked so disappointed in me that, if it wasn't for her looking _disappointed,_ I would have laughed. "I'm not buying you another bookshelf so soon after you learned that lesson." I rolled my eyes and made a mental note to transfer some money to Kate's checking account to pay her back for that. She perked up immediately, standing up straighter and more hopefully. "Unless – are you going to tell him?"

Exactly what it was she wanted me to tell wasn't even a question. "Ha. No. No way." I held my hand out and swiped a flat line. There was no chance that was going to happen. Kate deflated. "The plan is to play Monopoly, but either way, it was the morning that sucked." I was questioning it, but then decided to go for it, and even wiggled my eyebrows for an extra effect. "The night, however, was _very_ good."

"Oh, no!" Kate exclaimed, looking horrified. She clapped her hands over her ears. "This is so much information I don't want to be wise to," she whined, shutting her eyes tight and turning away to practically run back into the living room with Dana, leaving me laughing in the kitchen.

* * *

Thanks to experience traveling, I have a duffel always packed and ready to go, with a pair of pajama shorts and a camisole, a pantsuit, and a civilian outfit, including toiletries, spare chargers, and books. It's a really nice bag with wheels on the bottom but that's small enough to pick up and carry like a duffel, light purple with silver swirls covering the fabric that I bought in Asia.

It was weird going to Neal's house with the intention of staying over, especially considering I knew what had happened the last time, and although I was getting back to the swing of things, I still wasn't sure how good of an idea it was. I could look at him without seeing him stretched out in bed, face peaceful as he slept, yet I still remembered the emotions I'd felt all night long… but, as Neal had said, no one could prove it, and we were both consenting adults. The only person who knew was Kate, and as long as we were okay, so was she. Staying at Neal's meant being in a familiar environment and away from Dana and my sister while the two of them acted all emotional and touchy-feely. I can only handle so much of that at once. Right now, all of my patience for the touchy _and_ the feely had gone to Neal.

I waited outside the door after knocking, looking down in a little bit of embarrassment. I just felt like a kid at a sleepover again. There was really no call to be self-conscious, considering I'd been invited. I pulled at the strap of my duffel where it was rubbing its weight over my shoulder and was readjusting it to rest against my side when the door was pulled open from the inside.

"Hey, Mo-" I looked at Neal, asking him to finish what he'd been saying as he answered the door. He'd cut himself off midsentence when he saw me. Although outwardly alerted, internally I was thanking whatever had made this happen. Instead of feeling unsure, I now just put on my 'are you sure about that?' face as he tried to cover it up as smoothly as possible. "My sweetheart," he amended, stepping aside from the door.

"Is this a slumber party?" I questioned humorously. It was almost for sure that he'd been starting to say someone else's name, although I had no idea who he knew with a name that started with the syllable 'Mo.' I definitely heard him calling me 'sweetheart' again but, like before, I didn't know how I wanted to handle it, so I just didn't address it.

He shook his head to deny it. "Not at all." I looked straight to the sliding doors across the room to see his reflection. Neal looked down the hallway as if checking for something before he pushed the door shut. I pretended not to see, dropping my eyes from the doors when he turned to me and approached, sliding his hand around the straps over my shoulder. "Here, let me-"

"I can carry it myself," I assured him, gripping it a little bit tighter, and forcing a little laugh. "It's not like I don't know the place pretty well."

Sufficiently distracted – or, at the very least, moved off of the subject – Neal wolfishly smiled. "Oh, believe me, I remember." I knew he had to, because I did with such a startling clarity. It had happened in a lapse of judgment like I'd been drunk, yet there were few things I could think back to with such clarity. I remembered the sounds we'd made and the comfort of wrapping soft but lightweight sheets over my shoulders.

 _I'm way too sober to stay here overnight,_ I decided miserably. I'd really thought I was okay for this, but now I knew I wasn't. Maybe it was one of those things where I had to push myself through some awkwardness in order to get back to the ease that had led to convincing myself it was totally epic to fall into bed with my friend and coworker. It was probable that if I immersed myself in a platonic situation, the less-than-appropriate memories would fade, take less precedence.

"We had a breakthrough last time we had a drink," I said to justify my own desire for getting a little loose-lipped and giggle happy. Selectively, I chose to neglect to recall that I'd been the only one drinking the alcohol at lunch. "If we get drunk tonight, maybe we'll solve the entire damn case."

* * *

"Dana's still at the house?" Neal checked, turning around and carrying a bottle of some wine label to the marble island.

"Uh-huh." I had my elbows up on the table, alternating between staring at his back as he collected wine glasses and staring at the tabletop in front of me. "And watching sappy chick flicks." He pressed the side of the loosened cork with his thumb and it popped off, bouncing down onto the counter.

He put down a glass in front of me and then one closer to his side of the island. I leaned back so that he could pour liquid amber into my glass, grabbing onto a piece of my hair and wrapping it around the index finger of my right hand. "You mean you don't want to watch with them?" Neal asked teasingly with a grin, topping off the glass almost to the brim before moving to fill up his own.

I glared at him, and then considered psyching up my gag reflex. Accurate as it would be, I decided I could live without the gagging and coughing making my night even worse. "I think I'd rather be shot," I said gravely. Having actually been shot at, I knew that, given the choice, a sappy movie would hurt a lot less, but I would _definitely_ take a punch in the face happier than I would a few hours of soulmate-romance genres. Neal laughed delightedly and raised his glass. Indulging him, I picked up mine by the neck.

He tilted his glass to the side ever-so-slightly, drink sliding over the curving edge. I knocked mine against his with a loud _chink_ that echoed in my ears. "Here's to freeing Captain Mitchell," the artist toasted, while I stared at the wine in his glass for a second, wishing that we'd been doing this last time I was here, too – at least then I would have something to blame this nightmare on.

"So I can go home," I added, because yeah, I don't want an innocent man in prison, but I'd also like to keep whatever peace of mind can still be retained after spending another night here. With my history, I'd probably be sleeping in his bed in a couple of hours and I'd wake up panicking because I majorly fucked up again.

The look he gave me was a little smoky, a little dangerous, and I innocently raised my glass to my lips. _Goodbye sobriety. Can't have you and that smirk in the same vicinity; you don't compute._ Neal's favored wine didn't usually have that much of a burn when it went down – not compared to stronger liquors that I enjoyed – but it was still something distracting, and I sipped at it without pause for the duration of time that he was making eye contact with me, intentionally trying to sear himself into my brain. "My motivations are more so that I can give you a drink… and have you think about something other than work."

 _I… have no idea what I'm feeling right now, but it's not good for being alone with this jerk._ My insides decided to do something they were not equipped to do and mentally I had no idea how to define it. My saving grace came in the form of a knock against the door to the penthouse suite, which forced Neal to look away from me. Like he _hadn't_ just been staring into my soul, he pushed himself away from the island counter.

"I'll get it," he said. I thought it came out kind of quickly, but I was busy looking in the opposite direction and scolding myself internally. It wasn't the first time he'd done the flirting thing with me. I knew it wasn't. So exactly what had changed? Was he trying harder? Was it different because of the setting? Was it because of the sex? Damn it. Sex fucks everything up. Pun _absolutely_ intended. "It's probably June with that Monopoly board." The lock clicked as it was twisted undone and the door was pulled open.

"It was just a photocopy of a pawn ticket, but I got this coin out of it…" The voice at the door was welcome because it kicked any of my other thoughts right out of my head, shoving their luggage out after them. It was familiar, but I had no name to go with the face other than that of a mythological figure. Very slowly, I lowered my glass down to the marble table and stared straight ahead of me. It made more sense now why Neal stole a photocopy ticket. I couldn't go investigate it because it was illegally obtained, and he couldn't because of his radius. A third party, however, could do an information relay to Neal, and Neal could somehow convince me to check it out. It wasn't the first time this had happened. "… What?"

"Sorry, Mr. Haversham," Neal tetchily answered, deliberately loud to make sure that I would hear. "June isn't here at the moment."

A smirk grew on my face. If he thought Odysseus was going to just walk smoothly on out of here, no questions asked, then he had another thing coming, even if just because I couldn't let them think that that very poorly-executed cover-up would work on me. I'm not anywhere near stupid enough to be tricked.

"Oh, well, uh…" the short man floundered at the door. "Too bad. Uh, tell her I look forward to our next round of drinks, and… Parcheesi!"

"Yep, I will."

"Hold on a minute," I announced, halting them where they were at the open doorway. Swinging myself around on the bar-like stool, I slid off the edge and leisurely walked across the carpet, holding myself up confidently with my hands on my hips. I wanted to play the part of an intimidating – but not threatening – cop, just to see how antsy Odysseus was in person. After being a snarky little pest over the phone and through my passcode-protected iPod, I was curious if he was still as anxious in person as he'd been the first time we met. I offered Neal a smile and he shuffled out of the way, hanging his head, knowing he was caught.

"I'm sorry." He had to be in his late forties, but still seemed very energetic and fidgety. "Apparently I'm interrupting something!" He looked between Neal and I several times, increasingly nervous. I almost laughed, but – and call me a sadist – I was enjoying watching him squirm.

 _"_ _Yeah,"_ Neal hissed emphatically.

"Who're you?" I asked with a knowing little smirk that would probably bug the hell out of him if he wasn't too busy trying to think of an exit strategy. I just hoped he realized I wasn't going to shoot him if he ran – he looked like someone who should be on anxiety medication, by the fidgeting around, darting path of his eyes, and the fast tapping of his fingers on his pants. He kept his glasses pushed up on his nose but they kept sliding down, needing to be readjusted.

"I'm the neighbor," he proclaimed. "Don." That came naturally enough, but when I just blinked at him, he started to practically _sweat_ guilt. "Tay," he blurted out. "… Haversham. Dante Haversham?"

I decided to let that one slide. I could have more fun yet. "And you're dating June, then?" I politely made small talk, expecting Neal to intervene on his friend's behalf at any moment. Even if he recognized when I was just being a particularly mean cat emotionally traumatizing the mouse, he didn't seem like the kind of person to just leave the mouse hanging.

Of course I caught it when his eyes flicked over my shoulder at Neal, pleading for help. "Uh, courting," he corrected me, insistent on the old-fashioned term. "Courting. What can I say," he laughed, akin to the same unhappy and frightful laughter I made when I let Kate do my makeup for me. "She likes a little, uh, cream in her coffee!"

There was no way that didn't come out horribly wrong, and he looked exponentially more terrified after he'd said it. I just slowly nodded, acting as if that was more information than I had wanted to hear. No pretending was necessary. "Uh-huh. So where'd you take her for the first date?"

"Somewhere splendid," he said with a wide fake smile. I nodded encouragingly for him to continue and he faltered. "I, uh, took her to – um, you know, that place by the theater, and we watched a movie."

"You went to a place _by_ a theater, or you went _to_ a theater?"

"Both?" Again, he looked at Neal for help. If I were Neal, I'd have been suffering some pretty strong secondhand embarrassment right about now. This wasn't what I expected from a professional conman – no, this was just sad. "Both," he verified with a single nod. "We went to both."

I grinned and held my tongue between my teeth while I tried not to laugh, and I turned to look over my shoulder at Neal. "Do you really want to keep this up?" I beseeched, offering him a quick way out and holding out a hand towards the worst liar I'd ever seen.

"No, you're right," the better conman hastily agreed, touching my shoulder and giving me a nudge to move out of the way and give his friend some breathing room. "I definitely don't."

Looking back at the man who seemed ready to go into shock, I rolled my eyes and took two full steps away, sweeping with my arm to indicate the penthouse. "I was impressed by your improv last time, but now I think it was a fluke," I remarked. If anything was going to get under a professional liar's skin, it would be that. "C'mon in, Odysseus. Have a drink." More than I wanted to figure out his name, which was probably going to be an uphill battle, I wanted to know what he'd found. I had the sense that Neal would've come to me with it sooner rather than later, even if he would've obscured the actual source.

He looked behind me again. I whipped around just in time to see Neal finish drawing his hand over his throat in signal and I glowered at him while Odysseus tried to excuse himself. "Oh, no, I don't drink."

"You smoke, but you don't drink?" I deadpanned. Those seemed like odd standards to live by; trash your lungs, but God forbid you introduce yourself to a little alcohol. Medical conditions aside, he may want to take a long look at his priorities. Over my shoulder I pointed at Neal, shortly indicating that he not dare to start giving cues behind my back again.

Without a guide to fall back on, the skittish little guy looked back to me but avoided looking at my eyes. "Gin's good," he meekly acquiesced.

I let him get all the way inside the penthouse and made sure Neal had firmly closed the door before I quipped with a smirk, "I thought you'd be taller." I hadn't, not really, because I had seen him before and knew to expect the small stature, but in my experience, commenting on anyone's lacking height usually annoys them a little.

Without even pausing, Odysseus disappointedly replied, "Me, too."

I blinked and then laughed.

* * *

About twenty minutes later and a couple of drinks in, Odysseus and I were making friends through conversation that seemed to, by no intention of mine, exclude Neal as a third party. He told me to call him Mozzie, assured me that that was by no means his real name, and I rolled my eyes and tipped off my glass. At least I wasn't calling him a Greek literary figure anymore.

A well-placed remark about Kate Moreau made by me told him that I wasn't completely anti-find Kate, and he started to open up about the Bordeaux wine – which, it turned out, had a lot more to it than Neal had told me. I snuck a scolding look at him before I went back to being completely immersed in Mozzie's explanation, the man just buzzed enough to miss the looks of disapproval that his friend was giving him.

The wine bottle really was just a wine bottle. There was no message that had ever been inside and there had never been any real vintage wine in it, either. Neal had spent weeks doing everything he could think of, obsessed with the bottle having some hint to it, and all because of the video that I'd given him after solving the Ghovat case – the video of Kate's last visit to him in the prison. I hadn't watched it all the way through, and I had been paying more attention to Neal than to Kate, because he was the fugitive I'd been studying. Kate had tapped a subtle Morse code message spelling out "bottle" against her leg, and giving Neal the tape had let him decode that and become absolutely fixated on finding what she meant.

Mozzie had tried a couple of times to talk him out of it, but it hadn't been any good. Neal had used his "friends" underground (some actually, literally underground) to do various composition tests on the materials before, by coincidence, Neal happened to see the label with a light shining through the bottle and saw inked lines from the other side. The two had taken care to strip the paper label from around the wine bottle, laid it out on the table, and found that it was a map with an _X_ on one of the lines. They'd been collecting maps from every location they could think of, starting with everywhere that was significant to Neal and Kate – the district of New York where Kate used to live, the Cote D'Azur in France, the neighborhood where they'd met – and still didn't have any maps that seemed to match up.

It was a lie to say that I wasn't a little bit bitter that Neal had chosen to leave me out of the loop on this, and he still looked more disgruntled than relieved that it was out in the open between us, but I had to reluctantly admit that I understood his decision to do so. The last time he had come to me about a lead on his sister, I had shut him down, telling him to let her go, at least until his own freedom wasn't in jeopardy. My trust in him and his motivations had changed since then, but I hadn't bothered to actually tell him that, instead taking it for granted that he knew. Experimenting with a bottle and maps wasn't violating his deal and it wasn't punishable by law, so he wasn't technically doing anything _wrong._ How was he supposed to know that I was no longer going to take looking for his sister from the safety of his radius as a threat to the terms of his deal?

Mozzie was a new character and he wasn't exactly someone I thought I would have approved of in different circumstances. A lot of the reason I was hesitantly deciding that I liked him was _because_ he had seen Neal getting wrapped up in the bottle mystery and had suggested that he lay off. Regardless of that Neal didn't listen, evidently Mozzie had a less subjective perspective and would probably advise Neal against stupid, knee-jerk decisions.

"So _that's_ what all the maps were for," I said thoughtfully. I sounded as contemplative as I could with a rising blood-alcohol level that was somewhere between point zero two and point zero three. The voice in my head that told me to take things seriously was getting progressively quieter. "Well, it makes more sense than just leaving an empty bottle," I giggled. At least a message made it special. If she wanted to be sentimental then why leave something that made Neal sad?

"The least she could do is leave a full one!" Mozzie agreed, laughing loudly, and I covered my mouth, trying not to find it quite so funny, especially while Neal was to my right, sitting at the short side of the table while Mozzie and I were across from each other, looking offended, exasperated, irritated, and disappointed.

"Guys, I'm… I'm right here," he spoke up dejectedly, glaring at Mozzie before he made the sad, apologetic eyes at me. Was it the wine that wanted to kiss him to say sorry?

I stopped giggling because he just looked so sorrowful. It wasn't funny that he seemed so upset. He hadn't done anything in the last twenty-four hours to deserve the hurt look on his face. "I'm done," I promised guiltily. Leaning over the table, I stretched to the right to reach him and grabbed loosely onto one of his arms, crossed on the table, and held on reassuringly. I meant to be reassuring but it probably seemed clingy, since I was leaning so far that I almost fell over. "We're just bonding. If I'm pretending he doesn't exist, I think a rapport is important to have."

 _Rapport._ Attention stolen, I looked down at the table, confused. _What a weird word._ I repeated it in my head. _It's spelled with a "T" but the "T" isn't pronounced. What's the point of having the "T" in the spelling? It's not differentiative (is that a word?) – differential, because there's not a word spelled "rappor" either…_

Suspiciously, I mouthed the word "rapport" a couple of times, scowling at the wood just because it was there and it was easy to scowl at.

Low chuckling made me look up at Neal, whose expression had gone from wounded to amused, and he uncrossed his arms. He let me keep my gentle hold on his left wrist while he used his right hand to pet the top of my head affectionately.

"I'm cutting you off," he informed, taking the half-full, green-tinted bottle from the middle of the table and dragging it towards him, out of Mozzie's and my reach. "I don't think you want to be hungover tomorrow morning."

"She's right. It's harder to trust people you don't laugh and drink with," Mozzie agreed, not seeming to notice that the source of his ease had been stolen away. I looked after it indifferently and shrugged, staying to the side and pulling Neal's hand up to my face, resting my cheek against his knuckles and looking back at his con-friend with a pleased smile. I liked being right. He realized what he'd said and frowned warningly at me, waving his hand imperiously. "Not that I'm liking you, Suit, you're just…" he seemed wordless for a minute. "… Moderately better than other suits," he sniffed.

"Oh, of course," I sarcastically answered with a giggle. "I wouldn't want to be getting ahead of myself." I nuzzled against Neal's hand and then let go of him, pushing on the table to sit straight in my chair, utilizing the back of it so I wasn't balancing on my own. I was very nicely tipsy, but not quite drunk. "Suits and criminals aren't supposed to mix," I agreed wisely, nodding as if I'd said something profound.

"No," Mozzie wholeheartedly reasserted. "We're supposed to _ionize_ out in the real world. This room is, uh, this is fictional."

Neal covered his face with his hands and muttered something that sounded strangely like "Jesus Christ, not _both_ of you."

"Good thing this isn't the real world," I said with a sigh, looking mournfully through the glass door to the rooftop balcony. If this was the real world, then I would have to turn in Mozzie to Diana or Derek or someone who could think without a haze, Neal would take my car keys and drive me home, and Katie would escort me to my bedroom with a bottle of water. If it were the real world, my judgment wouldn't have been compromised to the point that I encouraged Neal to carry me to his bed. "I mean, it doesn't feel real. It doesn't even _look_ real. That view's incredible." I motioned with a slightly less-graceful-than-usual hand to the window. Mozzie pushed his chair back and looked out at what I was indicating.

Lights and skyscrapers covered the skyline, and there were billboards and advertisements for cosmetics and lawyers and musicians' new albums and a new performance coming to Broadway the next weekend, signs on electronic displays bragging about the new admittance discount for military families at the children's museum, and another celebrating a new exhibit at the Museum of Modern Art.

A lot of it was familiar – I'd lived in New York for a long time now and I truly did enjoy the city, I had always loved big cities – but more of it was familiar on a long-term level, where I had seen something like this out of a hotel room when I was seven or eight and didn't want to listen to my babysitter or bodyguard or whatever I was supposed to call them. I wanted my parents to come back and pay attention to me and I wanted to go home. I liked being here now because I got the choice. I had free reign.

Except it wasn't completely free reign, was it? By all rules, I shouldn't have been sitting here and being friendly with a pair of criminals. If I'd had free reign, it wouldn't _matter_ that I had slept with Neal and I would be welcome to do it again. In one way or another I was always going to be constrained, whether by the convention of soulmates or the legalities of being a federal agent or by being the daughter who had looked out the windows of hotel rooms, longing for a complete freedom that I still didn't have.

_What wouldn't I do for that…_

Hurt Katie, hurt Neal, hurt Derek or Diana or go against my own values. I was held back by compassion and empathy and my morals that held me to the standards of most of the legal system. What a pain. How could people get where they were – rich, in luxury, bathing in cash or champagne – without caring about who they hurt in the process?

"Is that why you do it?" I asked either of them and neither of them at the same time. They were there, they could answer, but I almost didn't want to know what I was missing by being the way I was. "For views like this, and for sanctuary from the real world?"

The touchy, giggly, and gleeful buzz was fading by my turn of thoughts, becoming less of a relaxation. It was a melancholic cloud settling over my brain and not wanting to let me break free, like a cloud that would follow me around, even if I left the fantasy of the penthouse and returned to the plain, boring, _entrapping_ rooms of my office in the FBI headquarters.

Mozzie sighed loudly like I was missing the point. Maybe I was. Maybe it didn't have anything to do with the freedoms. Maybe it didn't have anything to do with living on top of the world in riches and in penthouses in the middle of Manhattan, with en suite bathrooms and private pools on the roof and imported Italian roast coffee. Moz put the glass down on the table unsteadily and the liquid inside swished, almost knocking itself over the rim.

"It's not _about_ the stuff," Mozzie complained, having his own perspective, and I was falling far short of expectations.

"Moz," Neal started to intervene, looking more and more uncomfortable as I settled into my depressed and unsatisfied mood and Mozzie grew a little more agitated by my lack of immediate comprehension of a culture I didn't belong to.

Mozzie didn't heed Neal. Maybe he hadn't even heard him. "It's about _doing_ what we _want_ to _do,"_ the short one declared, slapping the side of his fist on the table. "Who _cares_ about nine-to-fives and four-oh-one K's?" _I care,_ I reeled back a little and stared at him, insulted. I _cared_ because those were _important._ You need time to work to earn money and you need money to survive in this world. Material items are material but they're what makes the economy. "Playing by the rules only makes borders that just take away everything that's good about living life."

 _That's overly hedonistic,_ I balked, but didn't say it out loud. I called myself a hedonist when I slept late on my days off and when I went through half a dozen packages of ramen in one day, when I binge watched television on a night that I couldn't sleep. Everything that's good about living life is _freedom,_ the pride and honor of having _integrity,_ the security of having your _family._ None of which you get to have as a career criminal.

Neal had his eyes fixed on Mozzie and he interrupted before his friend could continue on the vein that he clearly didn't want explored. " _Moz,"_ he said his name meaningfully, reached over the table with the hand I wasn't holding onto, and covered Mozzie's hand with his own to remind him with pity, "You live in a storage unit." Which made me snort into my hand because of course he wasn't going to wax about how crooked behavior got you prized creature comforts when it wasn't working out for him.

Mozzie took it in stride, didn't hesitate even for a second. "Yeah, but I live there, man! I _live!_ " Mozzie didn't seem embarrassed or even a little bit bothered about having his living arrangements outed in front of me. In fact, he held his head high as he turned back to me and went on to say proudly, "As long as I don't have to live on anyone else's time or dime, I'm a free man! I can do whatever I want."

I had some more unanswered questions about his ethics and how, exactly, owning his own actual house or even renting an apartment would force him to depend on someone else's resources, but my only really eloquent question regarded whether or not the person who owned the storage unit knew he resided there.

"Like going to the pawn shop and getting a rustic coin from Iraq?" I blurted, right after telling myself to keep my mouth shut. I tried to grin knowingly but probably just looked silly and halfway to drunk. "Let's see it," I commanded right after it sank in that I had brought work back into the discussion. It wasn't a command as much as it was another giggle, excited and enthusiastic. The forbidden treat of illegally-obtained evidence was like shooting up with adrenaline, and I let go of Neal in order to vent that thrill by clapping my hands like a kid.

Looking fondly at me and my easy-excitability, Neal looked across me to Mozzie and motioned towards me as if saying _go on, indulge her, she's mostly harmless and it's kinda cute when she gets this eager._

Mozzie was no longer sober and/or cynical enough to be too worried about showing off the proof that he had underhandedly wormed his way into confidential federal information, and he shuffled on the seat, almost slipped off, caught himself on the table, and took another drink of wine, all before he produced a gold-colored coin with chips and imperfections along the edge.

I took it from him and held it up in front of my eyes, squinting and momentarily wishing I had my glasses before remembering that _I don't wear glasses._ I looked at it normally again and my vision fixed itself. The front looked like a man in a kilt and headdress toting some things… maybe a spear in one hand and either an ax or a chisel in the other, but they were faded and rusted and it was hard to tell for certain. It was undoubtedly ancient.

"Islamic dinar from the Abbasid dynasty." Mozzie pleasantly specified, having already done his research on it. "Last seen in the museum in Mosul."

I turned it over. The back was much more scratched, but it looked like written characters along the outer edge and then centered in the middle. I couldn't have read it even if I was stone-cold sober.

"I shouldn't even know about this," I said, admiring what looked like a trinket, but what had to be worth at _least_ thousands of dollars for its antiquity and historic content. It was always cool to hold old things, artifacts of a society that had long since either been killed out or that had evolved into a more modern era.

Neal smiled, his eyes bright from my appreciation (and I _did_ appreciate his very pretty face, and his eyes in particular). "It's kind of exciting, isn't it?" He murmured conspiratorially.

I giggled nervously, half like a schoolgirl because I was talking to _Neal_ and half out of a guilty conscience. "I'm not answering that…" Even in my buzzed state, I knew better. "I hate that I'm holding damning physical evidence against her, and can't do a single damn thing about it."

Mozzie put both of his hands up, leaning back like he'd had his fill of wine and wanted to distance himself from what remained in his glass. "Hey, it's your rules, Suit," he reminded, making sure to point out what would be a benefit of disobeying the law. "Not mine."

His smile fading simply from lack of smile-worthy things (what a pity), Neal held out his hand, palm open. "Come on, Kenna," he coaxed encouragingly. "Give me the coin."

I became selectively deaf and almost laughed when I decided to do so, just out of mischievousness. Neal really should have cut me off a couple of glasses ago. I could hold my liquor pretty well, having built up a decent tolerance on top of my original ability, but I'd started pushing myself and should have stopped then, otherwise I wouldn't be having the _crazy_ idea I was coming up with.

" _Government Official Illegally Obtains Evidence,_ stay tuned for the news at eleven," I joked in what _I_ thought was a stroke of comedic genius, laughing at myself a second later.

It hurt my feelings that Neal didn't laugh. I had always had a sense of humor that didn't exactly correspond to Katie's, though. "It'd be a hell of a story," my consultant didn't deny, but he kept his hand out for the dinar. "Too bad she can't report it."

I turned the coin over another time. It was really pretty. And really important, too. It was like one of those things that looked old in a nice way, so people got knockoffs made and then put them on necklaces. Except I shouldn't put an Islamic dinar from the Adda- the Abba- the Abbaside- the _whatever_ dynasty on a necklace.

"I think she could," I contradicted. Neal frowned at me like I was having a bad idea. I thought I was having a Good Idea. I'd just have to explain it so he understood. "I'm not the only government official involved in this case," I reminded him kindly in case he forgot. "Thanks for this, Moz, we may have found a way to make her talk."

I turned it back over to look at the front some more and tried to decide it that mark by the back of the handle was actually supposed to be the blade of an ax or if it was just damage conveniently made at the edge of a chisel to make it _look_ like an ax. Neal worriedly kept looking at me and his shoulders slumped with defeat at not getting the coin back right away.

* * *

"Hi. Yeah, excuse me." Someone bumped into me roughly and their shoulder-shove sent me stumbling backwards. I hissed. "FBI!" They ignored me, too busy focusing on something else. Glowering, I huffed and went onwards to watch the set. I had to show my badge to the producer and recorder for them to let me stay right up front, so I was close enough to both Alicia and Neal to intervene if she tried to run away.

The cameraman held his hand out with three fingers up. "Three! Two!" He got to one finger and brought his hand down visibly to the side of the camera without saying anything, and a second later, Alicia smiled into the fixed lights coming from the front of the set.

"And we're rolling!"

"Hi!" Neal said, smiling charmingly at the camera, scooting forward in the chair to lean towards Alicia and give her all of his attention. I was almost jealous – but what sense did that make? It was just that Neal could make a person feel like the center of the universe, and I felt miffed that he could just go and give that smile to someone else after he spent so long giving me his attention that I convinced myself it would be a good idea to screw him.

"Hi!" She returned the charm with an easygoing, personable smile and held out her hand, at the edge of her chair herself. Neal shook hands with her, covering the one of hers with both of his enthusiastically. "Alicia Teagan."

"Good to meet you," he bobbed his head, smiling winningly. "I'm a huge fan."

"Oh, thank you!" Flattered, she let go of his hands and folded both of hers over her skirt-clad thighs.

"Wow, you look- you look even better in person." He motioned to her outfit and mimed touching his hair if it were a lot longer and blonde. He sounded like a slightly star-struck fan, which was exactly what he was going for.

 _I look better in person, too,_ I huffed jealously, hugging myself irately and waiting for him to stop being nice and just get to the God damn point of this entire act. _I looked good enough that you wanted to slip my clothes off and watch me writhe in your bed._

"Oh, wow," she laughed, getting a little less interesting with her responses. "Thank you. Okay, so you're all mic'ed up. Let's, uh, let's get started! Your name?"

"Ah, we'll get to that," he said, deflecting away from saying his name and having anyone watching the live broadcast look him up and question the validity of anything he said next.

"Just relax," she advised, leaning in and reaching out. She set her hand on his knee and rubbed his thigh. It wasn't inappropriate for TV, but it sure as hell made me feel like I was witnessing something incredibly scandalous. "Take a deep breath. Why don't we start at the beginning?"

Neal did as she suggested and he inhaled, exhaled, and then sighed again. "Okay. Yeah." He rubbed his hands together and covered her smaller hand with his larger, very well-skilled one. Then, in a move he wasn't supposed to be doing on Alicia's kind of show, he looked straight at the recording camera in front of the fake lounge set. "Once upon a time, in Iraq, there were two people. One was greedy and a thief. The other was pretty and opportunistic. Together, they found a great deal of treasure."

I saw when it became a story that struck a chord. Alicia made the mistake of looking after where Neal was looking and her eyes found the camera. Then I smiled directly at her, sarcastically holding up my FBI badge for her to see. She swallowed and knew exactly what Neal was alluding to, without a doubt, and looked away from the cameras.

"I think this is something we should be discussing off camera." She suggested, chuckling nervously and now trying extra hard not to let her eyes wander over towards me.

Neal shook his head, determined to keep telling this story. "No, wait, that's just the prologue. I'm getting to the setup." _Oh!_ I gave him a thumbs-up for what he'd done there. The setup of a story and the setup of Mitchell. _Very nice word play._ Alicia's weak smile fell. "They smuggled that treasure back here. It went off without a hitch. But then they needed a fall guy, somebody to take the heat off them so they could sell the treasure without interference." He leaned forwards to her and she ripped her hand away from his knee, burned as she realized that she was still voluntarily touching him. She jerked back into her own chair. "That fall guy's a soldier you know – John Mitchell."

"Well." Alicia held herself tightly and forced her lips to curve into a plastic smile. "Unfortunately, your story's missing something very important: proof."

_Now, Neal, make it hurt._

"Oh, I've got proof."

 _We're really getting a handle on this telepathy thing,_ I mused sardonically. He leaned to the side and pushed his hand into the pocket of his trousers, pulling out the old antique coin from Mozzie. He held it up, pinched between his index and middle fingers of his right hand. The reporter's face visibly paled.

"Yeah. Recognize this?" The bright lights made the coin glint. "What this story is missing is an ending." He smirked at her over the coin, taking back all of the brownie points he'd earned by being adoring and sweet. _That's right, bitch, the adorable and sweet Neal is mine._ I blinked. What was wrong with me today?

"I'm not sure what happens to Mitchell. The outcome of his life may as well be decided on the toss of a coin." He flicked his fingers up and let go of the dinar piece. It twisted and flipped in midair and then landed back down in his open hand. He held it in his fist and offered his hand to Alicia. "Want to call it for me?"

Swallowing, Alicia turned her body to face the crew. "Turn off the cameras," she snapped, tension breaking her. That proof which she knew could be traced back to her was enough to convict her, and she wanted to evade the charges; I wouldn't let her do that, but she probably had the hope of protecting her reputation by keeping this off the air. Too bad she'd been filming live. "Turn off the cameras!" She yelled, louder, putting her arms up to cover her face.

The cameraman jumped behind me and waved his arms high over his head. "Pull the roll!" He shouted, following Alicia's lead.

* * *

The moment I was sitting down in our conference room rather than the interrogation room – an attempt at being somewhat nice in order to get her cooperation – the reporter was holding herself with her back straight and declared, "I want immunity." Her voice didn't shake, but it was only three words and maybe five seconds to say. Her hair looked like she'd dragged her hands through it a thousand times and in her lap, she was picking at her fingernails.

I chuckled a little, amused just by how fast she jumped onto that. Did she just not understand how the justice system worked? She doesn't really get to have immunity, not after smuggling, not unless she was being forced into action or she has something that's a really _big_ deal to tell us. What she can do is get a reduced sentence, or make a plea bargain, but if she wanted the former, she should have started with actually giving me helpful information, and if she was thinking of the latter, she should have contacted a lawyer.

"You're funny," I told her, and enjoyed watching her subconsciously start to pick her hands up to bite her fingernails some more before she dropped them both down onto her lap nervously. Her confident and sure expression faltered. I don't think laughter was the answer she wanted. "You don't always get what you want." I leaned over the table and looked at her. We were sitting on the opposite long sides of the table, so there was maybe three, four feet between my clasped hands and her slight shoulders. "And sometimes you get what you don't," I continued gravely, trying to meet with her eyes to convey the right amount of intimidating intensity. "I'm pretty sure Captain Mitchell didn't want to be arrested for something he didn't do."

She bit her lower lip and her jaw worked a little in small motions as she pressed her teeth in. "Aimes looted Saddam's museum," she blurted, eyes going a little wide as she realized she said it out loud, but then continued to go onwards like a runaway train, tripping over herself to protect herself. "He set the whole thing up. All I did was help to transport it back to the States."

I cocked my head. The easiest interviews were usually when the people I talked to were fumbling to cooperate. All I had to do was ask the right questions, and I had an entire novel regarding the events in their perspective.

"What was your cut to make you agree to this?" I queried in interest, wondering exactly how motivated she'd been to see it through.

"It doesn't really matter, does it?" Alicia's lip curled in anger that temporarily overrode her fear of the charges. "I haven't seen a dime."

I countered. "It matters to me, especially because you seem to have been in touch with a really, really old – really _valuable_ – dime." A dinar, more accurately, but that wasn't so much the point of the question as it was asking about her motives. I softened my face. I had always thought the hardest part of my job was empathizing with the suspects. Then I transferred to white-collar and realized that it didn't matter if they were suspects or not – the hardest part was treating serial killers as if they were still considered human. "The prosecution hasn't taken immunity off the table," I told her noncommittally as a gentle nudge.

It worked. Although ashamed, the journalist looked over to the door as if waiting for someone to come in from eavesdropping outside. "I needed the money," she muttered, not proud of herself for it.

I had expected something along the financial lines. Alicia had taken a hard hit to her savings after a statistical improbability in the stock market occurred and brought several highly-anticipated swings in the opposite direction. Had they gone the other way, she could've quit her job and lived cozily. "Yes, I saw your portfolio. The market you were betting on had a crash."

"I lost enough," she said, looking up with bright eyes burning in defense. She had enough to keep up the front of her former semi-wealth, but her account dwindled in a matter of days. "I still had access to the gold, so I… took some of the smaller pieces and turned them over."

 _The pawn shop._ She was trying to make some fast money off of them to keep up appearances for a little while longer, just enough to hit that break – either from Aimes keeping up his end of the deal or from the market making a fast recovery. "You realized you were making a paper trail, so you took advantage of a soldier you met in Iraq and arranged with Aimes to make him the scapegoat," I accused. There was no way of keeping the disapproval and the annoyance out of my tone, but I could have sounded a lot meaner than I did, so I still considered it somewhat successful.

At this, Alicia looked down in shame again. "I didn't want to set him up, Aimes did." But she didn't deny that she had played a large part in helping him do that.

"You got the prints, and the hat to get DNA from his hair," I reminded her, just to rub it in exactly how much she sucked as a person. "Why did you melt some of the pieces down?" I thought back to the nasty-looking burn blisters on Aimes' bodyguard's arms. I sure hoped they'd had a good reason before they did that to the guy. He wasn't innocent, either, but I didn't envy him the scars.

Alicia dropped her shoulders and looked up, heaving a long but quiet sigh and resolving herself to cooperate and tell the full story. "Aimes thought if we made it look like most of the gold was gone, you guys wouldn't spend so much time searching for it, even after Mitchell was locked up."

"Tell us where the gold is," I ordered. That would be enough to get her some leniency with the prosecution. "Now." We found the gold, we traced the melting process somehow to Aimes or his assistant, or we found their DNA evidence. Forensic proof of their presence and Alicia's confession were more convincing than just some strangely clean genetic material from a respected veteran.

Her face fell. "I don't know."

"He moved it without telling you?" I pretended to be skeptical, but with what I knew about Aimes and my brief interaction with him, it wasn't at all hard to believe. I just wanted to make her sweat and entice some more honesty out of her, if it was possible.

"Yes!" She nodded quickly, flexing her shoulders back and swallowing. Her right cheek was sucked in anxiously. "I _swear,_ I don't know where it is," she vowed fervently.

"Then if you really want a deal, you'll help us get it." For a second she looked so relieved she could cry, but then she realized what that actually meant and the nerves were back – just for a different reason. Alicia was riding a roller coaster, and she wasn't going to be winning any acting awards anytime soon for her performance. I drummed my fingernails against the table, contemplating the best way to phrase it. "You're going to tell him the FBI has been poking around. I talked to him, too, so he'll believe you."

"He may believe me, but he sure as hell won't trust me."

I wanted to think she was warning me to try to improve the plan and make it more convincing. In actuality, I had to recognize that she was probably just reminding me of their lack of trust in the partnership so that if the operation didn't go according to plan, we wouldn't blame her quite so much.

"Tell him the case against Mitchell is falling apart, and he needs to unload the gold immediately." I advised. Derek was pretty sure this would work, and he and Neal had been talking about it for who knew how long by the time I escorted Alicia up to the conference room. Neal had had on that big smile, part charm and part pride, that begged for acknowledgment, and he often used it when he wanted me to be impressed by something.

"What if he gets spooked and goes back on it?" I arched an eyebrow while the blonde fumbled to think of excuses. "O-Or what if he decides to keep it in hiding?" Was she _trying_ to come up with a reason why she shouldn't help us and should face whatever the original sentence would be?

"You just have to convince him you found a private buyer," I stated coolly. If she was a good enough actress to stand to the side while her partner framed an innocent man, then Oscars or not, she should be able to tell a convincing lie. She'd done it before, after all, and now an innocent man was in holding for a serious, almost-certain arraignment because of it. "Who is very rich, and very, very discreet. That's where we come in again." According to the plan, Neal and Diana would both be on the inside – Neal as the wealthy buyer and Diana as his accountant – when, in actuality, Diana would be playing his protection in case something went wrong. "I know this freaks you out," I said, trying to be sympathetic. I could understand Aimes might be scary, and she might feel like she was in danger for doing this, but she owed it to Mitchell. "But you forfeited your right to comfort when you had Captain Mitchell locked up for a crime he never committed. If you don't do this exactly as we say, you're charged as hard as possible and you go away for a long, long time."

* * *

After Derek and I had everything confirmed mere hours later, with a collaborative team working on clearing everything we'd need and Diana already getting the goods that Neal needed to have, we both went right over to Neal's desk, crowding him in where he sat in the spinning office chair in front of his desk monitor.

He was playing with a rubber band, stretching it over his index finger to shoot it up towards the ceiling and then catching it when it came back down. I could have sworn he was actually being productive the last time I'd looked for him.

Derek cleared his throat. Neal sat his chair up straight and looked at us with wide eyes like a deer caught in headlights. I raised my eyebrows and Derek cocked his head until Neal slowly stretched the rubber band a final time and sprang it into the trash can by his desk. Derek nodded, looking pleased.

"Aimes is going to meet you at the gallery at five tonight. Alicia is going to be your escort." I informed, reaching out to give his hair a gentle pat of praise. If he was going to act silly when he was supposed to be working, then I was going to claim the same liberty, not just be a normal agent like Derek and tell him to stop. Neal frowned up at me, very clearly displeased at having his hair's styling messed up.

 _You really didn't care in bed,_ I tried to convey with my expression. Always wanting something to do with my hands, I had spent plenty of time playing with his hair, even in afterglow. I liked wearing out the styling spray with my hands and curling the longer hair around my fingers, combing it back and watching it fly forward as he moved, sweat-dampened and sticking to his forehead, lying flatter against his scalp until I pushed it out of the way. Neal had seemed to like it, too, because he had encouraged it. And he had also encouraged the tugging.

"We've been over this, Kenna," Neal assured lazily, kicking on the ground to spin the chair so that he was out from under my hand. "I've got it."

I put my hands on my hips and huffed. "Excuse me for being concerned when last time you went undercover, you were _shot at,"_ I reminded sassily. I doubted he needed that much of a reminder – it had only been days ago and it had certainly been a catalyst of a very memorable situation.

He narrowed his eyes at me playfully and turned it back around on me. "Last time you went undercover, you were nearly blown up!"

"Irrelevant," I dismissed. This was a matter of keeping _him_ safe, not me, so what did it matter that I had been kidnapped and strapped with explosives? … Okay, summarized that way, I could kind of see how he might object to it happening just on the principle that it had before, but it didn't have any effect on the undercover mission at hand.

Neal sucked in on his cheek for a minute, peering thoughtfully between me and Derek like we were holding out on him. He was thinking about something. Then he perked up and bounced in his chair. "Why don't you come undercover with me, Kenna?" He suggested hopefully. "It'll be fun, just like last time!"

 _You thought last time was fun?_ I had spent the last time being undercover with him pretending to be completely stupid in love while convincing myself that I _didn't_ really want to kiss him, except I really had enjoyed it. And then I'd been kidnapped and strapped with explosives. So it wasn't a great night for me.

"Um, Diana is playing your financial manager, not your fiancée, so it actually _wouldn't_ be just like last time." Both pointing out a fault in the plan and telling him definitively exactly who he would be working with, I smiled. I had the utmost trust in Diana to keep Neal as safe as she possibly could, even if she wasn't necessarily his biggest fan. She knew that it was morally the right thing to do and she knew that his safety was important to me, so she would see to it. "I'm working surveillance this time. If it goes bad, I'm your cavalry." I hoped that it would be reassuring to know I'd still be nearby.

Derek got tired of being out of the dialogue. It was by his own choice, really; Neal and I weren't excluding him, he just kept his mouth shut and watched us converse. I was glad he chose to give an input. Taking out a rattle of keys from his slacks, he held the tag of the rental company over the artist's lap before dropping it. Neal, of course, skillfully caught it without blinking.

"This is your car for the day," Derek graciously explained, also pressing down a wide photograph of a dark grey vehicle on Neal's desk, which he had to rotate to look straight at. It wasn't a new model, but it was still nice; fairly sleek and undamaged.

Neal looked at the picture of the rental for a couple of seconds, then a grin grew on his face and he laughed heartily. Derek tapped my arm and shrugged at me demandingly for an explanation. Just as alarmed by Neal's apparent lack of seriousness, I shrugged right back.

Once we did our shrugging, Neal stopped laughing. When we both turned back to the CI, we saw that his expression was one of crestfallen disappointment. "You're… you're not kidding," he concluded slowly with dawning horror.

"It's a Mercedes," Derek stated, affronted by the apparent abhorrence Neal felt was appropriate regarding the small but classy car. I was inclined to agree. It wasn't a _joke!_ It was a decent automobile for a single man with disposable income. _Wait… doesn't Derek own a Mercedes?_

Neal indicated the photo with complaints that didn't even wait a full minute to manifest. "This isn't even an S-class!" He whined. "I need to look like I can drop a few million on antiquities; this says _look what I kept in the divorce!_ "

The thought of Neal being married made me irrationally envious and a source of irritation grew out of nowhere. _But is it because my wrist says he's mine, or is it because I want him to myself because he's Neal?_ That jealousy, combined with the aggravated spur of his reaction, made me glare before I realized the better way of handling it – poking at his pride.

"What, you don't think you can work out a reason to want a Mercedes Benz as your car?" I taunted, flashing my teeth in a dangerous, engaging smirk. Neal sat up straighter and squared his shoulders at the challenge. "What kind of conman are you, Caffrey?"

Neal's eyes went wide indignantly and Derek whistled as things heated up in the agent-versus-consultant car argument. My consultant dropped his jaw in mock outrage, eyes already sparkling with clever plotting to outsmart me and prove me wrong, and then pursed his lips into a responding smirk that promised I would lose.

Fine. In this instance, I wanted to – it meant my case went better.

* * *

I had been an idiot and left my overnight bag in the penthouse, and it had slipped my mind to get my carrying license, which must have fallen out of my wallet at some point while it was in the duffel. My wallet was made of nice colored leather, but I'd been using it for a long time and the card slots were starting to stretch, no longer quite as effective. When important things like carrying licenses started falling out without me noticing, it was probably time to admit defeat and buy a new wallet.

Anyway, because I really shouldn't be armed with a concealed weapon without my license, FBI or not, I went with Neal back to his suite to pick it up while he did whatever it was he did to get psyched up for a case. He said he liked to get into character. I was pretty sure he restyled his hair, used more cologne, and chose a different suit for the sake of dramatics. Most of the work that went into playing his usual characters wasn't a big leap from his usual appearances, but I chose to give him the benefit of the doubt.

Maybe he would actually use a different cologne this time.

Neal let us in and I closed the door behind me. Neal turned into the sitting room to the left of the door and walked right past the couch, glancing down on his way and saying, loudly, _"Moz!_ Get up!" on his way to a dresser.

I blinked. What was Mozzie doing here, a place where he knew I, a fed, was temporarily staying, in the middle of the day, when it was completely plausible that I would enter? I was almost saddened that I was evidently no longer intimidating enough to put any effort whatsoever into avoiding, and as such, I too looked over the couch. The conman was taking a nap.

This would have been an excellent time to teach him some twisted version of a lesson in con artistry; maybe if I taught him how you should never leave yourself vulnerable in front of unknown variables by drawing on his face or something, and then reminding him that one conversation with me does _not_ a known variable make, he might regain some of that entertaining wariness.

 _Drawing on his face would be rude,_ I chided. I had to hold myself to some standards.

After that disappointing mental decision was made, I sighed long-sufferingly and bent down to push against his shoulder, since Neal didn't rouse him. "Hey, Moz-"

It was like poking a loud and clumsy bear. No sooner than I'd said his name, Mozzie's eyes flew open and he started flailing, throwing his arms around and screaming loudly enough that June could probably hear it, too.

 _"_ _Leave me alone!"_ He shrieked, almost hitting me in the face with an uncoordinated toss of a fist.

 _"_ _Holy fuck calm down you psycho!"_ I shouted over him on impulse. Just as startled by the melodramatics as I was by being almost hit in the face, I grabbed onto his wrist impulsively to stop him from actually succeeding. Then, as an afterthought, I waited until his other arm was up closer and grabbed that wrist, too, holding both in place until he realized I wasn't actually trying to kill him in his sleep.

Across the room, Neal was holding another suit jacket against his front and admiring it in the mirror and had turned to see what the hell was going on. He laughed at us and turned back to the mirror, hanging the blazer up on a notch in the carved wood to take off the one he was already wearing. I glared at his back.

With Mozzie no longer trying with frankly pathetic efforts to deter a would-be murderer, I tentatively released his wrists, reasonably sure that he wasn't going to continue his attempt at assault while knowing that I was his not-assailant. I was right. Instead of continuing to beat at me, he lamely rubbed his eyes.

"Did you draw on my face?" He inquired demandingly.

"What?" I balked and made sure to cover up that I had actually seriously been tempted to do exactly that, feigning dire offense. "I'm not _eleven!"_ I retorted.

"Listen up," Neal chuckled. Evidently we were even funnier sober than we were when we were unable to sit up straight for extended periods of time. "Aimes is meeting with me today. I have to go in as a serious high roller, so I need a car."

I looked down to Mozzie when Neal seemed finished with talking, and the short guy rested his hands in his lap and sighed, feet still up on the couch cushions. "I'll get my Slim Jim," he said glumly.

"Ah… I think this is the part where I go get what I came here for and leave." I looked over to Neal, just for a second, glad that he was all the way across the room so I wasn't obligated to physically say goodbye. What was appropriate at this point, anyway? A pat on the shoulder, a hug, a touch to his cheek? _I'm losing it._ "No stealing," I only remembered as an afterthought.

"Right, of course," Mozzie sarcastically drawled, making me look to him in alarm. I really didn't think that was supposed to be a sarcastic answer. He made mocking finger-quotes right in front of me even as he promised, "Can't _steal_ it."

I shook my head at him. "No stealing," I reiterated firmly.

* * *

We set up in our van. Derek had the AC turned up high enough for me to be huddling into my coat, but he glared at me and complained when I had turned it down. I had felt his forehead, but he seemed fine, so I just decided he was in one of those weird temperature moods. I had them too, sometimes.

We got coffees before we started and while they weren't exactly piping hot with steam wisps rising out of the holes in the lids, they were still warm enough to make our hands tingle when we touched the outer cardboard. I took a sip of my latte, an espresso mix with cinnamon, brown sugar, and caramel, and kept a pair of headphones tuned into our hearing bugs over my ears, sitting to Derek's left while he monitored the visual cameras on the two bureau laptops, each screen divided into four.

"Well, we've got a high roller coming through, alright." Derek commented with confusion. I frowned at him. There wasn't supposed to be an _actual_ millionaire coming in. I took one of the headphones from my ear and pushed it further back, leaning over in my seat.

On one of the screens, there was a view from the street right across from the front of the gallery. A long black car was slowly rolling itself to a stop on the curb. I stared at it, but the camera was too far away to see through the tinted glass.

"Is that a limo?" I asked, scowling. Either someone was trying to cut into my sting or Neal and Mozzie had gone a little overboard with their high standards.

After the limousine came to a complete stop, the driver's door popped open. It was pushed halfway out on the hinge before Mozzie got out of the car, wearing a suit and his glasses, and he went to the back to open up the door facing the street and the building. Neal was right inside, and he shared a rapid smirk with his friend as he slid out of the car. It hardly looked like he'd done anything to his usual appearance, so I still had no idea what his "preparation" for undercover roles entailed. The only change was that his collar was up and the first button on his shirt was down. I rolled my eyes. _I chose a very high-maintenance consultant._

Alicia came out right after him, steady on her stiletto sandals but skittish in her demeanor until Neal held out an arm. She slid her hand through the bend of his elbow and held onto his arm for the stability, and she visibly calmed with someone to hold onto. Diana was last out of the car, wearing bright-colored clothes and a skirt, which she hardly ever wore, hair curled into ringlets. Mozzie waited until she was out to close the door, but they were both giving each other fishy, untrusting looks.

"I thought we gave him a Mercedes."

"I guess he made it work," I said dismissively, intending to have a talk with them about how they acquired a limousine at such short notice, but it wasn't a matter that needed official bureau attention.

Derek cocked his head, not quite willing to leave it alone. Internally, I wished they'd gotten something less conspicuous, because I did not want to draw any more attention than I had to to my selective ignorance of Neal's convenient luxuries. "That hop looks kinda familiar," he mused. I couldn't think of where he might have seen Mozzie before, but my first thought was criminal surveillance, so I opened my mouth to make excuses. "Is he one of ours?"

"No, he's one of Neal's friends." _In hindsight,_ I recognized my issue when Derek looked at me in surprise, probably stunned that I'd let any of Neal's friends in on a mission. _That was probably not the most reassuring thing to say._ "Haversham," I offered, to 'prove' that I knew the guy's name. "He's alright."

Although very skeptical and he let me see it, Derek looked back to the laptops and focused in on another view. Mozzie had climbed back into the limousine to wait, but Neal, Alicia, and Diana were all out of sight, having come too close to the building and out of the camera's shot. They were just barely becoming visible to a camera in the foyer.

 _"_ _Alicia. Alayum."_ Aimes' voice greeted, picked up pretty well on my frequency. I moved my headphones both back onto my ears correctly. A few seconds after I heard him, he stepped into the frame on Derek's laptop.

Alicia took her arm out of Neal's and kept her little purse tucked close to her body, holding it with her other arm. _"This is the gentleman I was telling you about,"_ she introduced politely, looking up at Neal to make sure he was still there and visibly steeling herself by taking another look at the federal agent behind them both.

Neal held his arm out behind Alicia to indicate Diana. _"And this is my business manager."_

 _"_ _Charmed,"_ Aimes said drolly, stepping up closer to Alicia and Neal. Neal stayed where he was but Alicia moved to the side, avoiding getting too close to the man. Alicia's skittishness went unnoticed and Aimes mistook it for making room so that he could meet Diana, and Diana made a good effort of flushing pink while he kissed the back of her hand.

 _"_ _The same to you, sir,"_ she said sweetly, the blush lingering on her face.

 _"_ _Please, come in,"_ he invited warmly, more focused on Diana than on Neal. He turned around to lead them to the precise place he wanted the deal to go down. While his back was turned, Diana looked right up at one of the cameras and rolled her eyes to Derek and I.

* * *

We never lost sight of them for longer than a few seconds as they made their way to a display room at Aimes' lead and leisure. It became apparent once they'd left the foyer that there was another person we hadn't at first seen – the bodyguard – but he stayed docilely behind Aimes, protective and yet out of the way. I kept looking at him, paranoid that he was probably armed.

 _"_ _How long have you been collecting antiquities?"_ Aimes asked Neal to make a leading conversation into the business transaction. Neal, on the camera, wandered away from all four of the others to look into various square-shaped glass displays, peering in at the artifacts with bright, curious eyes.

 _"_ _Years,"_ Neal answered thoughtlessly, having either perfected his alias's memorization or having an actual interest in antiques and telling the truth. _"I also admire the occasional reproduction."_ He bent down face-to-face with the side of a vase and circled around the display. The irony that he was also a forger – excuse me, a _reproducer_ – was not lost on me.

 _"_ _So you're familiar with the Tallmadge period, then?"_ Aimes' slim face kept looking close to, but not right at, a camera, clearly searching for them while he made pleasant, non-incriminating conversation. He missed them because they were planted well and subtly, and they were top-notch pieces of equipment that Aimes' job didn't employ. He didn't have personal experience with them.

 _"_ _I am,"_ Neal professed.

 _"_ _Shame the Greeks put an end to it."_

Neal drew himself up from the displays. _"Shame you didn't have a better history teacher,"_ he flippantly replied. He sounded a little bit offended for history's sake that Aimes had gotten something wrong. _"Soter's reign over Ptolemaic Egypt ended with the death of Cleopatra in the Roman conquest of thirty BC, not the Greek. … Or so I've been told,"_ he amended when he saw both Alicia and Diana giving him 'looks' for the attitude.

I smirked proudly and snuck a sideways grin to Derek. I wanted him to get his own CI so that, in moments like this, I could sing praise of Neal and boast that I had a smarter one. I wanted to brag about mine.

Aimes struggled with not being insulted, but he got over it – or at least, he knew how to pretend. _"Would you like to see the actual pieces, then?"_ He invited, satisfied that he wasn't being spied on by unwanted company. _Heh. Loser._

 _"_ _I… think I already have,"_ Neal looked over to Diana to convey seriousness before passing it off as just happening to look in her direction, turning around fully to face Aimes. _"These aren't reproductions."_

Nodding appreciatively, Aimes remarked, _"Good eye."_

Alicia was changing, losing the security in her act that she'd had when she wasn't face-to-face with the man who had gotten a lot over on her in a relatively short time. _"They've… been here all along?"_ She asked, her voice tensely controlled in an attempt to hide her own distress. She just broadcasted her anxiety even louder as a result. Knowing how close she'd been to her own payoff must have been too much for her to keep up the façade.

 _"_ _I've always believed the best place to hide something is in plain sight,"_ Aimes airily responded, brushing some of her blonde hair off of her cheek, looking down at her in an insulting mockery of concern. He had convinced Alicia he was a trustworthy-enough guy, but clearly he wasn't putting as much effort into the con now that he had gotten his use out of her. _"Is everything alright?"_

Her smile wavered. _"Of course,"_ she promised unconvincingly.

"This is bad," I muttered, turning up the volume on my headset and breathing deeply. "She's starting to freak…" If we were lucky, then Aimes would take her nerves as her true reaction to finding out how close the treasure had been and how accessible it had been to her. I'd be pretty pissed about that, but Alicia, knowing it was of no use to her now, was more devastated than angry.

 _"_ _Smile, Alicia,"_ Aimes murmured to her, stroking his hand down her back before he stopped touching her, and Alicia sucked in another breath to deal with him in such close proximity. _"It's almost over."_

For a tense few seconds, the bodyguard, Neal, Alicia, Aimes, and Diana all looked around at each other. Aimes' statement to the reporter seemed to carry a heavy weight that they all picked up on, and Diana and Neal were no exception to the tension that suddenly laced the situation. In an attempt to dissolve it before anything escalated, Diana smiled, faking some shyness as she looked down to the briefcase she was carrying.

 _"_ _Can we please move this along?"_ She asked, forcing a blush to rise back to her face, knowing that Aimes liked having that affect.

The suitcase clicked as she lifted it to a table clear of any displays to her left, and she pushed the lid up. There was a hidden compartment in the bottom of the suitcase, but the top of it was covered with layers of hundred-dollar-bills, bound and bundled, all processed through the bureau to trace it in case something went badly and it was needed.

"She's showing them the money…" Derek murmured unnecessarily, shifting uncomfortably in his own seat. The atmosphere of the display room was infiltrating our van and putting us on edge, too.

Then everything took a turn for the worse. Without even looking at the presented money that _should_ have made a greedy man like Aimes practically drool, he made a silent nod to his bodyguard, who stepped right in front of Neal to block his way from an exit and turned a short-barreled weapon on him. I tensed and suddenly I was wide awake, not having any use for coffee.

 _"_ _Whoa, whoa, what's going on?!"_ Bothered by having a gun shoved in his face, Neal tried to sound angry and slighted by the deal not going according to his plan, but even through the headset, I could hear the hint of real panic in his voice. My heart clenched and for a second I felt like my throat had closed up and I couldn't breathe.

 _"_ _Don't play games with me,"_ Aimes snarled. _"You're with the FBI!"_

 _What gave it away?!_ Maybe he really _had_ seen the cameras and had been acting oblivious in order to get the leverage of a vulnerable CI and agent? Neal anxiously kept his hands up by his head. Diana's face was unreadable, the blush gone and her expression steely and level. Then, in a flash, she took Aimes' distraction and swiped up on the edge of the briefcase, pulling up the panel with the money and snatching her hidden gun out from underneath, turning it on the bodyguard, who hadn't thought to turn a second weapon on her.

 _"_ _Technically,"_ Neal hedged, sincerely afraid for his life. I swallowed and wrapped my fists into my shirt, fighting not to jump out of the van and run right to him. _"I'm just a consultant. She's with the FBI."_

On the laptop screen, Diana glared at Neal. I laughed nervously. "Diana's gonna kill him for that…"

Aimes shook his head slowly, backing away from the situation. _"Regardless… no need for a fifth wheel."_

He turned around and started to bolt for the door. I jumped up from my seat, rubbing my hands together but unwilling to turn away from the threats on Neal and Diana, some of my favorite people. Even the bodyguard seemed surprised by Aimes' sudden leave, but he didn't take his gun off of Neal's chest.

 _"_ _He's running!"_ Diana needlessly reported into the wires on her and Neal's person. Alicia stayed to the side, bending to lean heavily on a display case and shaking at the guns that could just as easily turn and shoot her.

I swallowed. "I'm taking off after Aimes," it pained me to say, but that was the protocol. I wasn't close enough to the display room to feasibly go in and protect Neal and Diana, but I was very close to the nearest exit for Aimes to come out of. "Derek, front exit, now!" He was already moving, grabbing up his firearm and holster and strapping it to his belt. "Get the unmarked with you!" I shoved the doors out for him and picked up the radio, paging for the agents disguised as civilians in another section of the building.

I almost forgot to take the headset off and stood in the back of the van with my headphones, listening with bated breath and sunlight spilling into the grey interior. _"Looks like we have a standoff,"_ Neal observed casually to the bodyguard.

Diana snorted. _"No, we don't. Shoot him. Then I'll have you on murder, too."_ I raised my eyebrows. _"Come on,"_ she invited. I glanced at the laptop. Neal was staring at her in insulted betrayal. _I knew she would get you back for that._

Then, by pure luck, I looked out of the van again at the exact time that Aimes came barreling out the front doors, running down the steps and stumbling when he missed one of them, grabbing onto the railing and catching himself before he fell flat on his face. He never lost his speed, so desperate was he to keep running and get out of the situation he'd put himself in.

"Patrick Aimes, freeze!" I took my gun out of my holster and leapt out of the van, throwing my headset back inside over my shoulder. Of course, the man didn't listen, instead running madly in the opposite direction of the van. I swore under my breath and took off.

The man could run, I had to give him that. I followed him across the front of the building and pursued him onto the next block entirely. He made a sharp right turn onto one street to lose me, but when he turned into an alley, I saw the tail of his jacket flying and knew which way to go to follow. Looking over his shoulder periodically to try to tell how close I was, he kept trying to speed up, but if he'd been in a running sport in high school, it was sprinting, not track.

"Don't make me shoot you!" I shouted. By all rights, my breath should have been gone, but adrenaline and endorphins were taking over and giving me energy I didn't usually have.

 _This._ This was the part of the white-collar unit that most closely resembled my former background in blue-collar. This was the closest I would get to my old gig for a while, and I _loved it._ The legwork, the pursuits, either by car or by foot, were always intense with a focus that gave me a high like heroin. The running was better, like comparing inhaling and ingesting. I held my gun in my right hand and furiously pounded over pavement, covering an entire block after Aimes in less than a minute, chasing like a cheetah fixed on prey.

At some point, we had crossed into a residential neighborhood. The museum wasn't a very large one, all things considered, and I shouldn't have been surprised that there were civilian homes nearby. Most of the occupants would be gone, either at work or at school, but there was always the possibility that someone had a teacher workday or was home sick or on maternity leave. Some criminals had more morals than to hurt a civilian, but Aimes was not going to be one of those. I pushed myself harder, running faster, and started to gain, foot by foot.

We raced down a long block with a wide sidewalk, a couple of construction workers to the left. Aimes went bolting past. They were in the street, working over a manhole, and when they saw Aimes frantically sprinting as fast as he could and looking over his shoulder, they interestedly looked after me.

When I passed them, I yelled "FBI!" and they stayed where they were. They were still probably going to call the police, but Aimes had gone right past them, so they weren't at any personal risk.

A couple of blocks passed, went whizzing by, and the only reason I noticed the change at all was because of the incline between the street and the sidewalks that I had to keep crossing. I powered along beside a lawn with big green bushes crowding against the tall black fence posts, at least eight feet high, some of the leaves and thorny brambles shoved between the gaps, which were about as wide as my hand. On the end of the lawn, the fence ended and was replaced by a thick concrete wall guarding that side of the property. Aimes did an impression of a windmill with his arms, almost skidding, before he decided that it was dumb prioritization to try to stay on the sidewalk and instead let his momentum carry him out into the street, making a wide turn to the right behind the concrete.

I chased, but there was about fifteen seconds between losing sight of the bastard and turning the corner myself. In those seconds, Aimes hadn't gone more than a few dozen feet past the turn. The first red flag was that he was now facing me; next was that his arms were up, and I was throwing myself back behind the concrete wall before the gun even went off.

Aimes fired twice, once when he saw me and another time after while I was diving back to safety, and one of the bullets ricocheted on the wall only a couple of feet from where I was hiding. I turned my back to the wall and pressed myself to the fence, dropped down to my knees, and my shoulder uncomfortably tried to slide through two of the bars, ignoring that there was already bramble in the way.

I held up my gun and took a breath. I didn't hear any footsteps, and now that I was staying still in hiding, I'd have heard the suspect's. I sent a fleeting thought to Diana and Neal, hoping they would be safe by now. It really depended on the temperament of the bodyguard whether he would shoot them or surrender once Aimes had fled, and I didn't know the man beyond being aware of his involvement in melting the gold.

Without him coming up on me to shoot or running away, I wasn't sure if my prerogative was to try to shoot him or try to arrest him without injury. While I took a couple of seconds to decide that, hey, he had shot at a federal agent and now he was fair game, a car revved, accelerating too quickly for the engine. There was a squeal of brakes and a loud _thunk_ as something heavy was hit, and then another, quieter fall of a human to the ground.

Holding my gun up, ready to fire, I slowly looked around the concrete in case it was a lure to get me within shooting range. It definitely wasn't. A black limousine sat guiltily in the middle of the road and Aimes was knocked flat on his back, gun several feet from his hand.

I blinked. And blinked again. And started to giggle, keeping my firearm out just in case while I jogged over to the man who was just _barely_ holding onto consciousness, groaning and squinting at the sun. He wasn't bloody or battered, but I very highly doubted he'd be doing any more running for a while. I reached down to pick up his gun from the cement and he didn't even notice. I put mine away and then wandered over to the driver's door of the limo.

The shaded window rolled down halfway. Mozzie had one hand on the wheel and the other was holding a full champagne glass, the bottle still in the cup holder between the front seats. "I was _never_ here," he informed, nodding at me slowly.

Funny, yes. Normal? … No. Absolutely not. This had never happened before.

Life no longer in danger, I was slowing down, mentally and physically. "Did you just… hit my suspect… with your _car?"_ I asked, in spite of the answer being obvious. I felt scandalized and conflicted. I mean, _sure,_ it was helpful, but… with a car!

"He was going to shoot you," Mozzie stated, sipping calmly from his drink like he _hadn't_ just committed vehicular assault.

I held up a hand and started to object, but closed my mouth with a click. _There… really isn't much that I can say to any of this…_ "But I didn't imagine that, did I?" I pressed, needing the confirmation that I wasn't going insane. I just met the guy officially a couple of days ago, and now he was hitting people with limos for me? "You hit him with your car?"

Rolling his eyes, Mozzie put down his champagne glass in the cup holder that wasn't already home to an almost-full bottle labeled Chardonnay. "You can thank me later."

I still felt like the incident had stunned me into dumbness. "How am I supposed to explain injuries from a hit-and-run in a leg chase?" I demanded.

Mozzie huffed. "You know, if you're gonna complain this much, I'll just stay out of it next time," he declared, glaring at me through the window.

 _He's right,_ part of me grudgingly accepted. The entire issue was ridiculous, but what mattered was that Aimes was caught and I was unharmed. Now I just needed to call Derek to make sure my CI and probie were equally uninjured, and have him come pick up the suspect before he recovered from being slammed into full-frontal by a limousine. Pinching the bridge of my nose, I contemplated whether it was a difference or similarity between us that Mozzie had intervened with a car as his weapon-of-choice, and on the behalf of someone who was part of an organization he was strongly against. Was it on principle of human ethics and being unwilling to watch someone be murdered, or because he knew I was Neal's first defense against other agents and legal retribution, or because we were technically friends now?

Too many questions and none of them were really important in the context, and none of them could be asked in a way that didn't sound completely impertinent, much less that I expected a real answer to.

"… Thanks," I said uncertainly, slapping the top of the car lightly, pretty sure that was what I was supposed to say. I could have been wrong. It's not like there's an _etiquette_ for someone body-checking an armed and dangerous suspect with a car.

Appeased, Mozzie raised a hand as if to say 'no problem' and rolled up the mechanical window, backing up from the scene of the latest crime.

* * *

"She hit me!" Aimes protested, his voice slurring oddly but characteristically and arrogantly angry. "With a car, she had a car that hit me…" The agent holding his shoulders and guiding him to a police car looked over his head at me.

"I was pursuing him on foot," I promised, half-lying without even having to think about it, and I lifted my shoulders as if I had absolutely no idea what the man's problem was. Lifting a hand from the man's shoulder, the agent drew circles by the side of his head, mouthing the word 'crazy' at me as he escorted him to the black and white.

"Watch your head," he said out loud, with a gruff tone to not show much compassion for the criminal that had decided to steal and frame. I really wouldn't hate Aimes as much as I found I did if it weren't for that he nearly ruined John's life to cover his own ass. If Kate and Dana weren't friends, would the case have even come to my attention? It likely would've been an open-and-shut, another tragic chapter in which the good guys accidentally imprisoned one of their own.

Personally, I thought that Aimes could hit his head again and no one would notice additional damage. He was already pretty damaged by Mozzie's blitz limousine attack. Just the thought made me smile wryly. Mozzie was a strange one, alright, but no matter how weird he was, he had a strange appeal to his quirks, though I'd probably never figure out exactly why I liked him when he seemed like he could be deathly annoying in the right situation. Still, he was Neal's friend, and he had protected me (by body-checking my suspect with a car) so I kind of owed him one.

"I'll make sure the courts know that you helped us out," I promised to the blonde reporter as she was handcuffed and led out after her accomplice. Just because I promised that ethically didn't mean I was all too thrilled about her getting a reduced sentence, but we couldn't have gotten Aimes on the right grounds without her playing along.

Alicia didn't seem like it brightened her day much, her face sullen and still a little stunned at how she'd been tricked. Her cardigan was pulled up around her throat like she'd tried to gather it around her neck defensively before she'd been put in the handcuffs for her official arrest. Her eyes trailed up to me from the asphalt, but they were startlingly blank, and she emotionlessly looked forward again to the cruiser she was going to ride in.

 _This'll teach her not to smuggle artifacts,_ I thought smugly, yet couldn't stop the tinge of sorrow I was feeling in my chest. She had been on the brink of going into debt. Aimes was charismatic and he chose to harness that charm and persuasion to drag her onto his side, only to shove her out as soon as he didn't need her. What she was going to get really wasn't worth what she had gotten for it.

I sauntered over to Neal and Diana. Diana was wearing her windbreaker over the exposing, fashionable top to cover up, shivering slightly while her hair blew. Neal was reassuring himself and promising her that he knew she'd been bluffing when she told the bodyguard to shoot at him, to which Diana cryptically asked, "Was I?" Neal uncomfortably didn't know how to answer that, so he reiterated that she'd been bluffing. Diana responded quickly and with a small smirk, which just made Neal look down and then kind of nod agreement.

"I'm going to see to it that Mitchell's released," I said aloud as I joined them, stopping beside Neal and looking between Derek and Diana, proud of their work on the case. This wasn't a job many agents would have taken, not with all of the "evidence" against John in the first place. Because of my team – and yes, Neal was included in my team – an innocent man was exonerated, free to rejoin his wife and reap the rewards of an honorable service and a safe return home. "Would you want to see the happy couple?" I offered to Neal, knowing that he was kind of a sucker for those.

Diana and Derek looked at each other. Whatever they were thinking was beyond me, especially when both of them looked back with identical smirks and Diana critically told me, "I think we've already seen one, so we're good."

* * *

Within the hour, my living room looked more like the set of a sad romance movie where the heroine almost made it to the airplane. John hadn't let go of Dana since they'd run to each other. Dana hadn't stopped sobbing for relief and ecstatic pleasure at having her husband back. John, I suspected, was also crying, but his face was hidden against Dana's hair, so I couldn't see well enough to tell for sure. Kate looked through the doorframe at Neal and I in the hallway and gave us two thumbs-up. It felt like she was telling us _you did good for emotionally-stunted morons._

"Well," Neal murmured, not wanting to interrupt the Mitchells' reunion. "It looks like you can go home again."

I kept my hands in my pockets but pinched my tongue with my teeth. Being home, in my warm and familiar bed with memory foam, three pillows, and a stuffed animal sounded good.

Being in a warm bed with memory foam, three pillows, and Neal sounded a hell of a lot better.

I wanted to re-do what never should have been done. I would think myself in circles over that, I was sure. I should never have just jumped into bed with my consultant. I never should have slept with my friend without considering the ramifications. But, maybe more importantly, I never should have run out on him or started to treat him differently because of his soulmark. How the hell can I preach about how soulmates don't affect who we are or shouldn't have an effect on our emotions for people when I panicked and acted the way I did towards him just because I saw his?

His soulmark had thrown me. And it would probably throw me a bit every time I saw it for a long time. I could live with that. I _had_ to live with that. Regardless of whether or not I saw it, I would always know it was there now. I couldn't pretend it had never happened, because I would never forget that Neal – beautiful, witty, charismatic, insufferable, headache-inducing, flirtatious, criminal Neal – was supposed to be _mine._ Damn it, though, I don't want some predestined tattoo to determine the way I interact with him.

If I'm going to run out on him after sleeping with him, I'm damn well going to run out for a much better reason than a fucking tattoo that I repeatedly tell myself I don't care about.

"Well… if you don't have plans tonight, I mean-" I caught my tongue and shyly looked over at him, almost embarrassed to be the one suggesting it. After my reaction last time, I doubted he would have, which left me to make the move. "My things are still at yours."

I could feel my heart beating harder and could hear the blood rushing in my ears.

"Of course," he said too quickly. "I mean, you're welcome to come over." He paused. "For the night," he added, like there was any doubt over exactly what was being suggested, offered, implied... wanted.

"It would just be irresponsible to leave my duffel in your space if I'm not there," I rationalized calmly, as if that was really all that it was. It was so much more than that, some that he probably knew and understood and even shared, and some that I could not tell him and that he had no idea was even an issue.

Pretending to just realize something else, Neal finally broke the awkward tension from refusing to look directly at each other and he tilted his head towards the front door, keeping our eyes locked intensely. I thought I could get lost in the sapphire of his eyes. I always liked the color of mine, but _damn._ "And it would be rude not to invite June for Monopoly, since we told her we were busy last night."

"Ah. So staying the night again would be the responsible thing to do." I nodded in agreement and Neal kind of shrugged. "As a good Samaritan."

"You shouldn't be a bad Samaritan while you work for the government." The artist looked completely earnest. It was pathetic that we were justifying it like this, but I couldn't bring myself to care. I knew what I wanted. I knew now what I needed in order to justify my feelings to myself, and if Neal was on board, well, then. If it felt the same tonight as it had before I'd known, then I'd know that it really was my emotions in control, not some freaky, supernatural draw from matching angel wings. "You're representing the bureau."

"Exactly."

I blinked and swallowed and the room was too bright and too hot and my bra was too tight and my clothes were suffocating and there was way too much space keeping us apart.

* * *

It wasn't a complete lie, because Monopoly did happen that night. But June had things to do and I think she at least suspected something else, because after two rounds and three hours of Monopoly (which I made Neal promise not to hustle us at), she excused herself to leave. I didn't hear from Mozzie either indirectly or through Neal after he left the crime scene, and because it wasn't like Aimes was going to be another autopsy, I don't think anyone believed him about being hit with a car. I probably owed the cryptic guy. Aimes was likely a very good shot, and no one ever said anything about Mozzie being obligated to protect me.

In spite of the bitterness and the mental complications that resulted from previous indiscretions, it happened again. One thing led to another, I let some wine ply my lips, and drunkenness both from champagne and from a job well done and a case closed helped me be receptive to the advances that were perfectly between uncertainly indirect and intentionally obvious. Neal carried himself with confidence, and that carried over to the way he approached me when he had stress relief on his mind, and he knew me well enough to know the best way to get my attention. I didn't doubt that he would've backed off if I'd changed my mind, but instead I completely melted; again, we shared hot breaths and pleasured noises and intimacy behind closed doors, hard and slow at the same time. There wasn't as much of the uncertainty that came with the first time being together, but rather a quiet comfort of knowing in advance what felt the best and which spots were _absolutely_ okay to touch and which garnered the most fevered reactions. The familiarity with each other's bodies made it sexier and faster without taking away the sensuality which made my body sing in overdrive.

For whatever reason, I didn't wake up before morning sunlight streamed through the closed blinds and filtered through thick curtains. This time I'd stayed all night in a dreamless sleep, sated and warm. My phone hadn't rung with a case or a check-in; Kate probably guessed this would happen and wasn't worried about me returning late, so while I had a text asking for me to let her know when I was on my way home, she didn't seem bothered by that I hadn't replied yet. Without responding, I slid it back onto the table beside the bed and looked to my left at the exquisite man sleeping with me.

Last time I'd been here I'd panicked, ,and ever since, I had been caught between shock and exasperation. Now I thought I was thinking more clearly than I had in the entire time I'd been out of his bed. It had become more than a one-night-stand and the seven circles of Hell hadn't descended yet. There really was nothing particularly weird about me visiting or him sleeping in his own residence, and no one could prove we were having sex unless they bugged or recorded the bedroom (which was just all kinds of freaky) or forced a kit on me (which is not going to happen, because it requires an actual serious warrant and it would be very difficult to get the grounds for one). Being careful didn't mean that the world would end if I took advantage in his interest.

_Besides, every rom-com in history tells me that I have the right to enjoy being the object of his desire._

I was lying on my back with one of Neal's arms tossed across my stomach, his elbow bent and his hand slid underneath my back possessively, using my upper arm as a pillow and his breath ghosting over my breasts. His forehead was close to my shoulder and his hair was an unruly mop. His lips pouted in his sleep, his breathing even, his eyelashes delicately standing out against creamy skin. I stretched my neck to kiss his forehead softly. He was so peaceful while he slept – there wasn't any sign of a charismatic actor, or a conniving con artist, or a clever thief, and it was easier to pretend that I could really trust his intentions and feel at home with being held like I was someone important.

The arm he was resting his head on was already on his other side, and I bent my elbow to touch his upper back. Tired but so satisfied, I wrapped my other arm around him, shifting slightly to lay on my side without jostling him, sliding my hand down along his bare skin. The air smelled like sex and the sheets needed to be changed, and we both needed showers, but it was kind of nice to press my nose to his hair and breathe in what he smelled like without hair products and cologne brands. I finally touched the area over his lower spine where I knew the flaming red angel wing was located. It didn't feel special, didn't have any difference in texture to the rest of him, just a design of color pulled taut over firm muscles, but it was the claim I had to convince myself that it was okay to try this out, to feel for even a few minutes like I could belong here, that it wasn't an offense to anyone to enjoy being his every so often.

_It's strange how I discount soul marks, but now I'm using them to prove to myself that I'm allowed to want to be with Neal._

I shut my eyes against the sunlight and touched gentle lips to his forehead in another barely-there kiss, letting sleep weigh me back down… but before I let my thoughts start drifting again, I moved my hand away from his soulmark and down under the sheets to his thigh, softly touching his leg kicked over both of mine and ignoring the feel of the strap of his anklet against my calf.

* * *

**I want you to keep covering your soulmark, McKenna.**

**Remember when we were little and I used to think about my soulmate? God, I loved my soulmark. Best. Tattoo. Ever. I'd hold up my hand to a mirror and imagine that someone was standing behind me, showing me their wrist with the matching mark. Later on, the daydreams evolved. It became someone with my mark across their arm, the back of their neck, across their shoulder blade, on the inside of their thigh, sometimes on their chest. They're supposed to be all mine, no matter where it is on them, and sometimes I was a little pleased when my fantasy placed it somewhere where no one else could see it.**

**Boy, have I been disillusioned. The general public did a good job of teaching naïve, dumb, adolescent Zarra that she wasn't Cinderella, and her mate wasn't going to sweep her off her feet to a grand ball.**

**I can't even pretend to know how you'll feel about the situation when you finally meet the boy or girl who has a soulmark that matches yours, but basically, remember three things:**

**Life's full of disappointments. Don't be blown out of the water if they break your heart, so be cautious of how much you give.**

**Think of soulmates as suggestions. Like a dating website. They're not saying "follow this loser around forever," they're saying "check this one out, you might like this dork." And if that website doesn't work for you, then unsubscribe and delete the app from your phone. Metaphorically, I mean. Don't actually try to remove your soulmark. It's not like a tattoo; it can't be abraded away.**

**Since I'm so pessimistic, I want to give you the advice that I would have if I were still convinced that I'm going to have a happily-ever-after with my soulmate.** **_Love them._ ** **Odds are, if the universe hooked you up with them, they need you in some way or another. I can't tell you how or why, but you'll probably need them, eventually, too. If your mate's someone you want to stick around with, then don't waste time. Don't give them up. And for God's sake, don't give up on** **_them_ ** **.**

**Love (and learn to be loved, by whomever makes you happiest),**

**Zarra L**

* * *

 


	9. Flirt With the Boy Who's Looking at Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> McKenna, with Katie's help, comes to realize that there's a misunderstanding between herself and Neal. A high-profile criminal comes to McKenna's and Neal's attention when he robs a young college student.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Lucy Hale's "Goodbye Gone."

**_Chapter Nine – Flirt With the Boy Who's Looking At Me_ **

The best thing about waking up anymore was that I wasn't waking up _alone._ I hadn't realized how much I liked having someone to wake up with until I started staying full nights at Neal's. The times when I slept soundly enough to rest throughout the night and into the daybreak, I woke warm and happy, with company. I wanted to say that I could've gotten the same satisfaction out of sharing a bed with my sister, but it really wasn't the same. Part of the thing that made it so great was intimacy, and Neal and I had a physical intimacy that Katie and I didn't, so when we woke up, skin against skin, it was with a kind of closeness my sister and I never had.

Neal was wrapped around me, higher up on the bed with his head down so his mouth was near my forehead. There was a gap of space between us, taken up by our hands, and then our legs were tangled together on the lower half of the bed, Neal forcing his calves between mine and hooking his ankles behind my heels. His anklet was knocking against my leg, but not enough to have woken me up. In the middle of our little nest of blankets, Neal was stroking his fingers along the lines of my gloves.

The glove on my right wrist, in particular, nimble fingers playing with the laces and loosening the ties.

My heart nearly beat out of its chest, and I was woken up efficiently by the adrenaline shot. If Neal took my glove off, he'd see the soulmark. If he saw the soulmark…

I didn't want to give away that it was such a big deal, so I exhaled normally and tugged my hand out of his. Neal's fingers let go of my glove in an instant, permitting me to fold both hands near my face and tuck them under my cheek like an additional pillow.

"Stop that," I mumbled in complaint.

Neal paused for a second. "Sorry," he offered, although from the tone of his voice, he took my rebuff very lightly, and he didn't truly sound apologetic.

I huffed and disentangled our legs, making sure that I did it slowly enough that his anklet wasn't given the chance to hit my heel in the process. I learned from experience that that smarted for a while. Untucking my hands, I rolled over onto my right side, putting my back to the conman, and repositioned my clasped hands under my face again, shutting my eyes.

Behind me, Neal made an indignant squawking noise. I'd taken most of his blanket with me when I moved. A teasing smile grew on my face and I bit my lip to keep it under control. Undeterred, Neal reclaimed his right to warmth, scooting up and snuggling flush against my back. Leaving no gaps, he plastered himself along my body and threw one leg over both of mine, stretched an arm over my head, and wormed the other underneath my left elbow and across my chest, hugging me close.

I sighed softly and stayed still. Neal's chest felt comfortably hot against my back. If anything, I scooted a little bit backwards, fitting my hips against his waist and locking my ankles with my legs around one of his.

"Isn't it uncomfortable?" Neal asked curiously, his interest not fed. His voice was close by, his mouth near the back of my throat, his breath dancing over my neck and making me shiver. In turn, he tightened his arm across my breasts, as if keeping me against his chest was going to undo the effect of his own touch. "Wearing that all the time?"

Internally, I groaned. I should've known Neal would be a dog after a bone with the gloves, since I never took them off. Once or twice was one thing, but we'd kind of crossed the line from "just friends" a while ago, and he still had yet to see me without them, even in my sleep. When I took showers, I carried extra gloves with me into the bathroom, and had them on before I came out. Even I could admit that it was a little peculiar.

"No, not anymore." They had been tedious back when I'd started wearing them, but years and years of practice had made their wear second-nature. "Feel." I moved one of my hands out from under my head and shifted my arm to rub my wrist against Neal's forearm. "They're soft and airy. And, regardless, I told you they're staying on. If you take them off, there will be a big problem."

 _Not for the reason you think, but I'm not wrong._ There would be several problems, in fact; the bureau one of them, our interpersonal relationship another, the betrayal of my trust a third. Stripping me of my gloves in my sleep would be desperate, and it would also be a violation of the confidence I placed in him every time I let my guard down enough to close my eyes.

Neal nuzzled the back of my neck. "I got it, darling," he promised quietly, pushing his nose against my throat. I bent my head forward a little bit more just so that he could have more room. "… Have you seen mine?"

My aggravation grew. Of course I wore the gloves because of my soulmark. I'd already confirmed it for him verbally, even, on the first case we solved together. His curiosity was going to drive me right out of his bed if he wasn't careful. I'd said no, and it was a personal matter, so that should've been all there was to it. My soulmark in no way affected him while he thought it wasn't the match to his. So why was he so focused on it? Why did he have to make a big deal out of it?

Yes, I'd seen Neal's. He didn't have an issue with leaving his back uncovered. I didn't have an issue with it, either, except for the times when I wasn't expecting for my half-naked partner to leave me breathless from the uninvited reminder of the rom-com-worthy situation I was in. Every time I saw his soulmark, I felt like the splinter had been driven a little bit deeper.

I got the point he was trying to make. I could trust him to show him mine because he'd already let me see his. That wasn't the point. That wasn't the problem. My comfort didn't necessarily have anything to do with his presence.

"Trusting _you_ isn't the issue," I grumbled, mentally wrestling with whether or not I was upset to the point of wanting to move away from his warmth. I told myself it was because Neal could be clingy when he wanted to cuddle and I didn't feel like trying to extract myself from quicksand – the more I struggled, the tighter he'd hold and the louder he'd whine. "You aren't the motivation for everything I do. Please just let it go, Neal. You have enough of me." I touched the back of his hand again and shifted my hips against his waist, drawing his attention back to the intimacy we were sharing, even then. "You don't need to push until I give you this, too."

Silence met my words, but that wasn't the same as not receiving a reply. Neal pushed his nose carefully to the back of my head and extended his fingers, drawing the tips of his nails lightly over my collarbone without moving his arm from across my chest. I shut my eyes and took a deep breath.

"Sorry," he mumbled, his voice soft and apologetic. It was nice to hear him sound chastened, to know that he was taking it seriously. He may not respect the importance of the law, but at least he understood that my personal boundaries weren't to be crossed. "I am," he added a little louder to be insistent. "You're right, your soulmark is private. Just because I don't mind doesn't mean you should be held to the same expectation."

I calmed and consciously unwound. Muscles relaxed and I stopped holding myself quite so stiffly. "Thank you," I murmured, staring over the mattress and to the couch halfway across the room.

Good thing I had opted out of getting up, because I relaxed and melted back into his chest where he had molded around the curve of my back. Times like that, in the serene peace and the privacy of a darkened room, I could think of very few places I'd rather be. Reinforcing the thought, Neal turned his head to the side and rested his cheek against my throat. The side of his face was soft, but along his jawline, stubble scratched pleasantly on sensitive skin.

Neal noticed my content sigh and intentionally rubbed his jaw against me. "You're so cuddly," he teased when I giggled, using his leg over mine to draw my lower body back, pulling my torso with him as he rolled to the side. The artist dragged me half-on top of him, upper back pillowed with his right arm and my head against his shoulder.

" _I'm_ the cuddly one?" I snorted in disbelief and pointedly tried to move my legs. Neal growled playfully and locked his leg over my knees, preventing me from moving. The lowered timbre of his voice made me shudder, even as I kept trying to complain. "Says the human version of cling wrap!"

He loosened his hold so I could move, yet I made no move to free myself. Instead, I turned my head to the left and bumped my forehead against his jaw, shutting my eyes and stretching momentarily to kiss his throat.

"Don't act like I'm the only one," he warned. "And _yes,"_ he added as an afterthought in response to my claim that I was _not_ physically affectionate. "You fit perfectly in my arms," he crooned, demonstratively stroking down my side with the arm not pinned under my elbow. "See? I can hold you like this all night."

"You already did, you giant teddy bear." I accused.

I loved the cuteness, the stifling affection that would've made me gag if I'd been watching it as a third party. Being part of it made me feel warm, wanted, and thriving. It wasn't a perfect relationship, but soulmark or no, sex or no, Neal was such a sweet and compassionate man that I enjoyed being able to feel some mix of vulnerable and comfortable with him at the same time. In a risky, jeopardizing way, I found a thrill in giving him the power to hurt me and trusting him not to. The most harm he was doing to me was spoiling me so I wouldn't be able to stay comfortable when I was in bed alone.

"Oh, you love it," he chuckled, kissing my temple and resettling his arms until he was more comfortable. Then he held the position, making it perfectly clear that he had no intention of moving.

I wiggled a little bit until I was closer to his neck, then buried my eyes against his throat, blocking out the light while inhaling a little of his familiar scent with every breath. He did the same, taking in the fruity smell of my hair and lips curving into a smile against the side of my head. Thankfully, neither of us were due to get up for another few hours – the one advantage to waking at night was the gift of being given an extra opportunity to fall asleep.

There wasn't supposed to be a light in the dark bedroom. The sun wasn't rising for another hour. Why was there a light in the bedroom?

"Kenna," Neal prompted, also sounding moderately annoyed at the intrusive electronics. "Your phone's lighting up. Check it, would you?"

Groaning loudly, I rolled as far to the right as I could and reached out, stretching my arms for the table. Neal didn't let go of me, stubbornly holding on. I managed to catch the edge of the phone with my fingertips and drag it a few inches closer to the edge, then yanked it onto the mattress, where I could pick it up. The screen's brightness made me narrow my eyes, and it took me several seconds of blinking and scowling to be able to read the written words. Discontentedly, I shut the screen off and put it to sleep. Neal cuddled closer in the returned darkness and drew his left hand slowly across my stomach, back and forth, rhythmic and repetitive.

"Well?" He asked, picking up his head. "Did anyone go to the hospital overnight?"

"No," I answered with a whine, "But it looks like we have a new case…" I was just about to explain the basics of Derek's messages in between scattered, petty insults at Derek (fueled by my aggravation at being summoned at five AM) when it occurred to me that the purposeful drag of his fingers over my abdomen was more than just lazy stroking.

I tensed up against my will. All the thin lines, the silvery marks on my skin that stood out just enough to be almost immediately noticeable – I didn't like to think about them, and while I didn't object to my stomach being touched, it was rather intimate to caress over old injuries.

Neal felt it when I stopped being quite so pliable and responsive, almost ready to shut down. Sensing the change in my attitude, he stopped tracing the lines. Instead, he laid his entire hand out flat on my abdomen, fingers splayed wide. He didn't cover all of the scars, but he covered a few of them, and I got the intended message – _it's okay. You're safe. They don't matter to me._

They mattered to me, though, and having him pay so much attention to them meant that, to some extent, they _did_ take his attention. If I was going to be involved with someone, then I wanted their attention on me in the moment, not the remnants of the version of me that writhed on the floor in a haze of terror and excruciating agony and that almost bled to death.

"Pretty freaky, isn't it?" I asked bitterly. My moods about my scars came and went, but I was always more sensitive about it when I was naked. "Let me up," I said softly, intending to roll over and get out of bed. We had a case.

I expected him to do as he was told. There had been one other time when Kate had called twice in a row and I had gotten worried, and he had stopped the moment I said to, without pause or complaint. There was admittedly a difference between then and now in that I didn't want him to stop now, I just wanted to stop thinking about the scars. I didn't want him looking at my body and seeing those.

Instead, he kept his hand over my stomach, not restraining me but not being completely freeing, either. "No, it's not," he argued a little forcefully, moving himself to the side and pushing himself lower on the mattress. Instead of being at a height were my head could fit against his shoulder, he was low enough to press his lips to the soft spot between my jaw and my neck. Which he did, twice. "I've told you, they're the proof that you _survived._ You're a fighter."

Neal was so passionate that I didn't move. He sounded like he really believed himself. I didn't see them that way. I saw them as a reminder of the time that I couldn't protect myself. For some reason, he saw them as a prize. _Wow, yes, now every day I can relish being fileted alive._

He slipped his hand to the left over my skin, cupping my side in his palm and pushing himself up to his knees. Neal crawled backwards. I dropped my knees entirely to the bed to let him and he held himself over me, lowering down onto his elbows to reverently kiss one of the most prominent scars, one that was shallow towards my ribcage and got deeper as it traveled down past my belly button and close to my waistline.

"They're beautiful," he mouthed, both of his hands holding onto my sides and stroking his thumbs over flesh. I felt his lips moving over my stomach and sighed, gradually relaxing more and more. " _You're_ beautiful," Neal followed that scar down with the tip of his tongue, pressing another, harder kiss to the end of the mark. "You just have battle scars."

 _Well… that was one way of looking at it…_ A way that was a little too optimistic, too bright for me to get behind, but it would be lying to say that it wasn't kind of him, and even just the emotional closeness of being comforted about my insecurity made me reach down, wanting to touch him in any way. My left hand cupped the back of his neck while my right threaded fingers into his hair, gently scratching at his scalp without pulling.

He mapped out every single scar from that horrific incident with his lips and tongue, murmuring loving phrases of comfort and worship against my skin, and when he ran out of scars, he shifted lower. Neal took one of my legs in hand and prompted me to lift my thigh over his shoulder. I had let go of his neck but kept my hand in his hair. My entire body pulsed with anticipation and I breathed heavily, other hand fisting into the sheets.

I hated being patient but it was always worth the wait with Neal. The man had talent, and the soft scratch and tease of stubble on his chin and over his upper lip spiked every nudge of his nose, every touch of his jaw, into the stratosphere. I bit my tongue so I wouldn't shout.

* * *

"There's a stolen painting from a private home," I called across the room before taking a long drink of water, trying to wash the taste of latex out of my mouth.

"Coffee?" Neal offered, voice even and smooth now that he'd had a drink and talked a bit. And moaned a lot. And said my name a few times.

"Yeah, sure." I picked up my phone again after it had gotten lost in the bedspread. I'd had to shake out the blankets to find it. "I'll call them back if you want to take first shower," I volunteered, finding my shirt and using it to cover my chest for modesty.

"I'll just go make the coffee." I politely gave him his privacy while he pulled on his briefs and a pair of sweatpants from the drawer that would have to suffice until he could bathe. "I can shower faster anyway. I just mean, all that hair." He motioned to his and grimaced at mine. I laughed. Yeah, I could imagine I spent more time shampooing and conditioning than he did.

"Fair enough." I forewent gathering the rest of my clothes if I was just going to get clean in a few minutes and held a blanket around me while I went to his closet and pulled out my extra duffel bag with my overnight kit and a clean suit. "The painting was a Haustenberg," I said loudly over my shoulder. "Recognize the name?"

Neal rubbed his eyes with the insides of his wrists. "Haustenberg, yeah," he yawned. "Not something I'd expect from a residential robbery." He looked so cute, all tired out when it was barely even six AM yet. Wide-eyed and sated Neal was probably one of my favorite versions.

I nodded, just going along with it. I wouldn't know any better. "Go make the coffee and I'll have Derek send the address," I instructed nicely.

"Good." Neal walked over to the foot of the bed and sleepily smiled down at me. "I'd like to meet the person who keeps a Haustenberg over their mantel."

I was about to say _I bet you would_ when I was cut off by a kiss. Not a sensual or enticing kiss, just a… a sweet, good-natured, _good morning sweetheart_ kiss. I mostly let him do it because I hadn't seen it coming. We weren't supposed to be kissing when we weren't turned on, were we? No, I was pretty sure that wasn't part of the deal…

It was kept short and so he didn't really notice that I was too shocked to participate in the peck on my lips. Then, grinning, he stroked my hair out of my face, reached past me to pick up a comb from the dresser, and was out of the way before I could say anything to any affect.

* * *

"I love Haustenberg," Neal said admiringly, smiling slightly out the windshield while I drove. "Which one of his paintings was stolen?"

" _Young Girl with Locket,"_ I said, a little unimpressed with the title which left a little to be desired. At least it was straightforward, lacking the interpretive abstract thinking of half of the painters from Europe.

I had just had the title read to me over the phone while Neal was busy scrubbing shampoo into his hair, but Neal must have thought I had an entire case file on it. "What, no photograph?" He asked, only half-joking. When did he expect me to have gotten any physical record of anything about this case? While I was brushing my teeth or tying up my hair?

"No," I said slowly, and sarcastically turned to look at him, offering a tight smile. "But I bet if you Google it, it's a painting of a young girl with a locket."

Neal chuckled, looking back out the windshield with his eyes down to his lap, his face lit up with affection and mirth. "You don't get enough credit for your deductive skills," he laughed. Normally something like that would be said sarcastically from him, but I guess he was just in a good mood.

"I know," I replied smugly, sitting a little straighter.

"Haustenbergs are really rare," the art expert went on to explain. "Not many of his works made it out of Hungary after the war, so this one's at least a couple million."

He could have specified which war, but I was going to just pretend I knew. I didn't like letting him have the advantage of knowing when I was clueless. By Neal's standards, at least, I was a little bit uncultured. "Rarity tends to rocket the prices up, just like age," I said wisely instead. Then I turned my eyes to him between glances at the road and pressed on the brakes to slow down for a red light, and kept my eyes on him for longer seconds.

"What?" He asked when he realized he was beings stared at. I blinked. "Why are you looking at me like that?" Neal complained.

"Think about it," I said in complete seriousness. I could adore the man all I wanted, but part of adoring someone for who they are includes acknowledging their flaws. Neal's most worrisome flaws happened to be easy to overlook, since he covered up sticky fingers and slick plotting with charisma and an excellent portrayal of innocence.

Offended, Neal leaned back towards the window, holding his hands out as widely as he could in the confines of my car. "I didn't steal it!"

"I know you didn't steal it, genius," I retorted, rolling my eyes. I had to start going again when traffic moved. At this rate, it wouldn't be very long before we got to the address programmed into my GPS. "You were with me all night. Yet you like paintings, and especially this guy's, so if we _do_ find it, will it be too tempting?"

Temptations can be one of two things: _oh man I really want this_ or _oh man I am going to have this_ , and Neal seemed to have trouble distinguishing between the two in regards to their appropriateness in the situation, as his long criminal history showed.

"I can handle temptations," Neal swore, meeting my eyes for a minute and keeping his face completely straight and honest. Then he realized the car was moving and he tensed up a little bit, his eyes breaking contact and looking at the street. "Want to keep your eyes on the road?" He offered nervously.

Normally I would have, but I wanted to screw with him a little. For fun. I have great peripheral vision and I was keeping notice of the colors on the monitor in the center of the car that would tell me if it was sensing any obstruction or vehicle too close for comfort. We were only going twenty in a residential zone, anyway. "My car's equipped with a navigation system," I almost boasted about having a fancy car but instead just tried to sound matter-of-fact. I don't think I succeeded. "If I drift, it'll correct itself. I'm keeping my eyes on _you_ , Caffrey," I teased.

"Good, okay, yeah…" Neal didn't object to that, but one of his hands found his seatbelt and wrapped long fingers around the strap. "But the road is important, too," he added without subtlety.

"I see the road," I chuckled, finally giving him a break and letting him watch me put more attention to driving. "Don't be so nervous. I know what I'm doing." I'd been driving for years. I drove in Eastern Europe without incident, and that's saying something compared to American traffic. Neal looked unconvinced, so I decided I was also going to be unconvinced that I was done picking on him, so I reached for my phone in an empty cup holder. "Look, I'm going on my phone now, too!"

Turning the screen so that Neal could watch me as I was doing it, for the proof that I really was getting on my cell, I let my fingerprint open the lock screen and went into the app the US Marshals had installed onto my device. The loading circle spun around a full time before it loaded on a grid-like map of Manhattan, then zoomed in on our specific location – or, more precisely, _Neal's_ specific location.

"You're checking my anklet?" Neal demanded indignantly.

"I always check your anklet," I told him honestly. It wasn't supposed to be any sort of secret. He'd made this deal with me knowing that no matter what kind of relationship we had, I would be obligated to keep track of his activities. "Every day, so I can see where you've been – don't even start," I cut him off before he could begin when he started pouting sourly. "It's an order from Hughes to be extra certain I know whatever it is you're up to." I went into the history thoughtfully. Nothing seemed strange. He wasn't anywhere I'd been until the night before in the penthouse, because I'd had my own job to do independent of outside recon. I'd been stuck in an office all day. "What was so interesting about Grand Central Station last night?"

Neal had spent over an hour at a major transportation station. That was going to look a little sketchy to anyone else, but I just asked, giving him the benefit of the doubt. Grand Central had a lot of attractions, not just trains.

"Moz knows an oyster bar that's the best in town," Neal explained. I nodded slightly. Mozzie seemed to have found his niche in the city – that niche was one that very carefully avoided my own. It if weren't for Neal, we wouldn't even know that each other existed. "I stayed within my radius," he defended guardedly.

"I see that," I said mildly, unsure what he wanted from me. I wasn't accusing him of anything, just playing – I realized then that I must have touched a sensitive subject and made a note to myself that the tracking anklet wasn't meant to be a source of entertainment for him, so I should avoid it in the future.

I was about to apologize for accidentally crossing a boundary, but when I turned my head for a second to look at him and get a read on his mood, he had turned to the passenger window, crossed his arms, and bowed his head, staring out the glass.

"You're kidding me," I blurted without thinking. "Are you sulking? Because I'm doing my job?"

I'll admit that I had been a little harsh when we had started out, but since then, I had become a lot less like a handler and more like a friend – or so I thought, anyway, but by the way he was acting, looking at his tracking data was a betrayal. Personally, I could see a silver lining to his situation – if he was ever attacked or kidnapped (God forbid), we would either be able to find him from the transmitter chip or we would know instantly something was wrong when it was cut. Neal, however, didn't see it that way, which surprised me when I took his perspective. He spent four years in prison and now he's out. The anklet may not represent complete freedom, but it's like comparing a cardboard box to a five-star hotel, jail being the former and the anklet being the condition of the latter.

"You don't trust me," Neal muttered. I sighed but held my tongue before I said something rude – his feelings were hurt.

Instead of saying something cunning, I sighed quietly. "I'm gonna go with Reagan's slogan here: trust but verify."

Irritated, Neal turned his body back to face me and belligerently shot back, "Did you know that was also the motto of the Soviet Secret Police?"

"Did you know this car isn't a democracy?" I retorted back swiftly. I would be nice, but I wouldn't roll over. He could have a hissy fit if he really wanted, but he wouldn't get to be rude to me for doing what he signed off on me doing. He can't change those expectations just because now we're sleeping together. It's sex, it's stress relief, it's fun; it's not everlasting love or complete, unconditional trust.

"Neal, if I didn't trust you, I never would have agreed to the deal. If I didn't trust you, I would never have let you into my house, yet you decide to come marching in pretty frequently." And he never gets reprimanded, either, because Katie and I both like having him around. There was another point I could make – _if I didn't trust you, I wouldn't be letting you screw me_ – but that seemed a little crass, even for me.

Neal continued to sulk angrily out the window. I sighed again, intentionally louder. He was being unreasonable. Most people are somewhat unreasonable when they're agitated, but he had to come around sooner or later. In the meantime, I'd rather preserve a working civility.

"How _is_ Mozzie?" I asked conversationally after a moment, looking over to him, hoping he would take the truce. I was also a little bit genuinely curious about Mozzie's wellbeing, but I wasn't going to say that out loud.

"Eyes, road," Neal snapped shortly.

I turned back to the street and my back slouched again. _So much for a good morning,_ I thought glumly. "Yeah, alright, Mom," I responded archly, turning on the radio and adjusting the volume so I could concentrate on music instead of hearing myself think.

* * *

The woman we ended up talking to did _not_ fit the typical demographic for this kind of residential robbery. We were let inside by a young blonde who looked like she could still be in high school, wearing a black pencil skirt to her knees with a blouse tucked in, dotted with red, white, and black. The neckline made a 'V' on her chest but was too narrow to be inappropriate, and it permitted her three necklaces – a locket, a green pendant, and a skeleton key – to swing freely on their chains.

"Wow, the FBI," she laughed a little bit, tense herself and trying to be more comfortable. Neal and I shared a look and both of us smiled sympathetically at her. She _had_ just been robbed. "You're really taking this seriously, huh?"

"Home invasions are my least favorite," I explained, skin crawling as I unwillingly remembered my own experience with them. I indicated Neal, who had put any sign of sulkiness aside in favor of being the other half of my unflappable team. "And this one's an art expert. Special Agent McKenna Anderson, White-Collar Crime Division." She took my offered hand for a quick shake and left her other arm folded across her front, clearly a little shaken up. "Are you the homeowner?" I asked politely.

This house wasn't a typical house. It was the kind that belonged to the rich. It wasn't as large or as extravagant as June's, and instead of being more isolated, this one was tucked in between two other houses with the same layout, so it didn't stand out in the neighborhood. Her home was still a far cry from mine, with three stories, curving staircases, high ceilings, and pricy furniture sets. Just from being in the entryway, I could tell that if it did belong to this girl, then she was a trust fund baby or the relative of some very wealthy people.

She nodded. "Yes, I am." I nodded my understanding. _Trust fund kid._ She gestured for us to come further inside and started to lead us to the stairs, placing a small hand on the black-painted banister. Neal and I followed, assuming she was leading us to where the crime had taken place. Additionally, she proved that she had seen my somewhat skeptical look. "I'm Julianna Laszlo, my parents are dead, I'm over twenty-one, and I was robbed. Any other questions?"

 _Now I feel a little stupid._ I don't judge people from their financial status, just their behavior, but trust fund kids tend to have a different outlook on various things than the people that had to legitimately work just to earn enough money to live safely.

"Was the painting insured?" I asked, scolding myself internally to be more discreet. Clearly, Julianna wasn't the type to be overly insulted, but she easily could have been.

"No," she answered, walking into a parlor or sitting room on the second floor, directly to the right of the stairs going down. The carpet was a cream color with artsy flecks of red, orange, green, purple, blue, and bright yellow. I liked it, even wished I had that carpeting at my house.

She turned abruptly around to face us in front of a brown mantelpiece with a sculpted vase of daisies on either corner. Over the center, there was a much lighter square oN the wall where something had been protecting it from a gradually-acquired layer of dust. The room looked long from this angle, extending all the way back to the front of the house. I was curious about the layout, but was not about to ask about her home decorating or where her kitchen was.

"It's worth two-point-six million!" Neal exclaimed, unwilling to hold his tongue any longer, looking at the square over the mantel incredulously and then turning back to Julianna.

"Um…" She looked at him helplessly and slowly shrugged as if to say _I don't know what you want to hear._ The transition from the painting's worth to her explanation of the events wasn't smooth in the least, but she was confident enough to just go ahead and do it instead of justifying her decisions. "That's where it was," she pointed. "Tuesdays I have classes. The instructor let us out early. I came in here and there was this… _monster_ here, and he shoved me up against the wall."

"He attacked you?" I asked with my eyes widening in appropriate concern, and immediately did a sweep of her body. She didn't look injured. Her hair was a little bit messy, but only to the extent that mine was after a few hours of being brushed without also being tied.

"Yeah," she replied, holding her hands in front of her stomach. Her hands were what gave away the nervousness as she played with her fingers, picking at her fingernails and rubbing her knuckles. "I hit him in the face, and he said if I did it again, he would kill me."

 _You're very lucky that he didn't,_ I thought privately, looking down to the colorful carpet solemnly and taking a minute.

"What did you do?" Neal compassionately asked, his head tilted and his eyes concerned enough to suck in anyone. I assumed he was genuine in the worry. No one should have to be assaulted or threatened in their own home. It changed how safe you felt for months, _years_ afterwards, possibly your entire life.

Julianna looked between us with a frown like we were being dumb and missing the obvious. "… I hit him again," she answered with a shrug of one shoulder like it was not a big deal.

I laughed, relieved. Clearly, the intruder had never intended to follow through with that threat. I liked Julianna. She had no desire to take anything from some masked bastard who thought that he could shove her around. It reminded me a little of myself. Neal's smile was warm and he looked down, tongue between his teeth as he tried not to also laugh as he pictured the scene.

"I like you already," I told her, only half-joking. "Do you have a picture of the painting? Your report only had a description."

What I'd said in the car held true – _Young Girl with Locket_ could probably be Googled if it was by a famous painter, which it apparently was – but it was important to be able to tell, to the best of our ability, if the painting that had been stolen was actually the real thing instead of some copy or knockoff, or even a completely misrepresented and inaccurate portrayal.

Julianna started to slowly nod after looking to my right, out the doorway and back into the hallway. "Um, yeah. Yeah, probably upstairs in an album."

I didn't even have to subtly hint that I would like for her to retrieve it and bring it to me. Julianna waved respectfully at Neal, who picked up his hand and waved right back, never one to ignore attention. We both turned in opposite directions to watch her leave the parlor, her shoes landing heavily on the tile outside the threshold and her hair bouncing on her back.

"Can I help you?" Someone else asked. Julianna wasn't even out of sight yet before we were being stared upon by an irate-looking man in a three-piece, with brown hair cut close to his scalp, a yellow tie with blue plaid, and a briefcase with silver locks. He saw us through the rails on the banister and started climbing up faster.

"Oh!" Julianna's initial surprise made me tense, but she seemed still relaxed, like she'd expected the person to be here. "It's okay, Gary. It's the FBI. They're here about the painting." While Gary reached the top of the stairs and Julianna led him to the outside of the sitting room, Neal and I waved simultaneously. "This is my uncle," the blonde introduced swiftly before she left the three of us to ourselves and went back to her route to the third floor.

"Of course," Gary blustered, seeming embarrassed by his attitude now that he knew who we were. I held out a hand to shake good-naturedly. I could hardly blame him for his reaction. "Thank you for coming so quickly."

Neal stayed slightly behind me, a little more reserved. "Were you here when it happened?" I inquired, trying to get an idea of why he was just now getting here or why he was present at all. Then again, if Julianna was parentless, then her uncle might be her closest family.

"No," he denied, frown fixed firmly in place. "I was at work. I wish I could be more help."

"Great," Neal muttered.

I looked over my shoulder at him. The conman had already lost interest in Gary. I turned back to him and smiled apologetically. "Excuse me." I turned around and led Neal back into the room, chasing him back to the mantelpiece. "What do you think?" I asked quietly. "Inside job?" He didn't usually react that poorly to new people without a reason, and the circumstances of the robbery seemed a little off.

What were the odds that someone breaking in was going to do so right as Julianna was supposed to be on campus? And on top of that, why would Gary only just now be getting here, or be surprised that Julianna called the authorities? The robbery was hours ago. If I were him, I'd have taken the day off to go see my niece.

Neal nodded slightly. Meaningfully, he indicated the square of cleaner wall. "Thief knew her schedule and nothing else was taken. I'd go with that."

"Me, too," I decided, touching his shoulder appreciatively. "Help Julianna find the photo, okay? I'm going to question Gary some more." It seemed like he wasn't frightened enough for his niece's sake, and exactly what kind of job made it impossible to leave when he heard his family was attacked in a home invasion?

Neal copied me and touched my shoulder, too. "Got it, Kenna," he agreed amicably and smiled affectionately. I rolled my eyes and gave him a little push towards the door. At least he was done pouting.

* * *

After getting a copy of the photograph, Julianna offered us lemonade. By then, my talk with Gary had already gone way downhill, so I politely declined before Neal could accept, and he shut his mouth with a little pout of his lips but then smiled and said goodbye.

"That is the fastest I have ever seen someone call a lawyer since joining the WCCD," I told Neal while we walked back to the car, not at all exaggerating. Gary had decided to shut his mouth, plead the fifth, and call his lawyer even faster than I'd thought Tony Fields had (although that lawyer turned out to be his killer, but whatever). "He's a stock trader on Wall Street, his attorney will answer any further questions I may have, and _damn it I know my rights, I don't have to say anything to you without speaking to my lawyer first._ " I mimicked an annoying, nasally voice to make fun of the guy.

"So Uncle Gary tips off the thief, splits the take," Neal theorized.

"Mm." I hummed in agreement until I really considered it, and it was thanks to Neal reminding me of his relation to Julianna. He'd had his own family robbed. What a loser. "That's not very reliable. Too many variables, the thief flips on him, thief doesn't give him his cut, thief hurts his niece. Having someone take it from the house of a relative isn't smart, it's _desperate."_

My consultant cottoned on by the time we were reaching the car further down the sidewalk from Julianna's house. The driveway was occupied by her own car, which was parked fairly close to the road, being the only resident who actually lived there. "Then he must owe someone money," Neal altered his suggestion. "And a lot of it, too."

"But he's shut up, so now we have to wring him." I suppressed a sigh, lacing my fingers and pushing both hands out to crack my knuckles. He already had a lawyer. It wasn't going to be easy.

Neal stopped by the driver's side of the car. His eyes dropped down to my hands and he misread my cracking knuckles. "That doesn't sound good," he said flippantly, raising his eyebrows. I almost laughed. I had bad timing on that action. "Look, all we need is the name of the guy he's working with, right?"

I put down my hands and leaned against the car door, watching Neal curiously to see what he was thinking. "Right," I confirmed.

"So why don't we do it my way?" He asked hopefully, shooting me a winning smile.

"Your way," I replied unsurely. Exactly what did Neal's way entail? _Probably nothing I'd approve of, strictly speaking…_

"Yeah!" He grinned. It did not boost my confidence.

"Are we going to forge his signature on a fake contract?" I asked smartly, then made an 'oh' with my mouth and held my arms out. _Shots fired!_

Neal stared at me, dryly unimpressed. I thought I was funny. Evidently I was the only one who thought so. "Allegedly," he made sure to say first, and I nodded and waved him onward. I knew the protocol by now. "My way is much more sophisticated than a bunch of signature forgeries." He nodded down to my waist and started to motion to my hip. "You carry a gun, you're intimidating. We can use that."

The fact that I needed to look intimidating was… not the most reassuring. "You can't threaten him," I cautioned, making sure he understood the new rules he was working with. I might have to go along with it out of intrigue alone, but I wouldn't go on blind faith that he wouldn't push the bureau's buttons. He seemed to have too much fun doing that.

"I don't plan to," Neal promised.

"Or lie."

"Alright, alright." A little bit annoyed, Neal pursed his lips and glared at me. I just silently asked him if I was wrong to be telling the conman not to start verbally conning someone he wanted something from, and he reluctantly ceded that maybe I had a point. "Do you trust me?" Neal inquired.

 _Yes_. Anything that required that question probably wasn't something I wanted to immediately respond positively to, though, so… "Well, if I say 'no,' you're going to start skulking again," I pointedly stated. "So what the hell. What've you got in mind?"

If Neal was bothered by my reference to his quite frankly juvenile behavior, then he didn't show it. He didn't even do me the dignity of responding directly to that quip. Tossing his arm up on top of the car, he pushed his side against the door while we talked, and as he planned, he grew excited – eyes getting brighter, if that was possible, his soft lips grinning, carrying himself straighter and higher.

"They were surprised the FBI was investigating," he thought back. "They weren't expecting feds. You never actually showed them your badge, did you?"

I hadn't really thought about it until we were already talking to Julianna about the crime, and at that point she had clearly believed us about being with the bureau, so it hadn't seemed like there was much of a point. Gary hadn't asked to see my credentials either, had just taken Julianna's word for it.

"No," I started shaking my head with an almost embarrassed shrug. It wasn't a big deal, but it was typically advised to show your badge when you talked to someone about an in-progress investigation. "Julianna didn't ask to see it, and Gary was busy making his phone calls." I made a face. That guy was going to piss me off. Having someone rob his niece was just low. Neal excitedly rocked forwards onto his toes. Surveying his enthusiasm, I asked nervously, "Am I going to regret agreeing to this?"

He laughed heartily instead of answering.

* * *

Neal's plan was simple to the point that I didn't really think it would work, but he was adamant that it was at least worth a try, and it technically wasn't going to break any laws, so I decided I would give in and go along with it. I liked seeing things from Neal's perspective sometimes. It gave me insight into the way he thought.

Just as I was beginning to die of boredom outside the stock trading building that Julianna's uncle worked in, yawning widely and frequently with Neal scolding me to be patient, the man we were waiting for came out of the front lobby. Neal and I acted calm and casual, as if we weren't here to be up to no good. We were going to the trouble of leaning on a taxi like careless villains. The meter was running. We (correction: _I_ ) were paying for the taxi just so we could have something to lean on and look cool.

"Tell me, Gary," Neal said loudly over the hubbub of traffic on the street. He got the trader's attention in seconds and the man had zeroed in on the two of us outside his offices. "Does Julianna know you helped steal the painting?"

Gary stormed over, drawing himself up high, his arms swinging. His briefcase was going to hit his leg if he didn't control it more, and that would probably be pretty painful. Still, his problem, not mine. "You can't be here," he seethed at Neal, pointing furiously at the taxi as a way of telling us to get in and leave. "My lawyer was _very_ clear!"

I knew the basic plan, although Neal had advised that "the best script is not _having_ a script," whatever he meant by that. I picked up a hand from my side and looked at the acrylics on my fingernails. I needed to have them repainted; they were getting visibly scratched. It couldn't hurt to have them filled at the same time. "Little bit of advice for dealing with feds, hiring a lawyer makes you look guilty. Believe me, I know," I misleadingly informed, far more interested in my fingernails than I was in the co-conspirator.

"Secondly," Neal hesitated, then smirked at the man standing on the curb. "Do I _look_ like an FBI agent?"

I took the chance to look him over again while Gary did the same thing. No, he didn't. Neal was handsome as ever, but either his demeanor or some subtle aspect about his clothes _screamed_ things that just didn't fit with a government agent. _Unruly. Mischief. Clever. Non-conformist._ Maybe all of the above? The only way to make him look less like an agent would have been to run my hands through his hair and unbutton the top of his shirt.

I had the advantage of knowing exactly who and what Neal was, but Gary didn't; paranoid and drawing his own conclusions, he made an incorrect assumption that I knew Neal wasn't going to feel inclined to correct. "Who are you?" He asked, fearfully looking back up to Neal's face, skittish and anxious in an entirely new way. Lawyers wouldn't help him if we weren't actually law enforcement.

Neal lifted his chin and gazed hard into Gary's dark eyes. "Think hard," he advised coolly.

Gary swallowed. I could see his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. "Did he send you?" He rasped with a suddenly dry throat.

"What do you think?" Neal retorted rhetorically, avoiding actually answering the question.

Horrified, Julianna's uncle raised his free hand to cover his face. He bent his knees to put his briefcase on the ground and then covered his eyes with both hands. "God," he moaned. I almost felt bad; he looked about to be sick. "I knew this would happen. What, that – that whole thing at the house, it was a setup?" He looked between Neal and I in bewilderment.

I loftily and slowly rolled my shoulders, refusing to answer but sending Neal a look that he reciprocated, knowing and pained by how dull and slow the trader truly seemed to be. "How did it go wrong?" I asked him, turning sharp eyes on the man and carefully enunciating to make sure he understood exactly how bad the situation might seem to us if we were bad guys. "Julianna wasn't supposed to be there. Now she's a witness." I made my voice sound a little threatening, like I'd been given false information. "Your niece saw it happen. She could testify. Do you understand that?"

"It wasn't my fault. Her class got out early!" He protested. Shockingly enough, his eyes had started to water with panic. Then it seemed to strike him that it might not be him that his accomplice was worried about silencing. If he had seemed terrorized by the thought of being the second person's target, it was nothing compared to his reaction when he considered Julianna in danger. His face flushed, his lip trembled, and his hands started to shake. "Please don't hurt her," he begged.

He was pathetic, but he really didn't mean for his niece to get hurt. Now that we were doing this, I wished I'd thought it through longer. He _had_ scheduled for the break-in to be while Julianna was away. Maybe he wasn't just doing it for the money; maybe he was being threatened, or blackmailed, or forced by someone who had something on him, maybe someone who was in a position to hurt him or Julianna.

Scarily enough, Neal appeared entirely unaffected by the tears that Gary had to rub away. "It's not us you need to convince," he informed dismissively, looking past the man in a semblance of boredom and squinting as he raised his eyes higher to the sky, where the sun reflected a harsh glare off of glass windows. I almost trembled myself, and not in a good way. Neal was emotional and sensitive, not this apathetic robot only steps away from me.

"Tell him…" Gary looked down, shaking his head to the concrete miserably. I wondered what the meter was running up to now. It shouldn't go over the cash I had on me. "Tell him I'll make sure she doesn't cause any trouble?"

"Julianna has already agreed to sit down with an NYPD sketch artist," I said truthfully, trying to avoid feeling guilty for practically giving him an anxiety attack over his niece, who was, as far as I knew, perfectly safe. He deserved it, didn't he? … No, I couldn't tell, because that depended on his motivations. Which went back to if he wasn't acting out of his own free volition. "This is the kind of publicity that makes it much, much harder for profits to be made, sir," I informed with a stony face.

He rubbed his face hard with his hands, groaning into his palms. "How about a good faith payment?" He pleaded, scrambling for something to lessen the threat. He patted down all of his pockets before he found his wallet and took it out quickly, fumbling, and almost dropping it. The faux leather was well-stretched from use and each card slot had two or three shoved in. "Here's, uh, here's three hundred dollars?" Gary was fingering through the cash in the largest section, turning his billfold to show me. It was a lot of twenties and tens, most of them crinkled or with creases from being folded. "It's all I've got," he added with a touch of franticness.

I swallowed. I knew three hundred didn't go very far in the criminal world, but this was getting to be more emotionally-staggering than I had predicted. And Neal did this all the time? I looked over for him to take the wheel because I was swerving, and thankfully, my partner had my back.

"Three hundred?" Neal disappointedly stared down at the shorter male, clucking his tongue. "Gary." _Come on, you can do better…_

It would have been one thing if Julianna had been killed, but she was just a little roughed up. No visible bruises, no significant injuries even worth talking about, just a little soreness and shock. One thing spiraled out of control despite his attempts to keep it a harmless crime. I missed my days in blue-collar, when it was easy to be unemotional and compartmentalized towards the suspects. It's not like you can _accidentally_ kill someone and then _accidentally_ do it again in the exact same way to another person and _accidentally_ dispose of all of the bodies in the same manner.

Gary stuffed the cash back into his wallet. "Alright, you're right," he mumbled, his mind going so fast with words that his mouth could hardly keep up. His words barely had pauses between them. "You're right…" He thumbed through his wallet again like hundred-dollar bills might suddenly manifest. "Um… I can write him a check?"

 _Well, if it's handy… checks do have peoples' names on them._ I made sure to still seem dubious, like we weren't after something as simple as a written check, but glanced over at Neal. He raised his right hand and tapped his index finger against the side of his nose before rubbing his chin, looking away from me when Gary turned to see if Neal was going to take the bait. Of course, as per the discretion, Neal didn't act like he particularly cared one way or the other.

I knew what he was doing and appreciated it – mentally thanking him for giving me the ability to make it right myself and soothe my own conscience, I told Gary shiftily, "That might work." Internally, a lot of pressure was lifted from my shoulders as he almost shook apart with relief that there was something he could do before things escalated.

* * *

Success made me heady and my conscience was clearer. I was giggling as I got into my car and pulled the door shut, holding a hastily-scribbled check in hand. The passenger's side door opened, and with it came Neal's soft chuckles, mostly brought on by my own amusement. We'd parked a couple blocks down from Gary's office building in case he tried to follow us, but he seemed far too spooked to try his hand at espionage.

Really, his terror was funny now that it wasn't right in front of me. I kept yo-yoing between thinking that we'd been cruel and that he had had someone hit Julianna and give her a death threat, so hell, he deserved to get a little scared. He could have a short time to relax and think it was all over. After all, we had the proof that he did it in my hand. Now we just had to catch whoever else was involved – namely, the person responsible for terrifying him to the point of writing us a check worth thousands of dollars right on the spot.

"I can't believe that worked," I snickered. Technically speaking, I hadn't broken any laws. It would have been illegal for me to question Gary, but he was the one questioning me. "Ha!"

"I told you," Neal was smirking, radiating smugness as he strapped himself in with the seat belt. "No threats, no lies. He did all the talking."

"He practically talked himself right into a confession," I agreed with a big smile that just needed to be smacked off of my face. That was by far the easiest interview I'd ever led. I looked down to the check, finally taking a good look at the handwriting and whom it had been made out to. "We did deliberately mislead him, though… oh."

Neal pulled out his seat belt by stretching further across between our seats to look. "Gerard Dorsett," he read off of the line. "You know him?"

I sighed. Suddenly, this wasn't very funny. "He's a bad guy," I offered in short. It wasn't incorrect, but "bad guy" was only the tip of the iceberg. Although mostly specializing in white-collar crime, Dorsett was known for taking to violence when he didn't get his way. He had henchmen that did his handiwork and he used characters like Julianna's uncle to do his dirty work, then gave them up to the law while he got away clean.

"So I'd figured," Neal said slowly, taking in my fallen expression. Julianna really _was_ in danger. I'd have to offer her protective custody until this was all sorted out, especially if Gary relayed information about the sketch artist thing. Unknowingly, Neal started to echo the turn of my thoughts. "Hey, what about Julianna, then? If he figures out she's talking to us…"

I passed over the check. It wasn't like Neal had any creative ways to hide it, and even if he did, I'd know it couldn't leave the car. I wanted both hands to drive during rush hour. "We'll just have to catch him before he gets the chance," I said semi-confidently. Not only would this be a big fish that looked good on paper, but it would be pretty cool to have caught Caffrey _and_ Dorsett within six months.

Not that I was going to say that part out loud where Neal could hear, of course.

* * *

Gary lived in an apartment independent of Julianna, and because it was an apartment complex, it was hard to say for sure that Dorsett had gone to see him specifically. Given the rest of the situation, however, it was more than likely that a judge would consider it reasonable to make the assumption that he was who Dorsett had been visiting in the security clip that Derek managed to get from the city.

"We've got him bad," Derek said, grinning. I couldn't see him, but I could hear it in the way he talked. He was facing his computer, clicking on the fast-forward arrow to send the frames in the video flying past. Cars moved like drag racers and people on the sidewalks looked like they were sprinting. "He's been going to every high-end gallery in Manhattan, offering the Haustenberg."

"Shouldn't he have done that before stealing the painting? You know, before people were all wound up and alert about it?"

After I asked, I ended up with varying reactions. Derek looked over his shoulder at me with his eyebrows raised in surprise that I was complaining about somewhat sloppy work. Neal, however, who stood on the other side of Derek, started to smirk at me.

"Wow, Kenna," he said, the corners of his mouth turning up even when I glared at him not to start. "You're getting craftier."

"Shut up," I said, glaring, and then looked for a distraction in the video. Derek looked back and stopped it right before he fast-forwarded all the way through the clip of Dorsett departing, his bodyguard following behind like a well-trained dog. The tall blond man didn't look like anyone I'd ever seen. I pointed to his face on the screen. "Who's that?"

Derek shook his head at me to say that he knew exactly what I was trying to do by changing the subject, but he bought into it anyway and gave me a break. "The big guy's Joshua." Joshua had the body of a wrestler or a very fit boxer – broad-shouldered, big-muscled, and heftily-built. "Ex-military, probably the muscle who did the stealing."

Joshua also had a nasty-colored bruise on the left side of his face. Neal noticed and mouthed the word 'wow.' "Julianna wasn't kidding about the punch."

"Definitely my type of girl," I agreed, eyeing the bruise and feeling a surge of pride for a woman I'd just met. Calm, but not afraid to defend herself by throwing a violent and powerful punch.

Derek took the mouse on the pad next to the keyboard and wiggled it. The little cursor on the screen showed up over the video again, and he used it to make a circle over Dorsett's face. "The stick guy is Dorsett," he said to Neal, "A French ex-pat." He wasn't being mean by calling Dorsett a stick; he was really almost unhealthily thin.

"What's he into?" Neal asked, bending down over Derek's shoulder to analyze Dorsett's face and commit it to memory. "Besides shaking down stockbrokers," he stated mildly as an afterthought.

"Mostly loan sharking." Was there a delicate way to phrase how his activities could go from mild to hot with barely any provocation? No, there probably wasn't, so I just went ahead and plowed through with the summary of his crimes. "He makes shady loans with enough corporate money to buy a couple of June's houses, and he's the kind that doesn't mind a bit of blue-collar, too." I pulled at the necktie around my throat. It felt a little bit too tight when I was about to talk about literal flames – it didn't help that I could feel my consultant's eyes on me. I kept mine on the computer. "For example, if you get behind on your payments, he'll quite possibly light your house on fire."

Neal winced. "Ouch."

"Yeah," I blew out through my mouth tersely. "That's what his victim was saying when the fire started while he was still inside." Dorsett was mean and dangerous, and I wasn't thrilled with what I was about to add, either. "In other news that could be good or bad depending on your perspective, Neal, that guy's going to be your new pal, starting tomorrow."

He tucked his hands into his pockets. I straightened my tie and then did the same, taking my attention away from the screen. I couldn't commit it any deeper into my memory than I already had. "How'd you arrange that?" He asked curiously.

"We have an informant in the Lambert Gallery who calls us when someone sketchy comes to her. Her name is Taryn Vandersant, and she's convinced Dorsett that she has a very wealthy client interested in buying the painting." I had met Taryn before, but only a couple of times. Each CI usually has one agent that they deal with more than the rest. I'm Neal's agent. Taryn is someone else's CI.

"How much is he asking?" Bright blue eyes looked more interested than conniving, but I still had to try not to give him a warning. It was sometimes hard to tell if he was asking professionally or out of personal interest due to the relation to his trade.

I was wrong about being done with the computer. I looked back at Dorsett on the frozen frame. "Hundred thousand. Either he predicts trouble, or he doesn't realize how much it's worth." It could have been either one – wanting to keep under the radar was reasonable and a hundred thousand was still a lot of money, but Dorsett didn't have a history that suggested detailed knowledge of art, and it was not the kind of crime he specialized in.

"The exchange is arranged to happen in the Lambert Gallery tomorrow at ten in the morning," Derek reported.

I took my right hand out of my pocket and set it on his shoulder, giving him a gentle squeeze in thanks. "Take Diana and get it prepped, please."

He scoffed, which was not the reaction I had expected. Leaning back in his chair, the seat reclined and Derek looked up at me, an offended set to his features. "What do you take me for, a rookie?" He scolded. "Diana's already lecturing some techies on what goes where."

I felt bad for those techies. Diana could be intense. Still, at least the work was being done.

"This is why I like you, Johnson," I said contently with a big smile. I leaned down over him and patted his cheek, then jumped out of the way before he could swing at me in retribution. His hand was where my wrist had been in seconds. Laughing, I held out my arm towards Neal, reaching out to him. "C'mon, Neal."

Neal looked back at the computer one last time before he started to follow after me. "Well, this should be fun," he decided with a weary sigh.

* * *

I was already half-awake when the bed bounced, and then there was no chance of pretending I was in any state resembling unconsciousness. The bed unsettled my pillow and shifted under my hips, making me roll onto my back and closer to the source of discord. I grabbed my pillow and held it to my face, covering my eyes from the light.

"Mmph," I grunted discontentedly. Now there wasn't a pillow under my head, and I was awake. The list of things to hate just kept growing. "'m tryin' to sleep here!" I complained, muffled by the pillow I stubbornly kept over my face.

There was a pause in the movement of the other person, and then Neal's voice chuckled softly. "Don't let me disturb you," he said fondly before he turned his focus back to whatever the hell was worth waking up before the alarm for.

 _Pillow or not, I can sleep here._ I worked to convince myself. _I have the pillow to hug. I'm covered up, nice and safe. I have this wakeful bastard to be warm. My alarm isn't supposed to go for… well, it's not supposed to go yet._ Without my consent, my mouth opened to let a yawn escape, and I tiredly blinked against the pillowcase. I shut my eyes again and made a small sigh.

It was peaceful.

That was, until paper started to make noise – crinkling and folding, and then being smoothed out again. I tolerated it for a very short time. I mean, it's not weird to fold paper. Except it didn't stop there. It just kept happening. Whatever it was, he kept folding and unfolding it repeatedly. Again. And again.

With a sense of defeat and disappointment lodging firmly in my chest, I opened my eyes. Taking the pillow off of my face seemed like a feat worthy of a medal. It was still dark through the window, but the bedside lamp had been turned on, and the small artificial light put Neal on display. He sat on top of the covers in long grey sweatpants, toying with a piece of paper that, by now, had more than enough creases in it. His tongue was held between his teeth intently and his brow was just slightly furrowed, deep in concentration.

_Now hang on, I spend the night here because it's convenient, not because I want to be woken up by you acting strangely._

With Neal, most behaviors can seem suspicious if viewed the right way. This didn't seem as suspicious as it did just downright odd. I pushed myself up to sit, sheets falling from over my chest. I shivered and scooted closer to Neal's side. Focused or not, he needed to either keep me warm himself or use the thermostat. I understand not wanting to spend all night sweating – boy, do I understand – but some nights when the temperature gets lower than usual, it's hard to remember what's so bad about the heat. The loose wife beater that I may have taken from his clean laundry wasn't the most modest of shirts, but it was comfortable, and I didn't intend for anyone else to see me in it.

Sitting up, I peered at the paper in piqued intrigue. There was writing on it in black ink. Neal's hands and the folds in the paper made it hard to read, and I was still blinking sleep-induced blurriness away. "From Mozzie?" I guessed, because I'd love to blame the paranoid little jerk for interrupting my rest.

"No," Neal said, but then didn't elaborate on who it was actually from. That was suspicious most ways I viewed it. He paused in his weird origami or whatever and looked over at me. His hair had obviously been combed, but he hadn't showered yet. Good. Maybe he'd be smart and get some more sleep. "Please don't ask right now."

That was not something I wanted to hear. If he didn't want to tell me, it was probably something I wouldn't approve of. And if I wouldn't approve of it, he probably shouldn't be doing it.

"You know, if I wasn't before, I feel obligated now," I informed him, because if his intention had been to dispel my concern, he had failed horrendously at doing so.

Chuckling again – I failed to see what was funny – Neal wrapped his right arm around my upper back and held me close against his side. I relaxed instantly into the hug and lifted my arms around his torso, hugging back and nuzzling my nose against his bare chest.

"I promise I'm not doing anything illegal," he swore. The weight of his chin pressed over my hair, followed by his other hand rubbing circles over my shoulder, then dragging down my arm and backtracking up to my elbow. "Or anything in a grey area."

If it wasn't legally apprehensible, then it wasn't really covered by my job description. I was tired as it was and if Neal wasn't going to get himself in trouble with it, then fuck, I honestly could not bring myself to care at the moment. Still… letting him keep secrets seemed like the not-smart thing to do…

"Swear you'll tell me eventually?" I asked, sighing again against his chest and running my fingers from his ribs down to his hip, down until my path was blocked by his briefs. "It'll kill me if I have to live with the curiosity."

"Yeah, promise," he allowed, taking his chin off of my head and replacing the loss with a forehead kiss.

 _Good enough for me._ "Mm-kay," I announced loquaciously, taking his promise at face value and removing myself from his hug. I'd seen to professional responsibility and gotten some cuddling. I felt like I'd been productive in the short time I'd been conscious.

Without waiting for anything else that could possibly require me to move, I grabbed my pillow, put it under my head, and then bunched up the blankets on my side and buried my face in them to mimic the darkness of a room where both occupants were actually utilizing the nighttime to sleep.

* * *

It had been a while since I'd been to the Lambert Gallery, but as Neal and I looked at one of the first and most obvious exhibits on display, I thought with dismay that their content quality had certainly gone down in the time between my visits.

I pointed at it and complained at Neal. "That is just a very big collection of towels that've been alternately rolled and folded and then caged in metal." He was an artist. Neal should have been offended, right? This didn't look like art, this looked like a creative clothes hamper that had been revamped by a college student procrastinating on studying for finals week.

Going by Neal's face, he wasn't too impressed by the "exhibit" either, but he resigned himself to playing the advocate for the liberal arts and pointed out the sign leaning against the platform that the laundry masterpiece stood on. "That load of laundry just sold for a hundred and twenty thousand."

"No!" I stared, shocked, down at the sign and squinted to make sure that I was reading it right.

Neal chuckled at my reaction. "Can't put a price on art," he remarked.

 _Oh, come on!_ It's not the Mona Lisa! "Well, sure _some_ you can't," I hedged, because I still wasn't sure exactly how that would work. If there was an amount that someone would pay for a Van Gogh or a Picasso, then clearly it _was_ possible to put a price on art. Those had historical significance that at least I understood. This was the laundry room of Martha Stewart on drugs. "Others you can, but probably shouldn't! Come on, it's _laundry."_

He frowned at me in disapproval. "You're being a philistine," he gently scolded.

I crossed my arms and looked away from the towel collection. Jeez. "I guarantee I'll see the art if I watch you paint," I challenged, cocking my head and awaiting a reply. I doubted he'd be as quick to rebuke me for that one.

For a second, Neal looked conflicted, like it was a trick. "I don't know if that's a come-on or a veiled comment on my alleged crime," he admitted in confusion.

Annoyance melted. "It's a bit of both," I confessed with a little smile. I love it when he concentrates on something, whether it's me or a sketch he's working out in the margins of paperwork, even though he really shouldn't be doodling on his paperwork. He gets so focused that it's like he goes off into his own world. It's very sweet. "C'mon, I want you to meet Taryn before I set you in a scene with her."

* * *

Taryn propped her left leg up on top of a chair pulled out from a desk, hiking the skirt of her dress up her thigh with her hands. I settled the strap of a black Velcro holster against her leg, then turned it so the holster, holding the transmitter, was on the inside of her leg. It might make walking a trick, but she could do it.

She completely disregarded that there was a woman wrapping something tight around her leg less than a foot away from less appropriate areas of her body, just casually put one of her hands on my shoulders to help her balance with her foot up. I tried to avoid shifting that shoulder too much, but it was unavoidable that I moved a little to get it secured tightly.

"A hundred grand in cash," she said, thoughtfully looking at Neal, who was on the other side of the table. Neal's shirt was just now being done up, thin black cords against the light color of his chest. He had a tie half-done around his neck, the collar still up, while he pulled the buttons together. The wires were held in place with patches of medical tape. The tape was then wrapped around with a thin layer of gauze so that in the event his shirt was pulled tighter, it wouldn't be obvious that he was wearing something underneath. "That's a lot of money. Tempted?" She asked. I could tell from her voice that she was smirking.

"Why would you think that?" Neal asked, feigning cluelessness while he smoothed his hand down over a section of the wire close to his collarbone before he closed the last button of his shirt over it.

I slipped my fingers underneath the strap on Taryn and tried to jerk it. It only slid less than an inch. "Is this too tight?" I asked. Too tight, and it might change her gait. Too loose and it might not stay hidden. It was connected to wires, too, that were already threaded up through the underneath of her dress, the silk decorative belt on the black velvet creating intentional folds of gathered fabric when it was tightened. That, and her breasts, would help to hide them on her.

Her hand had tightened and clenched on my shoulder when I pulled at the holster without warning, but she relaxed her nails from pinching through my blazer. "It's snug," she answered, temporarily forgetting about Neal.

"It's supposed to be."

"Then it doesn't hurt, no." I gave her thigh a pat and pulled her dress down. Taryn took her foot off of the chair. The skirt easily covered the transmitter, going almost to her knees, and her stiletto sandals had her standing in a way that pulled the skirt tight to her rear, but left it a little looser in front. Going back to conversationally getting to know Neal, Taryn added teasingly, "McKenna's warned me all about you."

 _"_ _Warned_ you?" Neal repeated, clearly amused but trying to sound wounded. He looked at me as if I'd betrayed him; I didn't buy it. "That sounds ominous."

"Does it?" Taryn asked, playing dumb as to how it sounded.

"Yeah," he confirmed, studying her carefully while he pulled his tie through the slip and pushed the knot up closer to his throat, head canted. It was one of the only times I could remember Neal seeming to take longer than a few seconds to collect a working impression of someone. He didn't seem quite sure what to make of Taryn.

She grinned at him while she fixed the ruffled collar. The neckline of her dress ascended all the way to her neck. The ruffles were all connected with black, the same material as her dress, but they themselves were dark shades of blue. Taryn stood at just an inch shorter than me when she wasn't wearing monster high heels. Her hair was sandy brown, but about the same length as mine; her eyes managed to look like honey or amber. Youthful and mischievous in a way that contradicted the very serious career path she'd chosen as an FBI informant, she seemed like someone I'd thought Neal would like, if not immediately click with, so I hoped his indecisiveness wasn't bad.

"Is it true you just got out of prison?" She questioned nosily while he took the silver tie pin from the tabletop and fastened it through the space between two buttons on his shirt.

"Do I look like I just got out of prison?" Neal countered, voice suppressing a hint of a sly smirk and turning up the charm as he looked up at Taryn through his eyelashes.

"Neal!" I scolded.

Immediately, he stopped looking at Taryn like he was seeing a woman for the first time in months. He addressed me with the attitude of a kid. "What?" He asked, complaining at being called out.

"Stop redirecting," I lectured shortly, waving a finger at him. I'd have poked him in the chest if I was closer to him. "It's rude." Neal's chest heaved as he sighed, but he had the sense to do so quietly. I ignored my CI's petulance and pointed towards the doorway behind Taryn about eight feet away. "Walk over there and back. I want to make sure it can't be seen under the dress."

The art study flipped her hair back and out of the way of her ruffle piece, the short, light-colored brown strands casually messy. "Is it true you escaped for a girl?" She persisted with her inquiries about Neal, turning around, strutting to the door, and doing first a slow, then a fast twirl in a full circle.

"Some people think I'm a romantic," Neal remarked, avoiding answering the actual question posed to him. Taryn put her hands on her hips and pursed her lips, very clearly able to tell the difference between deflection and agreement, and came back over. There wasn't any sign of a holster on her thigh.

"Did she?" She couldn't help but try one more time.

The thief sought me out with his eyes, wondering why I hadn't intervened yet. I tended to draw a line between work associates' attempts at prying into his whole prison escape thing. I kind of shrugged. He was on his own on this one. They weren't particularly rude questions, and if I were Taryn, I would be asking the same sort of things – if he had done what he was accused of, why he did it. She was voluntarily walking into a situation with him that had a potential for danger. Part of being employed solely by the bureau meant that I had little choice about who I went undercover with unless I was the one calling the shots on the entire case, but Taryn had the right to refuse to essentially trust her security to a stranger.

Neal swallowed, sucking in on the right side of his cheek while he redirected his eyes to the table. "I'll let you know," he said emptily. I very strongly doubted he would actually take care to inform her of Kate's opinion when he caught up with her.

 _Romance and prison escapes._ Heh. It was a romantic notion, but not done for romantic purposes. "It's probably prudent to inform Taryn that the girl is your sister, hmm?" I solved the problem myself and shot Neal another look. Not correcting her misconception was misleading. He shrugged like he knew he was guilty of that, at least, but couldn't be bothered to defend it.

Taryn hummed and looked Neal over thoughtfully. "Still very sweet."

* * *

The surveillance room that Taryn set us up with had white tables with metal grey legs and the unfolding copper-grey chairs that hurt to sit on for too long and didn't feel that sturdy to begin with. For such a well-off organization, I would've thought the Lambert could afford better seating options, but I guess I was wrong in that presumption.

"Dorsett is crossing twentieth," Diana reported, manning an unfolded laptop tuned into a tiny little camera hidden at the front doors of the building.

Holding the thick black headset over my ears, I turned in my chair. I had to sit on the edge in order to quickly turn to look for the other agents in the room with me, thanks to the way the chair was built. The legs were supported by metal rods that went up the side of the chair at an angle to connect with the back, and it meant that I couldn't swing my legs around if I was sitting all the way back in it.

"Camera on that, Derek," I instructed firmly. "The target is approaching the gallery. Team one has the eyes." The microphone to the headset was a couple of inches away from my mouth, at a good distance to pick up my voice without catching too much sibilance from my speech. "Let's keep this as smooth as possible, friends. We've got a couple of our own in there unarmed."

As if I'd give Neal a gun. I wouldn't put him in that position unless I had no other choice, not with knowing how much he dislikes violence. I wouldn't ask him to carry a weapon that could so easily kill people.

I listened in to the bug planted on Taryn's person as the laptop Diana watched showed Dorsett entering the front doors. Taryn was supposed to meet him just inside to make sure that he went to the right part of the building.

 _"_ _Good to see you again,"_ Dorsett's slight brogue greeted Taryn and, unknowingly, the FBI teams watching him. I'd never heard his voice before, despite knowing about the criminal offenses he had allegedly committed.

Taryn, for her part, kept to the loosely-outlined script she'd been assigned. _"Good to see you, too."_ She didn't shake or waver. I would've been worried about her acting skills if she wasn't on our side, and if we didn't have such a fantastic actor as Neal with us, too. _"As I said on the phone, this is Mr. Devore."_

It took a second. Neal was probably doing something to make an impression; shaking hands, maybe, or screwing with that damn hat. _"Call me George,"_ he invited silkily.

George Devore was a famous singer belonging to an older generation. To be specific, the generation whose music Neal leaned towards. My back slumped and I covered the microphone of my headset with a fist to protect it before I hit the table with my forehead. _Way to go, Neal. You snuck in a reference. I hope you're proud._ It wasn't strange for someone to use a fake name in an event like this, even when the con was actually a real trade-off, but did he have to be so obvious?

* * *

We listened to the bugs planted on our two insiders while they dealt with Dorsett and his menacing muscle, Taryn leading them all into a room at the back of the museum for the privacy from any of the staff who might happen to drop by the building. We knew that there wouldn't be any interruptions, but Dorsett couldn't have been aware of that, and so Taryn had to keep up appearances.

The cameras showed everything. Neal and Taryn took a place along the side of the table and Dorsett wandered around, pacing like he couldn't stand still, while his bodyguard stood to the side with a briefcase in hand. Taryn and Neal both had cases of their own, Taryn's including the typical authentication kit that the museum used to catalogue new items submitted to their displays, while Neal carted a hundred thousand dollars supplied by the bureau. Some people had been very strongly against it when they found who was going to be carrying it until I effectively shut them up by offering to let them go in Neal's place to talk to someone known for burning houses down with the occupants still inside.

The room had just finished being renovated, so it was still empty except for a table that Taryn convinced Neal and Joshua to move into the room so they would have something to put all of the briefcases onto. They left the chairs in the room next in the hall. The only other door out led right onto a pedestrian street, where we had a pair of agents in vests disguised as construction workers, subtly warning civilians out of the way and watching for anyone leaving through that exit.

Joshua opened the briefcase through clicking the code into the lock. Dorsett took out the painting from the inside. I leaned forward to look at the camera feed as if it somehow put me closer to the four of them. There it was, Julianna's stolen mantel decoration. Surprise, surprise – the painting depicted a girl with a locket.

And, not long after accusing me of not appreciating art, Neal wrinkled his nose and scanned the Haustenberg work critically, saying to Dorsett like a cynical buyer, _"It's smaller than I expected."_ The worth of a painting being judged by its size, and by Neal of all people, who had scolded me for being unimpressed with laundry, was so funny I started laughing into my hand. Derek hit my shoulder.

We'd known Dorsett was French, but I hadn't heard his speech before we started listening to him during the operation. He had a thick accent from actual France, not the Canadian dialect, despite his clear grasp of the English language. He wandered back towards the table for what was no doubt a brief time, anxious to get the purchase over with. _"Have you seen the Mona Lisa? It's tiny,"_ he said to Neal as a terse joke, holding his hands out to mime the size. _"Could I see the money, please?"_

Neal held a held out and lifted his shoulders like he didn't care, as if he carried a hundred thousand around with him every day. He put his briefcase up onto the table while Taryn unlocked hers and pushed it open. I knew that Neal's was filled up with cash, but the cameras weren't zoomed in close enough to focus on Taryn's case, and I was mostly clueless about what she carried.

 _"_ _I'd like to authenticate it,"_ she interrupted, holding her hand out.

Evidently trusting Taryn to an extent, he handed the painting to her as Neal opened his case to show Dorsett the bound stacks of hundred-dollar bills. I bet his mouth was practically watering from all that currency in one place. Setting it down on the table right in front of her, Taryn then took out her laptop and lifted the lid, setting it to the side of the portrait.

Dorsett canted his head as he surveyed Neal, unsure what to make of Taryn's suggested buyer. _"So you two have known each other a long time?"_ He asked, pressing for some information on who he was doing transactions with and disguising it as small talk.

Taryn's hands paused over her keyboard and she looked up at Neal where she was bent over the table, for a second not having an answer. _"Oh… we've been friends for… I don't know, how long has it been?"_ She asked Neal, pretending to have forgotten.

 _"_ _Years,"_ he answered, looking surprised himself at how long it had supposedly been. At least that was a pretty smooth way to recover from a lack of preparedness.

Dorsett got a weird smile on his face, the grin that made other people awkward when someone started to play matchmaker with their friends. This was quickly going down a road I had not considered. Clucking his tongue, _"Beautiful people are never just friends."_

Both of mine looked uncomfortable, Taryn looking aghast at the insinuation and Neal leaning over the table, pushing his weight against his hands, wrists turned so the heels of his palms were pressed on the table. Neal frowned and looked down, apparently not quite willing to encourage that turn of discussion, while Taryn uneasily looked up to Dorsett. _"George has a girlfriend,"_ she dismissed, quickly looking back to her laptop and opening up whatever program it was she used in the process of authenticating paintings.

He looked like the annoying obsessive romantic friend in the clique that thought that "no" translated to 'denial.' _Is he a closet romantic or something?! "Again, monogamy is the great casualty of beauty."_ Dorsett was chiding them, obviously thinking that they were lying about it for some reason.

I huffed quietly and crossed my arms. That was the reasoning of someone who didn't want to feel guilty for sleeping around. I could allow that maybe it was unrealistic to expect for someone not to get aroused by or attracted to anyone other than their boyfriend or girlfriend, but that was lust. The difference was whether or not their partner mattered enough to them to exercise their self-control. Lust was far from uncontrollable. Loyalty is a choice, not collateral damage. I mean, I was attracted to Jenna Coleman, but even if there were no strings attached, I still had to honor the commitment I had made to Neal. We weren't even dating, but because of all the health risks that could be associated with sex, as well as the personal boundaries, it was important to discuss, not just take it for granted that a lack of love meant free reign to do whoever.

It turned out that I wasn't the only one who disagreed. Neal couldn't ignore the claims Dorsett was making and he turned his head to look at the Frenchman, gave him a tight, disapproving smile, and countered, _"Not always,"_ with a hard edge to his voice.

Reassuring as it was (and it was reassuring; there was a warm feeling in my tummy) that Neal shared my opinion on relationship loyalties, I wished that the topic would move along quickly before his cool attitude turned Dorsett off to him. He had never gotten quite that quick to temper before. How interesting…

 _"_ _Please. We use the expression 'butterfly' for a man who flits from flower to flower. A man such as yourself could be quite a successful butterfly,"_ Dorsett appraised in what he thought was flattery. It was like he'd forgotten Taryn was even there. I glared at his little face on the computer screen. Just because Neal is pretty didn't mean he had to accuse him of being a cheater. That's just rude.

Neal took his hands off of the table and took his height advantage over Dorsett into action. I scratched my head through my hair, internally urging him to just let it go. It's not like Dorsett's opinion really mattered, and he'd made his feelings on the subject clear anyway. _"We consider butterflies weak, delicate creatures,"_ he informed Dorsett, feigning cheer.

 _"_ _But flap their wings, and they can set off hurricanes."_ Dorsett blinked at Neal, oblivious or choosing not to notice that his assessment was very unwelcome.

 _"_ _That's beautiful,"_ Neal retorted sarcastically. I groaned and covered my face with my hand. _Way to be friendly and unassuming, Caffrey. "You should write a book. Could we-"_ Trying to divert things back to the path they were meant to be on, he motioned to Taryn, who visibly relaxed.

 _"_ _Close the doors, please,"_ she requested, indicating the ajar back exit.

Dorsett listened to Taryn but didn't shut up. I wanted to smack him and I wasn't even the one required to respond to him. _"I have a girlfriend myself,"_ he mused aloud, walking over to the exit. He touched his hand to the door handle and looked outside through the small gap.

Neal and Taryn didn't see him hesitating to close the door. I reminded myself to breathe. He was paranoid because he was breaking the law, but that didn't mean he saw anything worth panicking about or intervening because of.

 _"_ _She faithful?"_ Neal questioned, obviously aiming to hit where it hurt by asking if Dorsett's butterfly principle applied when it came to his own lover.

 _"_ _She's French."_ Dorsett pushed the door closed firmly and sounded distasteful, despite being of the same nationality. _"I try not to think about it."_

I glowered. This guy just wanted me to come scratch his eyes out, didn't he? "What is it with people and associating the French with cheating?" I complained to Derek. The French were supposed to be excellent in _the bed_ , not excellent in _all beds_. The bed was singular. As in, we don't cheat on our significant others just because we're French, damn it! "I'm part French!" I added to explain my irritation, regardless of that Derek already knew this.

He shushed me and kicked at my foot under the table.

While I grimaced and shuffled my feet further away from Derek's, Dorsett continued after a pause when neither Neal nor Taryn had anything to say. His muscle man was very quiet, just like Aimes', hired not for their opinions but rather for their brawn. _"Brigitte arrived last night and I shouldn't leave her alone in town for too long. Perhaps we could hurry."_

 _"_ _Of course,"_ Taryn readily agreed, plugging a USB connector cable into the side of her laptop and sliding the other into a slot on what looked like a portable ultraviolet lamp. _"Lights, please."_ Dorsett turned back around and walked to get the lights. Taryn turned on her lamp. It made a purple haze that gave away their silhouettes, even in the lacking lighting. Definitely ultraviolet. She scanned it over the painting and the light intensity of her computer changed as it created a digital scan of the portrait. _Hm. Cool._ _"I've got floursene, cadmium green, and azure blue. That puts the paint composition pre-nineteen sixty."_

Dorsett slammed his hand back on the light switch. The laptop in front of us was almost blindingly bright for a moment until I blinked and the camera adjusted for the sudden lighting. The shark stalked forward intimidatingly, pulling his jacket back with his left hand and reaching to his side with the right. My stomach sank and I jumped to the edge of my chair.

 _"_ _Perhaps you could explain why there are people signaling each other outside!"_ Dorsett snarled, dashing my hopes and making me fidget to race to Neal's side, taking his gun out of a concealed shoulder holster and aiming it at Neal, who was closer to him and also bigger.

"Want us to go?" Derek asked me tightly, keeping a hold of his impulses, but only barely. Neal had managed to worm his way onto Derek's good side, too, and even if Taryn wasn't there, he'd probably be struggling not to just have a team dash in.

"Not yet." I reached out and put my hand on Derek's leg, feeling the warmth of his thigh and reminding myself that I was in a completely different room. Getting mad right now wasn't going to help the situation unfolding on my computer screen. "If we spook him, they're as good as dead." My heart thudded.

Derek nodded in understanding. "On your command, boss." He picked up his police walkie from the table and held it in his hand, thumb poised underneath the button to add his voice to the frequency.

 _"_ _Who are they?!"_ Dorsett raised his voice, turning the gun over to Taryn. Without the firearm on his person, Neal harmlessly drew his hands up to his head, palms out. The movement distracted the threat from Taryn, who shrank behind Neal in fear.

I knew he had to be terrified – imagined that if I could hold him, away from the prying and judgmental eyes of the bureau, he'd be shaking from the scare – but Neal just took it in stride and dropped his voice down to an angry pitch, scowling. _"If you brought the FBI into this…"_ he started to warn.

 _"_ _It was not me!"_

Taryn regained her voice and leaned to the side of Neal. _"I told you to keep a low profile,"_ she accused with a hiss.

 _"_ _You were careless,"_ Neal snapped, adopting the temperament of someone who knew his life and/or liberty was threatened. If Dorsett flipped and shot, he could kill them both and run, but if he didn't, then his character could be arrested by the bureau agents outside. _"You've been flashing this painting all over town and they followed you here."_

Dorsett shook his head, his grip on his weapon unsteady, his arm unable to aim straight. He was close enough for it not to matter, and that was not relaxing. He swallowed and sweated, looking between the other door on the other side of the room and Joshua, who appeared at attention but still. Arguing mentally and unable to keep up a repartee with Neal, he appeared to be frantically trying to decide what to do.

Finally, he growled. His gun was aimed at my friend for what felt like exponentially longer than it actually was. _"Something is not right here…"_

Neal didn't waste any time, glaring furiously. _"You're damn right it's not,"_ he heatedly agreed.

Moving with a split-second's decision, Dorsett hustled to the table. Neal flinched at first. Dorsett indicated with a flick of his handheld for Joshua to move forward. Dorsett closed up the suitcase Neal had brought stuffed full of money, but didn't take the time to twist the numerical combination. Simultaneously, Joshua seized the portrait from where it lay next to Taryn's ultraviolet lamp and scanner. Obviously, with a gun ready to shoot him in the chest, Neal didn't protest.

 _"_ _For my time and inconvenience!"_ Dorsett snarled, stepping backwards to keep the gun trained on the people he was robbing, looking over his shoulder to check for obstacles, before he turned tail and broke into a full sprint.

With Neal and Taryn alone and no longer in any jeopardy, I jumped up from my chair and waved for Derek. "Go. Move, move!" I picked up my radio, too. Derek shoved his chair out and it tipped over with how hard he scraped it along the floor, turning to the doorway and running out. I held the walkie to my mouth. "Team One, Team Two, Alpha Brava exiting near rear of building. Move in."

I didn't stick my attention to the walkie because I had more important things to worry about – namely, being involved in the action. I chased Derek down the hall. He had a bit of a head start on me where I had paused to get my radio and issue commands. I broke into a sprint to catch up with his longer legs.

At the apex of the hallway, where another hallway converged with ours, Derek and four other agents on standby almost ran into each other. They blocked Derek's path and seemed a little surprised by the suddenness of the move. Derek lost his patience after one and a half seconds and shoved past them.

I pointed the antenna of the walkie-talkie at the two of them on the right and then after Derek. "Go! Follow Johnson!" They obeyed with wide eyes and nods. I had to wonder exactly how much of this kind of action they'd even seen before. I indicated the other two, one of whom actually looked older, and pointed to my own chest in command before slipping past and picking up my fast and hard pace again, going in the direction of the back of the gallery. Derek would be going in the other direction to try to catch Dorsett, but I was taking charge of the civilian priority.

Upon turning a corner to the hallway that would lead to the room where it was supposed to go down, I almost ran right into Neal and Taryn, just like Derek had almost collided with the reinforcement team. Seeing them both in person, face-to-face and spooked but unharmed, cooled me off and made me stop.

I reached for their shoulders. "You two okay?" I asked, finding it important to establish that first.

Neal held up a hand and made a brushing motion like it was no big deal to have a gun waved around at him. "We're fine," he told me helpfully. I clapped his shoulder and kept my eyes on Taryn.

"Taryn?"

She nodded, breathing heavily. Would she have agreed to be part of this if she'd known it would go badly? "I'm okay," she found her voice again and kept nodding vigorously, her hair shaken out to look more than just casually messy.

I knew I should have just been ecstatic that they had gotten out of a sticky situation without coming to any injuries, but while I had been genuinely afraid for them, now my focus lied with the escaped thief and the stolen goods. I turned my back to the two and paced across the floor, scratching the nails of my free hand across the back of my neck.

Then I got my head back into the game and jabbed the antenna of the radio over at the pair. "Arrest them," I ordered the agents whom had followed me further into the gallery.

They looked at Taryn and Neal, then at me, one of them with his lips parted slightly like he was about to ask something. He saw my daring glower and thought better of it.

"Arrest them, now!" I repeated myself persistently, aggravated that I'd had to say it twice. Was I not speaking English anymore?! "We have to keep their cover!" I motioned back at them again just as a reminder. Neal was rolling his eyes as if to say _this again. Come on boys, I know how this works_ , and Taryn still looked a little shell-shocked, not fully in the present quite yet. "Cuff them, read their rights, everything. Go on. Don't make a scene by not making a scene!"

* * *

"Where are they?" I demanded, shouting as I stormed down the front steps of the gallery. Neal and Taryn were both pressed against the side of a police cruiser parked along the curb, leaning over the curve of the top of the car with their hands pulled behind their backs, officers assigned to our detail fastening handcuffs loosely on their wrists. For all appearances, they were any other arrested suspects.

Diana broke off mid-sentence with what she was saying to Neal (probably fake-Mirandizing him; she'd love to do that) and her face immediately went to a grim expression, falling in disappointment. I sighed. That was never a good sign.

"They disappeared between buildings," she told me, while I moved behind both Neal and Taryn and didn't care to make sure that they were immobilized. If they weren't consultants, that would have been a really stupid move.

"We didn't have eyes there?!" I almost yelled, frustrated beyond belief. The last time I'd been this stressed had been right after seeing the soulmark on Neal's lower back. Not only had the suspects gotten away, but they'd gotten away with _thousands and thousands of dollars._ Now that both of our undercover parties were safe, I was free to be concerned with the less important, but by no means trivial, problem of the stolen money and escaped criminals.

Diana swallowed and held her ground. "We had a camera on the inside, but once they got out of the building, they were home free."

What a stroke of luck that they'd gone out the right door where they wouldn't have agents bearing down on them in a matter of seconds.

"Fuck!" I swore vehemently, stomping my foot for emphasis. I wasn't close enough to the car to hit it. Raising my hands to my face, I covered my eyes and breathed deeply. Dorsett had gotten away. This sting was blown by some stupid coincidence in timing. What the hell were those agents doing, visibly motioning to each other anyway?! Right in front of the doorway that could have been opened at any time, no less?!

 _It's okay,_ I told myself, despite knowing full well that it absolutely was not. If they hadn't taken the case of money, it might actually have been somewhat borderline okay. Some simple, easy plan that was supposed to be a piece of cake completely fell apart. If it wasn't wrapped up, and fast, then I was going to get in big administrative trouble for the blind spots, even though I wasn't in charge of the tactical setup, and Neal was more than likely going to have an expired deal to handle.

"Taryn, you didn't hear agents cursing," I told her tensely, wishing that we knew for a fact Dorsett and his men were gone (or exactly where they were, that would be even better) so that I could go touch Neal and reassure myself that he was alright, at least. That one part had gone well – Neal was safe.

"Are things always this interesting when you're around?" Taryn asked quietly, not meaning to bother me when I was already so harassed by the situation we were in in general. Neal winced and kind of shrugged, but he couldn't say that the turbulence was completely independent of his involvement.

Actually, who said I couldn't touch Neal? I nodded with a hard jerk of my head to Taryn. Diana nodded and took the woman by her forearms, carefully holding her arms close together so she wouldn't tug the handcuffs into chafing at her wrists. Diana led Taryn a couple yards down the sidewalk to the squad car parked ahead, while I didn't even bother taking him by the cuffs, instead setting my hand on his back.

Neal moved out of the way of the door so that I could swing it open. "In the car, Caffrey," I commanded heavily. "You're under arrest." A smirk played at his lips for just a second before he remembered this wasn't funny. He ducked his head down to slide into the seat in the back, and for a break from the harsh truth of what had gone so badly wrong, I climbed in next to him and pulled the doors shut, waiting for a ride to the FBI.

With the windows tinted, it was much safer to scoot closer to Neal on the other side of the car and drop my head down to his shoulder. His cheek softly rested on my head and we sat in silence while we watched for someone to approach. When someone did, we had to spring apart and I had to skitter over to the other side of the backseat again. I could still feel the warmth of his body on my cheek as the car was started, the one stable, secure thing that I could feel, and I shut my eyes and clung to that feeling of holding to a lifeboat in the middle of an ocean.

* * *

Kate plucked pieces of bread from her breakfast muffin and popped them in her mouth, tearing off small pieces from the half that she'd taken the wrapper off of. She held the entire muffin in a napkin and ate cleanly so she went to work just as presentably as she'd left the house, but while I was happy to accompany her to a breakfast diner, I wasn't hungry enough to eat.

"How upset were they that you lost the hundred grand?" Kate asked conversationally, like losing a hundred grand of government money wasn't anything new, and punctuated the question with an unexpected little hum as she tasted a blueberry.

I pretended to have to think it over first. My supervisors' responses had been abysmal at best… in a raised-voices-and-insults kind of way. Hughes had put a stop to the insulting pretty quickly once it crossed from reprimand into verbal abuse, but even he hadn't had much to say to defend the operation. I tried shrinking back into the corners but, ah, that didn't work. I wouldn't have been surprised if they had suggested strapping _me_ with an anklet to teach me some responsibility, since that was such a big concern.

"I want a headstone made of glass," I decided aloud, making light of the situation so Kate wouldn't know how close I had come to not going to work today. My only redeeming input was that I wasn't the one who had tipped off Dorsett – the agents out front were supposed to have memorized the exits and known to keep any communication out of sight. "I want you to tell Neal to have Odysseus come up with the engraving. That'll make it suitably paranoid and conspiratorial."

Kate nodded slowly, her cheeks puffed out with air like a cute human chipmunk before she blew it out. "Okay… so… mad." I bobbed my head. I was not looking forward to the day, but I had to push through it; my reputation wasn't the only thing on the line. Neal had to play a part in the recovery of the money so that the bureau would be convinced that he hadn't done something to tip off the bastard, too – Taryn's input was only worth so much to them, due to lacking a badge.

Something occurred to my sister and she tipped her head while chewing another bite of muffin. "Who's Odysseus?"

I'd almost forgotten that Kate didn't know about Mozzie. The weirdo had become someone I thought about somewhat frequently, even if it was just as simple as a _what's the weirdo up to now, nothing illegal I hope_. "Friend of his," I told her briefly. So she wouldn't ask more, I distracted her with more information on the operation-gone-wrong. "They've started an administrative inquiry into the operation, but it'll all go away if – _when_ – the money is recovered."

Kate winced sympathetically and she held out a piece of muffin to be kind. I waved it back to her and she popped it into her mouth. "The best part of this is that Neal didn't take it, though," she mumbled while she chewed.

I slipped my hands behind my back and took my left wrist into my right hand. Trying not to smile a little bit was futile. A few months ago I'd have been suspicious, but either it was learning to trust Neal more or it was just that he'd had a gun held on him and I knew how much he hated guns that turned me around on the subject. I was confident my CI wouldn't criminally betray me.

"This is progress," I agreed, for a second feeling like I was glowing again before the rest of the situation forcibly crashed down again. I bit my tongue. _No, don't think about that._ I needed to be enthusiastic and positive, which was hard enough on a good day. "Can I tell you something?" I asked thoughtfully, forcibly keeping my mind on Neal.

She nodded instantly. "Anything," she swore.

I opened my mouth to say, but then stopped and huffed a little in amazement. "I didn't even think about him stealing the money," I admitted, letting go of my wrist and reaching to scratch the back of my head underneath my ponytail. "It only even occurred to me that I should ask when Derek reminded me. Until that, I just…"

 _Just was too busy being relieved that Neal was unharmed._ But Kate hadn't been told everything in its excruciating details, and she was missing the part where Neal and Taryn had had guns held in their faces.

"You're trusting him!" Kate beamed and tried to clap, but she had to only smack the lower half of her palm against her fingers while she had her breakfast in hand. "I know you're going to make it sound all unimpressive and scientific, like complaining about oxytocin, but I think it's actually a soulmate thing."

Carelessly, she took the last bite of her muffin and finished it off, wrapping the muffin cup up in the napkin and balling it up in her hand. I looked around furtively, instinctively checking to make sure no one had overheard, and then realized I was being paranoid when Kate shoved her fist into my side after tossing her trash in a garbage bin.

"…" I had no answer for a few seconds. It couldn't be a soulmate thing. The entire purpose for sleeping with him the second (and third, fourth, et cetera) time was to _prove_ that there wasn't a difference between the time when I didn't know and the times that I did. "You're right," I weakly came back with. "It's the oxytocin."

Kate snorted. "Stop sleeping with him then," she replied as if it were obvious.

Intentionally moving to bother her, I made a dreamy face and stared off in the direction of a black memorial statue on the lawn of a museum. "He gives the best-" I started to say, but my sister squealed.

"Oh, God!" She covered her ears immaturely. "Stop!"

Well, I supposed I wouldn't want to hear about my sister and my friend banging, either, so I looked at her with feigned innocence and eyes widened in shock. "What? I was going to say cuddles," I said, only managing to hold off the snickers until the last breath. I wasn't going to tell her the details of my sex life on principle alone, but I knew that's what she'd thought I would have said.

"Hmm…" She kept looking at me out of the corner of her eye suspiciously, waiting for me to jump back in and finish my "original" declaration.

I yawned widely and licked my lips, opening and closing my mouth a few times to stretch my jaw. I hated being up this early in the morning. Scratch that, I just hated the mornings. "You know what's weird, though?" I shared in all seriousness. "I introduced him to an absolutely gorgeous woman and he didn't flirt."

Since Neal flirts – however chivalrously or playfully – with even Katie at times, her eyebrows raised. "Really?"

"No." I cocked my head. Were we really considering flirting the same thing?

The clichéd flirting – kissing the hands, smirking, locking eyes sensually – Neal did all of that with anyone he didn't think would threaten to harm him for it. He did it with Katie, Taryn, me – he'd even tried it with Diana (but only once and would probably never try it again. She had made her point clear). Then there was the closer, more serious kind, where he invaded personal space and dismissed qualms about touch and smiled and joked and looked up sweetly through his eyelashes. Those were… actually, I couldn't really remember the last time I'd seen him try that, except for maybe on Diana in the airport when we found the Snow White books in Spanish.

"I mean," I corrected myself, finding the difference in the two kinds of behaviors and feeling the need to clarify. "He did the charm and the 'I'm-so-handsome' grin and all that, but he does that with everything that has a pulse." I rolled my eyes. "He didn't give her a nickname or use _that_ tone or anything."

 _That_ tone probably didn't mean much to Kate but it was the voice Neal took when he was being overly nice to me – calling me beautiful or asking me to dance at a party.

Kate was smiling widely but had the decency to try to hide it. "In other words, he didn't treat her like he does you," she summarized, sending me a look that suggested I was being dense. "Did anything else happen that you chose to be completely oblivious to that you need spelled out?"

She was offering, so she couldn't be upset when I responded.

"Actually," I began, dragging it out just to watch her glare. "Dorsett was saying this thing about how monogamy is a myth, and that loyalty is the casualty of pretty faces… or something like that, and I swear, I've never heard him come so close to breaking character." Just thinking back to how offended Neal had sounded made me nervous. I'd been really scared he was going to do something to out himself. "I thought he was going to snap at him."

Kate looked up at the sky, squinting to see the clouds, and swung her arms cheerily. No wonder she got along with children. Half of the time, she practically was one. "It's nice to meet a guy who doesn't appreciate being called a cheater," she said admiringly to the story, then cleared her throat and looked back down, re-grounded on planet Earth. "So you have two ways to think of it," she started to frame for me. "On one hand, Neal values his integrity as a faithful lover."

Yeah, that seemed like Neal. Very much a ladies' man, but with a strong ethical compass against hurting people and a very important set of values, one of which was loyalty. Being someone's lover, even if it was only in the sexual definition of the word, required some loyalty and trust, because both parties were trusting the other with their health.

"On the other," Kate kept going and I jerked myself out of the first option's merit to listen. "He was annoyed at the insinuation that he was sleeping with women other than the one he's already devoted to."

Devotion? And Neal? What? That kind of reaction would have to lie on the basis that he cared so much for his significant other that he was aggravated at the thought of her (or his, I suppose) trust being taken for granted, but who was Neal that emotionally dedicated to? Kate Moreau, obviously, but that wasn't it for at least one very good reason.

"But he's not devoted to anyone," I debated with my sister, with a pause and then amending, "I mean, Moreau, but she's his sister."

She stopped walking. I had to stop and turn around, almost a foot ahead of her. She stared at me in disbelief. "Really?" She had her arms out, ready to slap me. "You can't think of _anyone_ he might be feeling just a _little_ attached to?" _It's not like he has that many people in his life!_ Her tone made me want to defend myself. _A handler and a few friends…_ "How the _hell_ are you an investigator?" Kate breathed, stunned.

If it was _that_ obvious, it had to be right in front of me, and there was only one option for who he might be seeing that was right under my nose. "That's ridiculous though," I argued, pushing back not for logic anymore, but for personal reasons. "He can't think he's devoted to me!"

She lifted her shoulders haplessly and resumed walking. "Why not?"

Falling easily back into pace beside her, I huffed. "We're not dating!" I reminded loudly. "We have sex," I dropped my voice for modesty in the public street. "And sleep in the same bed on occasion for convenience… we don't kiss each other goodbye or hug hello!"

I staggered and almost stopped dead in my tracks. _Kiss goodbye. Hug hello._ But we had done that, hadn't we? The more-or-less hug in the police car after his life had been threatened. The quick, innocent kiss on my lips before I took my shower. _What else had I missed?!_ I tried to go through every interaction and pick apart what he might have taken as more than it had actually been. The teasing in the Lambert? The trust I displayed in letting him lead in talking to Julianna's uncle? Or even before that – was touching my scars, reassuring me that I was sexy and beautiful, him being a sensitive lover or a doting boyfriend? When he called me 'darling,' was he being silly and teasing like I'd assumed, or was it supposed to be an endearment?

I must have looked completely panicked when I realized all the tiny things that had happened that could have so easily been taken from someone else's perspective to mean something different. I wanted and trusted and cared for Neal in a platonic sense; I was attracted to him physically and respected his body and his mind, but that didn't mean that I wanted the affair to be more than a hookup. I couldn't get involved with my soulmate while I was hiding from him that I'm his soulmate! Especially not someone like Neal, so enamored with the idea of someone that has his mark on them.

Kate took pity on me and slapped my shoulder with camaraderie, but didn't retract the statements that had actually made me start _thinking._ God, was I an idiot! "Okay, there are a lot of ways to maintain a relationship, bro," she made an uncomfortable face, having an unwanted mental picture before she hurried over, "And not all of them rely on being physically close all of the time." She put her hands up to say she didn't know. "I'm not saying anything for sure, maybe he really was just annoyed at the man's principles, but if you're that dead-set on being friends-with-benefits, then you should probably make sure he knows that."

 _I really should,_ I realized miserably. I hadn't thought it was feasible for the day to get any worse, but look at that, it had. "And how, exactly, do I do that?" I wondered, begging for help as much as my pride would allow.

"Slip it in the next time he does one of the flirty things," she suggested, then, knowing my predilection – or lack thereof – for subtlety, she also offered, "Or say it up front. I don't know. It's your relationship." I sucked in a breath like I'd been hit and felt a little sick. "Oh, sorry, it's your _not-relationship."_

Kate wasn't judgmental, but she did sound more irritated than she had the grounds to feel. "I feel like you're repressing more comments again," I said weakly, still shell shocked.

"What you're doing?" She held up a hand with a finger out, but groaned, faltered, and threw her hand back down. "I want to tell Neal, as his friend. And as everything that I feel about soulmates." Just like her resolve with her lecturing pointer finger, her shoulders fell in defeat. "But you're my sister," she stated factually, looking down at the sidewalk. I felt _guilty_ for the relief I felt. "I love you, and ultimately I have to side with you, no matter what, so I'll keep your secret, but I… God, I hate doing this."

There were days that I truly regretted having ever told Katie what had made me go running away from Neal's penthouse without even all of my clothes. I hadn't thought before I had put her in this position where she was torn between her friends, between her sister and her values, but my fear kept me paralyzed from fixing the situation.

"I know, I know," I promised her with a heavy heart, both from guilty feelings and the tension of what the hell I was supposed to do to handle the situation with Neal. Assuming it was a situation. _Oh, please don't let it be an actual situation._ I didn't know what I was promising, but if it was that I empathized, then I did. "Have a fun and safe day…"

"That's practically my motto!" She held up both hands and mimed scissors with her fingers, slanting her wrists to mime like she was cutting something out, her face lit up entirely with childish eagerness and genuine love for her job. I knew the pain was still there, but Kate was an expert at covering it when other people needed it covered… even when that person was me, the person who was unintentionally driving the knife in a little bit deeper every time I had a heartfelt talk about my consultant. "Fun and safe!" She chirped. "So here, have the blunt scissors and the dull colored pencils."

I chuckled. Kate accused me of lacking tact, but she wasn't always that much better about it than I was, and for the most part, she didn't have any room to talk. "Your not-so-subtle birthday request has been mentally noted."

My problems were far from over, and honestly, I wasn't sure if the money or Neal's attitude was more alarming, but I knew that I had to be done using Katie to talk them out. I was close to being suspended already and she was already stressed from that. I needed to keep Neal's and my issues to myself for a while, at least for her sake.

And there was really nothing I wouldn't do for Katie.

* * *

If I thought that it was uncomfortable discussing my sex life with Katie, then it was actually going to be even worse to try to get Neal thinking about crushing on Taryn. I wasn't sure how to approach it. I couldn't say lewd things because that's disrespectful to Taryn and uncharacteristic of me. I couldn't be too subtle, because then he might pick up the hint, dust it off, and hand it right back to me obliviously while dismissing it as nothing. I also couldn't be too obvious, because then it would be clear that there was something going on.

After a failed attempt at considering how I'd talk to Derek if I had that idea, I decided to pretend Neal was Diana. It's not like it was strange, either. Actually, it was better. Derek has been infatuated with my sister for all but a few months that I've known him, while I have more experience talking to Diana about women she might crush on. She wasn't always in her relationship with Christy.

"How did you like Taryn?" I asked thoughtfully, pretending to have no ulterior motives. I waved over at an agent coming out of the kitchenette with a fresh mug of steaming coffee, but most of the affection in my eyes was for her drink. "She was totally badass yesterday."

Neal derailed my plans immediately with a disinterested hum. "She's not my type," he said without missing a beat.

I huffed. If he was going to abort my convenient plan, he could have at least given me thirty seconds of hopefulness first. _Jeez, talk about inconsiderate._ "How is she not your type?" I asked incredulously. My first thought would have been his sexuality, but regardless of what he labelled himself as, I knew for a fact he was attracted to women.

Not only is Taryn definitely female, but she's gorgeous, and she has a passion that matches his own. She likes creativity and has a master's degree in art history. I'm lucky if I can tell the difference between a Degas and a Monet. As for having physical preferences, Taryn's hair isn't a very different color than mine, just lighter, and about the same length, too. We're both white, around the same age, and European – although Taryn admittedly looked more eastern European than I did. And, unlike me, Taryn wears skirts and tights that show off her long legs and thighs, and likes shirts with lower necklines and tighter busts. Isn't that what guys are supposed to like? I like. Diana likes.

Neal was giving me a very strange look when I asked, and regardless of that I might actually have been digging myself into my own grave, I kept going, pretending that I didn't see the cynicism on his face. "She loves art, looks like a model with mile-long legs-"

The artist cut me off sarcastically. "Does she bake cookies for orphans, too?"

 _Wow._ Usually it took a lot more and a lot longer to get him actually annoyed enough for him to interrupt me and take that attitude. I guess trying to set him up with another informant is a button that he doesn't appreciate being pressed.

"Yes." I said, not blinking.

Neal stopped, so I paused and turned to face him. Bringing up my arms, I crossed them over my chest without thinking, half defensive and half irritated. Seriously. Couldn't he at least appreciate that I was trying to give him an appropriate outlet for all the romantic tension?

"I'm already interested in someone else," he said slowly, gluing his eyes to mine and saying it with great significance, like I was supposed to know exactly who he was talking about. – Oh.

_Really? You can't think of anyone he might be feeling just a little attached to? How the hell are you an investigator?_

I hate when Katie is right. The way he was looking at me, the weird look he'd given me when I brought it up, the swift way he brushed it off – it all made sense if I considered that maybe he felt he already had a girlfriend. _Fuck._ And here I'd been, praying I was wrong and that my worries would be put to ease.

"Hm." I said, feeling like my throat was being crushed by an invisible ligature that made it hard to talk.

He curled his lips into a smirk. Clearly, he knew that my monosyllabic response was brought on by dawning realization. This was not a realization that I had wanted to have. I almost wished I'd remained oblivious, but responsibly, I had to be aware so that I could put it off-course, right?

Neal leaned in very close, bringing his mouth to my ear, and whispered, "I think you're lying about the cookies."

"Prove it," I squeaked, and to my relief, it didn't come out nearly as much as a squeak as it did a challenge.

With our faces only inches apart, Neal looked amused that I was continuing to push the point, even after the demonstration he had made to get his perspective very firmly across. I reached up to his chest and gave him a shove – not hard, but enough to tell him without a shadow of a doubt to step out of my space – and he took a couple of steps back, putting up his hands to show he was harmless.

"Who's that?" He asked next, changing the topic, which was probably better for both of us. He pointed up to the conference room close to my office.

I followed his eyes and I recognized the fifty-some-year-old man sitting impatiently in one of the chairs, facing the window and looking into the WCCD, searching for the sign that someone was paying enough attention to come talk to him.

"The curator of the Channing Museum," I answered, remembering why I had brought Neal back to my office in the first place, Taryn and complicated relationships-that-aren't-relationships aside.

"Why is he here?" My conman sounded understandably confused, and even a little bit affronted that we had brought another art expert into the building. I resisted a small smile at the little bit of jealousy he showed.

"He claims that the Haustenberg belongs to them," I explained, correcting his wrong idea. "As the art expert," I rolled my eyes, "I'm enlisting your opinion to listen to his claim. I'm not taking any chances that he's screwing around." And when it comes to something like this, it's not entirely impossible to talk me in a circle. I knew I wasn't an art genius, and there was a reason for that. Ownership laws were one thing; the authenticity of art claims were another. "Oh, and – come on, leave it on my desk."

Without giving him the chance to ask what I meant, I reached up to his head and swiped the hat from on top of his hair, depositing his silk fedora on my own bouncy waves. I pursed my lips and turned my head to the side in a pose, fingertips pinching the brim, before I laughed at his disgruntled expression and took off for the mezzanine.

* * *

I grew up fast to talk to the director, Elliot Walter, dropping off the hat on my desk and then dragging Neal with me into the conference room. The man irately looked up, muttered a passive-aggressive "finally" under his breath, and held himself with high poise. I noticed that Neal waited for my cue.

I introduced myself and sat down. Neal waited until I had taken a seat to pull out the chair that was right next to me and plopped down at my side, crossing his ankles and resting his arms on the table. The curator was probably closer to fifty than sixty, but he had silver wire glasses pushed up high on his nose, and his hair was already turning grey, both of which made him seem older. He dressed professionally even just to come into the FBI, though his vest was snug over his abdomen.

"Why didn't you report the Haustenberg stolen?" I asked, after a few cursory questions that clarified he was who he claimed to be and that he was here about the theft. I also made sure that he had found out through the media rather than through being an accomplice to the crime.

"We did report it," Walter replied, affronted at the implication that he hadn't. I raised my eyebrows. _No, you didn't,_ I started to think before he added, "When it was stolen from us in nineteen sixty-seven."

I started to make a face at him but stopped myself before I finished. The result was narrowed eyes and a bit of a grimace. Yeah, that didn't help us. Nineteen sixty-seven was over forty years ago; _obviously_ that wasn't going to count as current. When a painting is stolen, you file a claim on it once, fine. When you hear of it again almost half a century later, you file another claim to make sure law enforcement catches wind of it.

Neal cleared his throat and raised his hand like one of Kate's daycare kids. "I have a question," he said without waiting to be called on, blinking big round eyes at me. I lifted my shoulders carelessly and pointed him to the curator. Neal rocked the rotating chair around to look at Walter. "The painting was stolen in sixty-seven, but it's not listed on the art loss registry."

That was a good question. I took that to heart and tilted my head to the left, asking the same question without speaking.

Walter looked between us both and blustered. "The registry was established in nineteen ninety," he tried to say as an excuse.

The way that Neal's expression went from sharp and curious to almost patronizing was enough for me to lean back into the mesh back of the chair and let him handle it. He was obviously more knowledgeable on art claims. "Ninety-one, actually," my consultant amended without pause. "You could've filed the claim."

He _should have_ filed the claim, more like. If it wasn't on the art loss registry, then he should've made sure it was put on as soon as possible, not after it just happened to resurface.

Taking offense to having the tables turned on him so quickly, Walter's fingers curled into fists and he fixed hawk-like eyes on my CI. I looked between them carefully. Neal wasn't exactly a fan of curators who didn't know what they were doing, and Walter was either oblivious or negligent of things that he should have known to handle.

"I'm sorry," he very clearly wasn't sorry at all, "Who are you?"

Intervening quickly, I reached out to push a hand against Neal's arm, indicating for him to let me handle it. I didn't want to risk him saying something like _an art thief_ to get a rise out of Walter. "Neal Caffrey," I said, internally preparing myself to defend my choice of partner in case it was recognized. "He's my informant on art-related crime."

"Caffrey…" Walter stared at Neal suspiciously through his glasses. "I'm not familiar with that name."

Leaning forward, I planted my elbows on the table and hid my face partially behind my hands, rubbing my forehead painfully. "That's probably a good thing…" I mumbled, cringing.

"You're an expert on the Haustenberg?" Thankfully, Walter didn't have any questions about my reaction.

Neal nodded brightly, smiling when I looked up at him. "On all the late-European post-impressionists," he clarified proudly. He may not exactly be a college graduate, but he sure does take pride in what he educated himself on.

That wasn't what the curator had wanted to hear, but he still tried to defend himself and keep his supposed higher credence. "I authenticated _Young Girl with Locket_ myself when it first entered our collection," he boasted. "You agree, it's an excellent work. A bit sentimental for my taste, but the Matisse influence is apparent."

 _What? When did you become art study partners?_ I felt like I was missing something and switched my focus between the two men. I probably _was_ missing something – I had no idea what he was talking about.

Neal frowned, disagreeing. "Well, considering Matisse was a fauvist, I wouldn't agree with that at all." _Oh._ That made more sense. Walter was testing Neal, and now Neal was making him look like a fool. Good. I don't work with idiots, and the sooner the curator knew that, the better. "Unless you're talking about his early work," he continued, not done yet, "Which I don't think you are… and if you are, you're just _wrong._ "

I sank my teeth into my lower lip and covered my mouth with my hand, trying very hard not to laugh and further spite Walter. _Way to go, Caffrey._

"Um, this particular work was stolen is a residential robbery," I said, enunciating clearly to make up for that I was huffing in my struggles not to giggle.

Walter sighed. "What happened to my property _after_ it was taken from my museum is not of my concern. Now, if somebody elected to _buy_ stolen property, I believe that is a crime." He stared me down, asking me to contradict him if it wasn't.

I couldn't tell if he was trying to implicate Dorsett or Julianna.

* * *

I knew that I'd eventually have to face Hughes myself, but although I wasn't worried about my job – these things do happen sometimes, and as long as I fix it, he wouldn't tear into me too badly – he still might try to draw proverbial blood, which I wanted to avoid. There was also a more-than-slight chance that he would posit the hypothesis that Neal had somehow set it up and intended to take a cut of the stolen money, which I just didn't want to hear. When I heard from Derek that Taryn had come by again, I had given myself three seconds to sigh and be frustrated before I went back to sympathy and guilt. She hadn't signed up to be almost murdered or to have a gun waved in her face, and I felt bad that things had gotten out of hand so quickly when we were supposed to be keeping exactly that kind of thing from happening.

Whether by fate or luck, when I went to go talk to her myself, I saw her leaving with a goodbye to Neal, looking somewhat subdued. She waved at me but slipped out the doors without waiting, pressing down on the button on the elevator panel to go downstairs. Leaving her be, I went to Neal to get an update on her indirectly.

"How is she?" I asked my consultant, who was looking concerned for the woman, but when I asked, he brightened up.

"Oh, she's fine." I raised my eyebrows, prompting him to tell the truth. He shrugged and looked up towards the ceiling, not meeting my eyes when he added, "A bit annoyed, actually." I relented on my glare. He chanced a peek back down and saw that I wasn't looking ready to smack him, so he took it as a sign that the coast was clear. "Any luck on Dorsett?"

I took his arm, wrapping my fingers loosely around the crook of his elbow and halfheartedly giving a tug. He took his hands out of his pockets, let me lead him forward, and walked just behind me. "Nope." I reported, dragging him away from the exit to the division. Just because Taryn had left didn't mean that Neal got to, and I felt like physically distancing him made that a very obvious fact for him. I knew better than to leave any room for confusion. "Hypothetically," I started, and sent up a prayer that Neal would actually answer hypothetically rather than from experience. "You've walked with a hundred grand in cash and the painting. What do you do?"

Keeping up at my heels, Neal only paused for a second as he considered the circumstance. "Go to ground until things cool off," he decided.

"But where at?" In front of the steps to the mezzanine, I dropped his elbow and turned around sharply to look at him. My ponytail draped itself over my shoulder and I blinked up at him inquiringly. Neal looked over my shoulder, not focusing on anything in particular, taking on a thoughtful glaze in his eyes. Where was a runaway fugitive going to go? What would his home base be? Normally we would cover all of his kin, and while Dorsett didn't have any living relatives in New York, there may be one person he could run to locally. I shifted my weight to my left leg. "Dorsett said he had a girlfriend, right?" I mused.

"Brigitte," Neal confirmed and nodded, the French name rolling smoothly off of his lips – pretty, but foreign-sounding.

And because it was foreign, it wasn't going to be the most common thing to hear in Manhattan. "How many Brigittes came in from France last night?" I questioned with a slight smirk. Neal understood immediately and he started to smile, giving me an encouraging pat on the arm as if in praise.

* * *

Ten minutes later, my bright idea wasn't looking quite as fruitful as I had hoped it would be, and I was staring blankly at a clipboard with a sheet of over thirty names. We had agents at our disposal, sure, but not _that_ many. That was just impractical. Brigitte was _not_ that common of a name! _What the hell, French Airlines?!_

"There are a lot more than I thought," I said, blinking at the paper. Neal's arm ended up landing around my shoulders as he looked over the clipboard with me. Derek, who had handed it to me, stood about a foot away, waiting expectantly for me to admit that this great idea of mine may not be too successful.

"Well, we can discount connecting flights," Neal offered.

I took the pen from where it was jammed under the clip holding the paper and I pointed it at him. Helpfully, he pushed on the end I was using as a pointer and popped out the ink on the other side. I looked at the flight information on the right side of the page and started to draw lines through each of the names that didn't have a direct trip from an airport in France to the New York international terminal. It really cut down the list, but still left us with over a dozen.

"And, say, over fifty and under eighteen." A handful of the names' owners were still children. Apparently the name was gaining more popularity in France. Either that or someone organized a Brigitte Club and they decided to make a field trip. After I suggested that, both men stared at me, Derek skeptically and Neal as if I was being weird for thinking that Dorsett wouldn't be dating a fourteen-year-old or whatever. He was a lot of things, but pedophile didn't really fit.

"What?" Defensively, I held the clipboard a little tighter. "Tell me I'm wrong!"

Neal shook his head and brought himself out of it, holding up both hands to motion to calm down. "No, okay, that's a good start," he allowed, and I glared at him, crossing out more of the names on the spreadsheet.

Derek rocked up onto his toes and leaned forward, looking at the page upside down. I lowered the clipboard from the angle it was being held at so that he could see it easier. The older agent did a quick count of the names that were still able to be made out on the list. "That leaves seven."

"Then get five more agents, tell them to pick a friend, and hand them a location and a Brigitte," I shrugged. Seven was a lot more manageable than thirty-four. Considering that we were after a hundred thousand dollars in cash and a painting worth millions, I doubted Hughes would mind if we requested a little more manpower. "Follow, but don't approach without probable cause," I informed, expecting Derek to relay it to any agents he chose to drag along. I would leave that selection up to him.

I had gotten a little less approachable to some of the agents in my division since Neal took to hovering near me when he wasn't at his desk – I couldn't really blame him, though, since a lot of them probably said rude things to or about him when my back was turned. I couldn't do much about that, so if he felt safer when I was around to hear, then so be it.

"Oh, and we'll take the girl staying at the _Ganzebord,_ " Neal added when Derek took the clipboard being passed back to him.

Oh, right – the most luxurious address on the list. Why was I not surprised? Derek and I both gave Neal warning looks at the same time, and I guess the full force of not just one, but _two_ "don't get any ideas, Caffrey" stares was enough to make him explain himself. "That's where I would stay," he reasoned, blinking innocently.

I didn't buy it for a second, but I did know better than to doubt him on matters of extravagant living.

* * *

"You'd think they would have a satellite for things like this," Neal whined, leaning against the back of the passenger's seat and trying to stretch his long legs out as far as they would go in the confines of the car. He turned his head to look out the windshield again, bottom lip sticking out in a cute pout. He crossed his arms over his chest with little dignity and sighed loudly.

Neal had been all for doing surveillance at the hotel until he realized that the only surveillance we were meant to do would be done from outside the hotel, across the street, and in my car. Then the complaining started. Anyone would think that I was doing surveillance with an eight-year-old.

I tried to keep a hold on my patience. "A satellite would tell us if he was on the roof," I reminded him, in case he forgot how satellites worked. Which he seemed to have. "And I think he's a little more inconspicuous." Neal would've known better than to go hang out on a roof, hadn't he? He'd have been caught much sooner if he hadn't had the ability to think these things through. Why wasn't he utilizing that well-honed skill now?

Neal liked action. I understood that. Being trapped in a stagnant car wasn't my idea of a great time, either. His behavior was a bit of an exaggeration, though – I mean, it wasn't like I had chained a ball to his ankle and left him in a cell. Not only was I here with him, but my car isn't that old. I had air conditioning running, the radio playing quietly for background noise, a police radio up on the dash, and I'd let him take his seatbelt off almost as soon as he started fidgeting. He could recline the seat back, he could play on a phone, he could do a lot of things that didn't involve getting on my nerves.

He sighed and rolled his head on the headrest to look out his window, sulkily staring in the wrong direction. "This is old school," he muttered.

_I should've come to surveil alone._

"Will you relax?" I almost begged, staring at the green light from the digital clock, pleading with it to hurry up and tick down the minutes until we could switch shifts with other agents. "You're acting like my car is a personal hell!"

He moaned. "It would be if I was alone." He shut his mouth and sighed through his nose, looking longingly over at the bright yellow lights from the outdoor restaurant attached to the hotel, fenced off from the public with a four-foot-tall iron gate around it. Waiters served liquor and sparkling cider to the men in tuxes and women in gowns seated around circular tables in burgundy-colored chairs.

"Were," I amended without thinking. "Were alone. Conditional clause."

He didn't say anything back to me, so I looked away from the restaurant and back to him. The light was so dark in the car in comparison to the hotel that I blinked away spots. Neal was just staring at me, trying to decide if I was serious, before his eyes shuttered and he looked straight ahead.

"Never mind," he said flatly. "You were right. It's hell."

I mimicked him and tossed my head back against the headrest behind me. My ponytail made my head bounce a little and pushed looser strands down to the back of my neck. I considered letting my hair down just so that I could lean back comfortably, but someone had to be watching the restaurant.

"That's nice," I exhaled, long and low.

Neal and I sat in silence for a few more minutes, me looking out the window, longing for peacefulness, while Neal stared out the windshield, pining for freedom. I sang the lyrics to the Del Amitri song on the radio in my head while they played through the stereo. I pretended I wasn't bored out of my mind. I pretended I wasn't tired at all, and that right now, if anyone asked, my best friend was my bed, followed closely by a very comfortable sofa, like the one in Derek's living room or June's parlor.

The relative quiet didn't last for long, but at least Neal seemed to be done complaining. I was glad when he started talking again, because the lack of anything to do or say had been starting to incite the munchies.

"I was wondering," he said, twisting himself around and pulling himself up in his seat. He crossed one leg over the other knee and held himself up against the back of his seat with his elbow digging into the cushion. "Do you speak French?' He peered at me curiously.

I lifted a hand to check out my painted fingernails and then waved towards him, going back to looking at the restaurant diligently. _"Je parle des langues romantiques, rappelez-vous?"_ I answered softly. French came as naturally to me as English did; I had fallen slightly out of practice, having not spoken it regularly in years, but after growing up with a French family that spoke the language more than they spoke English, I was never going to really forget it, barring brain trauma. _"Parlez-vous Francais?"_

 _"_ _Oui, oui_ …" Neal responded, voice smooth as silk as his tongue wrapped around the words. A jolt went down my spine and I repressed a shiver. I love listening to him speak, I love his voice; I'd never heard him speak in French before, and it sounded like he was caressing the words with his mouth. _"Frimer,"_ he added with attitude.

The man picked up a napkin from the side of the door, where I kept some in the compartments just in case they were needed. He spread it over his thigh, ran his hands over it to flatten it, and started to fold it up into origami.

Another few minutes. The song had changed to a commercial with a peppy and suitably irritating voice talking about how much her life had changed thanks to this up-and-coming company I could remember seeing a billboard ad for. Neal's origami was flimsy, thanks to the lack of strength of tissue paper, but he was diligently re-folding the creases to try to make it stay. Nothing interesting happened at the restaurant, except for a woman came up behind another and tapped their shoulder, making the seated woman jump and splash some of her drink onto the tablecloth.

 _This is horrible._ I blamed Neal for my impatience. I used to be much better at waiting without wanting to slam my head into the front of the steering wheel.

"What would you even _do_ if you went inside?" I wondered, lowering my wrist onto the arm rest towards my right. It's not like there was much he was missing. What was he thinking – get drunk? Make some friends? Test the mattress quality? It's a hotel, not a club.

Neal perked up since I was considering it. I didn't want to give in on principle, but if it got him to stop complaining about things, then it might be worth giving in just once. I chose to forget all the other times I'd thought the same thing.

"Spot me a twenty?" He asked hopefully.

I scoffed. "Firstly, their drinks are probably more than that. Secondly, why don't you use your new gold card?"

Neal looked immediately cowed, like a puppy who'd been caught trying to steal human food. It was adorable how his gorgeous eyes suddenly looked surprised, and then went into 'oops' mode, leaning away from me and sinking down meekly. It wasn't that I objected to giving him some money as much as it was that asking for money wasn't an answer to my question, and I didn't like when he wasn't direct with me. There was too much wiggle room for half-truths, "but I don't lie to you, Kenna" reiterations be damned.

"Heh… you know about that?" He rubbed the back of his neck uncomfortably, laughing nervously.

I smiled. "Keep it." I just motioned to his pocket, where it probably was tucked into the square of his billfold. "I don't care." I knew that not all of his money had been, ah, honestly made, but I wasn't about to start a whole new thing about how he got his finances. That was a long time ago, anyway. How he chose to utilize it was up to him, and it was probably better for me and the bureau that he had a card, anyway. Cards left paper trails where cash didn't. "I can look at your history."

At this, Neal looked disgruntled. "Do you stalk all of your lovers?" He queried, trying to make me sound like I was being unreasonable.

 _Lovers._ So that's what he thought? He considered himself as my lover? Well, I supposed it wasn't wrong. The dictionary definition fit, didn't it? Where it counted, I felt loved by him – or, at least, my body did, and wasn't that the part that counted? I told myself that it was.

"No," I hurriedly offered, and then gave him a full smile, tongue pinched between my teeth cheekily. "You're just special."

He rolled his eyes. Apparently I wasn't as charming as I liked to think. He went back to staring at the outside world like a trapped animal wishing for its freedom and managed to look so pathetic that even I was starting to take pity on him. Taming Neal was obviously going to take some more time.

Licking my lips, I sought out the lock controls and then depressed the button for the unlocking mechanism. The locks clicked and shot up in the doors. Neal jerked in surprise.

"Fine. Alright." I gave him a short little push on the shoulder. "Go, be free, butterfly." He started to smile so widely that it must've hurt his face, but he didn't seem to care. Jumping at the chance, he uncrossed his legs and pulled at the door handle eagerly before I had the chance to change my mind and lock it again. "No shenanigans, no getting up to trouble," I lectured, looking at the time again. I didn't even last twenty minutes. Wonderful. I'm slipping. I got the feeling he wasn't really listening to me. "Keep your phone on. And, on that note, answer it!"

He hopped out of the car, stretched up tall so his jacket pulled up around his waist, and reached for the sky, making a big deal out of getting stiffness out of his back. Was it possible to sprain an eye? I was going to find out if I kept rolling mine this frequently. Then the con leaned back into the car, with his origami in hand, and reached across the space between the seats for my head. I obligingly looked down while he touched the bottom of the unsteady little crane to the top of my hair.

"That's for you," he grinned when I looked up and tried to see myself in the rearview mirror. He didn't stop smiling. It was starting to get unsettling. He had only put the napkin on my head, right? So much for being a badass FBI agent – I felt like an arts and crafts teacher. "Shenanigans," he repeated with a giggle, like I'd just been joking.

The levity with which he took the instruction concerned me.

"You're kind of cute," I said aloud, returning the favor of being overly affectionate and a tad obnoxious. I admired his beautiful blue eyes and the cut of his jawline, the gentle bow of his lips. "I might have to keep you." I met his eyes again as he jokingly pretended to brush back his hair before swinging the passenger door shut.

* * *

**Remember the first time I had sex? Well, the guy I gave my virginity to decided he wanted me back. It's quite a bit late for that, isn't it? His loss. My gain – as in, I gain not having a huge headache, and admittedly a boost to my ego, as well.**

**This isn't some reminiscent, nostalgic story. This just happened recently, and I'm writing it down because it's a lighter topic than what I was originally planning on recounting the next time I sat down with some of this dumb stationary. I was going to be the better person and just ignore him, you know? For once in my life, I was just going to be passive and pretend I didn't see something. But he saw me, and he lit up like a firework, and came running over, taking the liberties of using his old nickname for me and touching me and trying to kiss my cheek.**

**I hit him.**

**I got the message across, but even after that, he laughed it off and sheepishly copped to having deserved that. We didn't break up on pleasant terms. I still can't forgive him for what he said to me, how he drove it in with his soulmark. Well, I showed him the screenshot on my phone, took off my glove, and showed him mine this time. I was a lot nicer about it… yeah, no, I was just as mean. But the colors on my arm – they may not match his, but if he's going to be that low as to feel entitled to me, as to use my soulmate to make me feel lower than dirt, then I'm glad we're not mates. I told him that somewhere out there, there's someone who's much better for me than he could ever be, and that I'll happily give that person my love and attention and patience, but I have none for him. I have no love for him after the bad blood (and bad sex, which I definitely tossed back in his face. I never claimed to be a sensitive person), I would rather pay attention to a roach, and why should I have patience for someone who didn't have the patience to make sure I wasn't hurting?**

**I just thought this would be a nice boost for you if you ever need it. A relationship with you, McKenna, is worth more than you're being given if your significant other makes you sad more than they make you happy. Actions speak a lot louder than words, honey. This stupid idiot said a whole lot of flowery prose that could've made a little girl's heart melt into a puddle, but I won't give him the chance to repeat his behavior from last time. It wasn't a mistake that accidentally hurt my feelings. He intended to hurt me. Principle aside, he succeeded.**

**Listen to words. Words are important. God knows you're going to use them a lot, if you're anything like me. Just remember that as much as someone can use them to be mean, they can also use them to be nice, and if someone's words don't match up with their behavior, then you should run far away. Or taser them. Whichever's more convenient for you, I guess.**

**If someone around you has been making you think lately, look for what they're saying with their body.**

**Hey, you know what? This is good advice. There's an entire study dedicated to watching behavior. Who knows? Maybe I'll convince you to take a few classes on it.**

**Love (and watch),**

**Zarra L**


	10. Confess All Your Sins, You Know You've Got Them

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Neal breaks a promise. McKenna retaliates in a way she might later regret. The WCCD closes their case against Dorsett; meanwhile, Neal has a lead on how to find Kate Moreau.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Lucy Hale's "Make You Believe."
> 
> There is some French in this one. As a French student, I did the translations myself without the use of the Internet. If anyone more fluent than myself can point out errors, I'll happily talk with them to edit and learn where I'm messing up.

**_Chapter Ten – Confess All Your Sins, You Know You've Got Them_ **

I was keeping myself awake by drinking a frozen caramel mocha Starbucks frappucino in my car and when I wasn't drinking, I was singing along to the songs I knew on the radio. So far I'd gotten a newer song by Imagine Dragons, an Adele, an old Elton John, a Soft Cell, and half a dozen others, including the newer hits that you couldn't seem to go anywhere without hearing.

I looked away from the hotel for a moment and stared at the steering wheel. The hotel was so brightly lit that looking to anywhere in the shrouded darkness of my car was like looking into a chasm of despair. Yawning more from boredom than anything else, I rubbed my forehead and then tightly pinched the bridge of my nose. There are such better things to do at night than surveillance. Sleep, for one. Eat. Drink. Party. Play karaoke. Watch television. Get my ass kicked in a video game. Sex is up there, too, but before the whole case with the Bible, that had not happened enough in the past few years to be worth putting on the list.

I closed my eyes, just for a second, to blink and breathe and recover my calmness and composure. I just had to do a few more hours and then someone else would trade shifts. Just for a second…

 _"_ _Hey!"_ Someone rapped on the window and I jolted, head flying back and smacking into the headrest. I glowered at the window before I recognized Neal, tongue between his teeth and grinning, looking very amused, fist still raised to the glass.

Sighing, I looked at the clock again. Almost seven minutes had passed since I had taken a "twenty-second break" from staring at the hotel and watching dully for anything out of the ordinary. Irritating as Neal's obvious enjoyment was, maybe it was a good thing he'd scared me awake. It gave me that adrenaline boost. It was possible I was more tired than I'd thought.

I pushed down on the tab and let my window retract down. Warmer - but not hot - air rushed in and covered my face in a soft brush. "What is it?" I asked, looking at Neal with the air of someone who hadn't been mostly-asleep in their car on the job.

 _"_ _Peux-tu regarder?"_ A high French voice chattered and then giggled. Behind Neal, on the opposite side of the curb, were two striking women in short dresses, one in an ebony gown that barely met her knees and the other with a glittering golden dress that clung to her hips and tightly emphasized her breasts, barely covering her hips. The blonde with the sparkling dress had high-heeled sandals on and her hair was straightened, while her friend twirled brown hair around manicured fingers with a giggle, blushing and looking away when I looked at her.

"What do you think?" Neal asked, face bright and flushed a little in excitement.

At least, I hoped it was excitement, because the alternative wasn't exactly appropriate for a stakeout, and I wanted to stay awake by something other than arousal from imagining the artist shifting uncomfortably in the confines of his pants, tent in his trousers visible and face flushed, pulling at his necktie and showing off the contours of his throat…

… Too late. I rubbed my thighs together subtly. God, I'd thought I'd had better self-control than this. Since I got sexually active again, I was practically a hormonal teenager who got wet at half the people she saw for no other reason than a pretty face. Luckily, my "half the people she saw" was actually only Neal, but it was infuriating how I could be around perfectly attractive people all day and not really care, and then I thought something just a little too raunchy about my CI and suddenly I wanted to fuck on the nearest flat surface.

"You… found us prostitutes?" Sure, I'd never been against threesomes (or foursomes) before, but aside from the exasperation at the suggestion while we were supposed to be working, I felt an unexpected swell of jealousy at sharing Neal and the equally unwelcomed agitation at the idea that I wasn't physically satisfying enough.

"What?" For a second, he looked innocently confused. Then the pieces clicked. "No! No!" He looked over his shoulder at the women on the sidewalk and smiled charismatically before he turned back to me. "That's Brigitte and her friend. I convinced them to invite us up to their suite." He smirked. "Brigitte likes me. You can have Claire."

I felt like I was sixteen again, playing wingman – or wing-woman, as the case was – and being given the sad incentive that I could try my luck with person B if my friend managed to hit on person A with a good response. I sighed.

"You're insane," I mourned the transition from sane, diligent surveilling partnerships with Derek to long, stifling, uncomfortable-for-more-than-one-reason shifts with Neal.

"The room is rented in her name," Neal persisted. "We're not breaking any laws if she invites us in!" _Not that he knows of…_ "Look, the hundred grand and the painting could be inside. Wouldn't you like to know if we're sitting in the right place?"

It was hard to tell if he meant it to be manipulative or if he was just trying to make a point, but either way, not only did my job require that I recover the painting sooner rather than later, but I was increasingly worried about the security of Neal's (albeit limited) freedom, so his incentive was pretty convincing. Not to mention that I was going to get my head handed to me on a platter if the case drew out too long without a recovery of the bureau's money.

"Kenna…" Neal whined when I took too long thinking.

"You're a bad influence," I grumbled, screwing the cap onto my frappucino. At least flirting with sexy women would be a good excuse for the sexual frustrations.

* * *

Brigitte was leaning so heavily against Neal after leaving the square elevator that he might as well have been carrying her, for as much work as she was doing herself, but he wasn't complaining. Their room was on the fourth floor, so there had been plenty of time on the mechanical ride up for Neal to endear himself to Brigitte even further and for me to indulge Claire in her affectionate cuddling, draping herself all over me, half-drunken and half-silly.

"Tes cheveux sont si doux!" Claire giggled, playing with the hair of my ponytail and sliding her fingers through. She pinched the loose strands in between her fingers and tugged. I winced but didn't complain.

 _If I were responsible, I would cut her off,_ I thought to myself, and thoughtlessly replied, "Merci."

While Brigitte looked down the drop of her neckline to her breasts, Neal caught my resentful glare and grinned at me. "Il est doux, non?" He agreed with Claire and teased. Like a high schooler whose crush was agreeing with her, Claire hid her face in my shoulder and laughed loudly, fruity alcohol on her breath not really unpleasant but definitely not the best when I'm sober.

Wonderful. I had a fifteen-year-old cooing about my hair, a dork doing the same thing just to piss me off, and a stripper flashing her tits because her dress didn't have pockets and she was too drunk to take her hotel keycard out of her bra without shoving her dress down and pulling her bra away from her body. I covered my hands with my face and trusted Claire to lead me into the room once Brigitte managed to get the door open. Then I decided that since she was only upright because she was leaning on someone, namely me, I probably shouldn't rely on her coordination.

The key beeped green. Brigitte was slow to pull it out and Neal reached forward, keeping his right arm wrapped around her back and the skintight dress, twisting the handle and opening the door before it relocked. He led the woman on his arm inside and then twisted around to hold it open for Claire and I. I took the weight of the door from him while making a particularly pained face as Claire stepped on my foot with her heel. Neal was having fun, but I just wanted to go home. I appreciated the sexy bodies in clothes that might as well be painted on, but this was just too much.

Brigitte grabbed onto Claire and Claire jumped off of me. The blonde leaned in to her friend and whispered something in her ear, cupping her hands around her mouth, and Claire blushed bright red but nodded brightly. A flush stayed on her face.

"Laissez-nous rafraîchir!" Brigitte waved while Claire was keen to look away from their American guests, holding onto Brigitte's upper arm and tugging them towards one of the doors in the suite.

"Reviens bientôt!" Neal cheerily waved and winked at them, turning the charm up madly. Brigitte winked back saucily and followed her friend into the next room, laughing. The door swung shut behind them, and neither of them thought to be careful with the force, so it slammed. Neal turned to look at me expectantly, placing his hands in his pockets now that he didn't have a gorgeous French girl to hold. "Claire's a sweetheart," he decided for me.

I looked around the room briefly. The hotel suite was set up like a square. First, the square was cut in half. The rectangle remaining on the left side was the room that we had stepped into; the parlor or main room of the set, with dark blue carpeting, a floral couch with pastel colors and an off-white background, and elegant wood tables with lots of swirls and curves. The couch cushions had tassels on the corners. A floor lamp was set up between the couch and the corner of the room in the left, and a bouquet of flowers was in a glass bowl filled with multicolored marbles, wet from water. The right wall had two doors, marking the length of the room by thirds; the one further back was the one that Brigitte and Claire had fled into, while the one nearer to the door I could look inside and see was a bathroom.

I had been spoken to, so I responded. I didn't want to say that Claire _wasn't_ sweet, because she was; I just wasn't up for playing the exquisite foreign lover to someone who wasn't sober enough to stand upright. "She started to serenade me," I grimaced, because she had been trying to sing improvised lyrics to the melody of a Cascada song.

Neal pouted his lips. _He'd better be careful or Brigitte will want to kiss him._ "You look unamused," he said, stepping closer and turning his elbow out to knock me in the side playfully.

"She was singing about my breasts…"

Neal giggled cutely. I'd been waiting for that. It had sure looked like he had something to say while Claire had been performing, but he'd bit his lip and let Brigitte give him a lot of happy and innocent Eskimo kisses. While he expressed his amusement, I held my arms out in invitation. I'd rather he got it out now than talked about it when Derek or Diana were around to hear.

He went over to a glass-faced table between the two doors to the bedroom and bathroom, where a tray of champagne glasses and a bottle of burgundy wine had been delivered via room service. He picked up the corkscrew.

"Darling, you have to relax," he chided me while he opened the bottle, then turned four of the half-dozen supplied glasses over and started to fill them all up to their halfway point. "If we have the wrong Brigitte, we'll know soon enough."

_Yes, but how many more times do I get groped before then?_

"The second we find out if Dorsett is staying here, we leave and call in reinforcements," I sternly declared, already griping in my head about how far we had already strayed from the typical procedure. "Understood?"

Neal covered his heart with one hand and raised the other arm in a scout's honor. "Done," he swore.

Right on time, too, because at that moment Brigitte and Claire decided that they were refreshed enough to come back out. The roots of the blonde's hair were wet though her face was dry, and Brigitte was able to walk with a little more balance now. Claire came out first and twirled a little, the gown of her skirt picking up with motion and flapping against her thighs. Brigitte pulled the bedroom door shut behind her and inserted an old, normal-styled key into the lock behind her back, not drawing attention to it but not very adept at hiding it, either. She took the key back and then pulled the necklace up the front of her dress to fasten the clasp that it hung on.

Neal gave them a huge smile, delighted to see them again, and held out two of the glasses with dark-colored liquid. As if they needed more wine. "Voila!" He sounded very proud of himself and handed one to each girl.

"Merci," Claire said, smiling at him widely with shining teeth and taking one of the glasses. She accidentally met my eyes and her cheeks turned pink, nervously sipping at her newly-acquired drink.

 _Someone has a crush on me,_ I noticed, and chose to be nice and not comment on it, in English or French. It was flattering, but not a matter that I wanted to encourage.

Brigitte took her glass, slowly curling her fingers around the neck and touching her hand deliberately against my partner's. "Merci beaucoup," she purred, taking the glass out of his grasp and spinning around to go take Claire over towards the sofa.

"Asseyez-vous, asseyez-vous," he replied to them both invitingly, then motioned with his hands to the couch in case his accent or his vocabulary were off. Claire and Brigitte both looked at each other before Brigitte picked up a stack of CD cases from another table (there were too many tables for one hotel room) and sat perched on the arm of the furniture. Neal picked up the remaining wine servings and held one to me, speaking quietly. "She doesn't want us in there."

"I noticed," I said dryly, still unsure how to get inside. We could always just keep refilling their glasses until they got so tired they passed out, but that seemed mean. It was one thing to wait until they drank themselves to sleep, but it was different, less ethical, to be the one to condone and solicit it.

Neal offered the wine a little more insistently. I took the glass just so he'd get over it. I wasn't going to be drinking on the job. "There's a door in the bathroom that connects to the master suite," he said at his normal volume. It was kind of weird to be talking about them without even bothering to be quiet, but they couldn't understand us anyway. "I can open it."

"You can open it," I repeated with a huff. "Don't you mean you can break in?" I translated from Caffrey-ian to Bureau-ese.

He held up his free hand with his fingers splayed harmlessly. "Nothing will be broken, Kenna, I swear. It'll be just like opening the door." He turned his head to the side and shrugged.

I stared at him speculatively. "You've stayed in this hotel before."

"I've had a room a couple of times," he admitted.

Brigitte cleared her throat and stood up from the arm of the couch. She had taken her shoes off while she was in the bedroom and now stood a couple of inches shorter, but she held herself up and bent one of her knees outward, holding herself with her arms above her head like a ballerina.

"Mon chéri," she called. I was unsure if she was talking to Neal or myself, but I was going to go with Neal, since he was the one she had the eyes for. "On peut peut-être avoir un peu de la musique… danser un peu?"

It didn't seem like it could go too terribly wrong until Neal grinned at me, unable to quell his troublemaking ways. "Should I suggest strip poker?"

Suddenly alarmed that he really would, I widened my eyes and shook my head rapidly. "Don't you dare!"

When we didn't answer and instead appeared to just be arguing, Neal for something and me against, Brigitte raised her eyebrows and swayed her hips, sliding her hands down her sides. "On va danser, on va s'amuser…" the way she said 's'amuser' made me a little uncertain that she meant the normal definition of the term.

Neal switched his wine glass to the other hand and picked up his arm. I dropped my head forward to let him drop his arm around my shoulders without thinking about it and he lead me further across the room towards our French friends.

"Come on, music. Alright? Relax." Claire excitedly jumped up when Neal smiled at her and nodded, pointing to the CD player on the table they'd picked up CD cases from. Claire brought the CDs to me with her shoulders down and a nervous little smile on her lips. "Go on," he whispered with another nudge to me, putting his glass down by the bowl with the marbles and flowers, beckoning with crooked fingers for Brigitte to come to him.

I smiled reassuringly at Claire and hoped that my normal levels of affection were enough to tell her I wasn't particularly interested. I didn't want to be rude, but I wasn't going to kiss her face; and I wasn't exactly in France, and we weren't best friends, so either way I wasn't obligated to do so. Even when I had lived in France and grew up without it being an odd thing, it had still been something I avoided where possible.

The brunette handed me the CD cases to look through. Most of them were female artists. I only recognized one of them. Either Claire had a non-mainstream taste in music, or I needed to brush up on my French musical selection. I chose the one that I knew because music that I'm familiar with isn't as much of a distraction and handed it to her solely. Claire seemed pleased and went to pop the Indila CD into the player.

Meanwhile, Neal took Brigitte in his arms and draped his arms over her shoulders. She pressed herself close to him, keeping her torso a few inches away from his chest, but pressing her hips against his pelvis, hands lower than they necessarily had to be on his back. While Claire operated the music player, I watched the two of them swaying in place to a song that hadn't started, Neal rocking in close to her, bumping his nose against her cheek and threading his hands through his hair, stroking the back of her neck, murmuring sweet things in her ear that I couldn't quite hear well enough to distinguish. I watched them a little jealously and when _Derniѐre Danse_ came on, I looked back to Claire, seeing her snap shut the CD case. I knew that he was trying to get her relaxed and close enough to lift the necklace with the key without her noticing, but that didn't change that she was rocking their hips together and he was letting her – reciprocating, even, pressing back against her waist and chuckling seductively when she gasped and giggled.

It was Maria Fiametta all over again.

I mimicked Neal and held my arms out to Claire. She skipped the few feet to me and closed the space between us, flipping her hair over her shoulder and making herself at home in my embrace, setting her hands low on my hips while I kept mine to her upper back. This wasn't the best of Indila's songs to dance to, perhaps, but it had a melody, and if there's a melody, then you can sway, even if you are terrible at ballroom dancing. Claire seemed content.

It was nice to have someone nice and pliable leaning against me for support and with me because she wanted to be. I'd missed women as much as I'd missed men (or _had_ missed men, until Neal fulfilled that). There was just something very different in the physical feel, and it was very dramatic between lean, toned Neal and delicate, supple Claire. Claire just… didn't do it for me. I liked the sensations (though not her perfume, sadly) but they weren't good enough to want to zone in on and forget the world around us. I wanted her hair shorter and darker, and her eyes bluer, and cheekbones higher and jaw sharper… Neal. I wanted Neal. I had to confess that to myself before my thoughts started getting awkward in the means of comparison.

I considered my own labels. I could see myself enjoying a one-night-stand with either of these women (or both!) which was what they seemed to think was in store, but I couldn't imagine anything beyond that. It had taken a long time for me to find the label demiromantic. Conceptualizing a date or romantic love was one thing, but actually crushing on someone? That happened a lot less frequently for me. I couldn't want to date strangers; I had to know them, or at least have an idealized version of who they were, before I felt connected enough. I hadn't cared much about it in my early years because it wasn't a big deal, and it made sex a lot simpler because there weren't emotional complications where there didn't need to be.

That made sense, didn't it? I was demiromantic, so I wanted my partner for any long-term affair to be someone I knew and had already bonded with, and I knew Neal a lot better than I knew Claire. Or Brigitte, for that matter. So it wasn't at all strange that while Claire was stunningly hot, I would have preferred to be dancing with Neal.

By the time the song was over, Neal nuzzled his nose against Brigitte's. I saw him stepping away and he subtly moved his hands behind his back as he bowed courteously for Brigitte, the dramatics making her laugh a little bit. While his hands were hidden, he slipped her key and its chain up the sleeve of his jacket. Then he came over to cut in between Claire and me. I let go of her and she took a cue.

"Juste un moment," Neal promised, giving me an actual kiss right on my cheek with soft lips. I almost felt like I could brag to Brigitte.

"I know what you're up to, Caffrey, and make it fast. No signs of breaking and entering!" I yelped as Claire slid her hands a little lower when she felt that Neal had taken up my attention for long enough. Neal's laughter stayed with me even after I couldn't see him through the wall anymore and he pushed the bathroom door shut.

"Danser! Danser!" Claire repeated. I wondered if she thought I had a short attention span or just had very limited French skills, because Neal and I sure were talking in a lot of English.

Brigitte came over and retrieved her glass of burgundy. "Claire," she said excitedly, and her friend was more important to her than I was, so Claire flipped her hair and combed her fingers through, twisting her upper body and looking at the blonde inquisitively. "Regardes-tu vu il embrasser elle?"

"Oui! Ils sont si jolie!" Claire perked up immediately and looked down the room to the bathroom door Neal had disappeared into.

I followed their discussion easily and my nervous laugh bubbled over my lips before I could do anything to prevent it. "Ne vous en faites pas," I advised, holding my hands out and down indicatively.

Mischievously, Brigitte and Claire did a strange best-friend thing and looked at each other at the same time, then synchronously made a decision. Both of them giggled excitedly and Claire stepped to me, reached for my chest, and wrapped her fingers around the bottom of my tie while I looked dumbly at her hand in surprise. I found myself pulled towards the sofa by a zealous pair of lusty girls.

"Siéges!" Claire commanded, turning me around and then dropping my tie for the sole purpose of shoving my shoulders, pushing me down onto the couch.

With the two of them both taller than me while I was sitting, I looked apprehensively between them both and wished for Neal's convenient return any time now. Claire turned her head to Brigitte for the next part of the plan, and Brigitte pointed imperiously at my thighs. "Siéger dans ses genoux!"

I wasn't really given a choice in the matter before I had a lapful of petite brown-haired girl. Brigitte laughed like she'd won something and went over to the mini-fridge tucked underneath the entertainment center with the CD player (now playing a new song) and the turned-off TV.

"Um, le canape est vraiment assez grand pour-" I started to politely hint that Claire get off of my legs when her hand found my chin, pulled my head to face her, and I couldn't talk anymore because I was being kissed.

Alcohol was the first thing I noticed, but then my brain started running a comparison between Claire's kisses and Neal's. Claire had the taste of fruit faded on her lips (cliché, yes) where Neal usually tasted like coffee or wine, because we tended to only kiss in the early morning or late at night. Those were the most convenient times for a romp in the sheets. Claire's lips were plush and soft and gentle; I couldn't say the adjectives didn't also fit my preferred lover, but he was just different somehow, _better_.

I just let her kiss me because I didn't know what would happen if either of them got offended and retreated to the bedroom, only to encounter Neal trying to sneak his way in, and at least if they were toying with me, they were sufficiently distracted.

Her hand moved down to stroke my throat. Oh, I definitely preferred Neal's blunt fingertips to the sharp crescents of Claire's. This had a much higher capability of inflicting pain. _Ever heard of nail files?_ A heavy weight was thrown down to my right and Brigitte sat on her knees, wrapping her arm around my head to keep me turned to kiss Claire. At this point I started to feel uncomfortable for reasons other than kissing someone who wasn't Neal; I was starting to feel like I wasn't really being considered or given a choice.

I'm not a selfish lover because I absolutely _adore_ pleasing my partner. Very little is more satisfying than watching my bedmate come entirely apart by my hands and trust me to put them back together again with soft touches and tender care. I just _do_ require that I feel reasonably confident that I had a choice in the proceedings, even if I ended up choosing to relinquish that control.

Once I was permitted to stop kissing – which could more accurately be phrased as, once Claire stopped to breathe and I was freed from the awkward, mostly one-sided making out – my mouth was still kept busy. Brigitte held something cold to my lips in prompt. I opened my eyes. She was holding a bowl of refrigerated fruit, and was trying to feed me a strawberry.

 _Well, I'd rather be fed than be macked on._ The two of them ganging up on me and the very noticeable taste of alcohol made the situation even worse, because even letting Claire do all the work, she was still not sober enough to give consent. I was very liberal with sexuality, but my rules on consent were not nearly as flexible as my acceptance.

I bit into the sweet strawberry and felt juice coat my lips as the skin was popped. Sweet and a little sticky, I took the fruit into my mouth while Brigitte held onto the green top and aimed to throw the rest of it into the trash.

"Ah, delicieux?" I commented after I swallowed, and Brigitte smiled in praise and picked up a green grape. I switched to English. "Neal, hurry up, please!" I called louder, hoping he would hear through the walls.

Brigitte fed me more fruit and when we got to the fourth piece, Claire caressed my face and ran her hands over my jaw while I chewed. I was relieved when Brigitte put the bowl on the other side of her, but that was short-lived when both of them up and started pulling at my clothes!

It was awkward because they were both so close to me, but they managed to get me divested entirely of my jacket and threw it to the side. I would've been irritated but it needed to be ironed anyway. The loosening of the tie I could live with; the pulling of my tie to drag me forward into a kiss, I could have done without, but I did that to Neal and I liked having the leverage, so it would've been hypocritical to complain. It was while I was leaned away from the back of the couch that I realized it wasn't going to end there; Brigitte pulled up at my shirt, untucking it from the back of my pants, and while the blonde focused and pulling it out all around my waist, Claire started to paw her way up my upper body and to my chest.

"Je pense que vous avez la mauvaise idee," I said, laughing uncomfortably but trying not to be rude. Again, I didn't want them storming in on Neal being a snoop.

Claire turned up my shirt collar and worked one of the buttons out of the slip.

A little less jokingly, I put my hands on Claire's shoulders to tell her to hold off on the rutting. "Je serais vraiment prefere tu va retourner a la chose où tous mes vetements etaier sur," I diplomatically tried to dissuade.

It didn't work. Claire instead undid the next button on my shirt and pulled the top open. It didn't come down far, but the sides moved far enough on my shoulders for my bra straps to become visible. Increasingly awkward but still unwilling to jeopardize Neal, I let them continue, but I didn't make it easy by holding my arms limp.

 _You could have at least started with my shoes before you got to my shirt,_ I protested mentally. "Neal!" I called. Couldn't he hear that I was suffering from too much horny attention? "Neal!" I cried out again, voice starting to sound pitched even to me. There was no way this was going to end with my dignity intact. "Neal, what aspect of warrant law are you taking so long struggling with?!"

* * *

After returning from the bathroom, Neal came to the couch, blushed, ultimately laughed at my uncomfortable position as the center of attention for two drunken girls, and then fed their earlier focus on the gentle kiss he'd given my cheek. Putting a hand on the arm of the sofa to support his weight, he leaned over the girl on my lap and pressed his nose against my neck, murmuring in English that he had found the painting hidden in the bedroom.

Neal explained apologetically that we had to leave. Brigitte, who was more taken with Neal, was distracted by him, leaving me only get Claire off of me. It was pretty easy without Brigitte egging her on, but she pouted while I deposited her on the sofa next to me.

Snickering, Neal handed me my tie and jacket as I needed them. My conman offered a hand and pulled me across the room to stand by the door. From there, he verified that he knew for a fact that the painting was in the hotel suite, and I called for Derek… without checking the notifications on my phone first.

I told him to call for a translator. Neal and I told Brigitte and Claire kindly that we were going to leave. We were going to scram in case Dorsett chose to come back and ended up recognizing Neal. They were half-asleep by that point, but Brigitte was doing some cute mumbling about how… well, it was inappropriate.

While the bureau agents combed through the room, I decided I'd take Neal back to June's. We ended up in the air outside the front porch. It was much colder than I had remembered. _Should've worn a heavier coat._ "Kate is going to kill me," I whined to Neal, tightening my blazer around my front as far as it would go. The style wasn't meant to close, so it wasn't a very adequate protection against actual cold weather. "I missed like three calls from her because the music was so loud." And because my phone was in my jacket. "Once she sees me again she's going to rip my throat out! We never do the not-answering thing. If it's a text, fine, but if it's a call? Nope. Three calls and we call back ASAP!"

Neal was keeping his own arms around himself, also keeping his coat pulled shut in front of him. It was reassuring to know that I wasn't the only one bothered by the temperature that made my cheeks turn rosy, but I kind of missed the constant reminder of his presence that came from a hand on my shoulder or back.

"Let me talk to her," he volunteered helpfully. I started to shake my head. It wasn't Neal's fault I wasn't paying enough attention to my phone. Neither of those girls had any idea what we were saying when we spoke English, so I could've answered my sister without giving anything away. "It's the least I can do."

"I hate when people say that. It's never true, because the least they can do is actually _nothing,_ which is exactly what I want _you_ to do," I proclaimed, shooting him a look. He might feel emotionally obligated to be helpful, but it was my responsibility to tend to the misunderstandings and conflicts between Katie and me, whether they were from personal arguments or failing to answer my phone if she needed me.

"It's my fault for dragging you in," he argued.

"I don't need you to lie to my sister," I scoffed. Aside from how I could lie perfectly well on my own, I didn't make a habit of having anyone, much less her friends, lie to her on my behalf.

Neal held onto the sides of his jacket and kept them wrapped as far around his sides as he could, his hands preoccupied by the task. "You'll do it yourself?" He asked, his eyes widening comically while we walked around up the front steps.

Astounded, I told him loudly, "No!"

He sucked in a sharp, shallow breath. "The _truth,_ Kenna!" I glared at him for his exaggeration, but instead found complete shock and admiration in his expression. "Brave choice!" He commended, shuddering himself at the thought.

"Shut up," I snapped. He didn't have to act like it was completely unheard of for me to be honest. Just because I wasn't entirely truthful with him… and he didn't even know about that, so what grounds did he have? "I know the truth gets you in prison, but it gets _me_ trust and less hassle."

My phone started to ring again. This time, since I hadn't been assisted in the removal of my jacket, I actually felt it vibrating in the inside pocket. While Neal pretended to object to the self-incrimination of his own honesty, I took my cell out of my coat and held it up. It was Derek's caller ID, not Katie's. A little relieved, because I'd sent a text but would rather explain my missed calls in person, I flipped it up to answer. That was a fast catalogue of evidence.

 _"_ _We lost Dorsett_."

The first thing he said made me stop in my tracks. I let go of the sides of my coat and they fell open, being worn like a normal blazer usually was. So… Dorsett wasn't within sights. Despite calling in reinforcements to sit on the hotel, he hadn't been found again. Well… alright. At least we still knew we'd had the right place.

"Painting and cash?" I asked quietly. Neal turned around to face me, standing still a few feet ahead but watching in concern.

 _"_ _All gone,"_ Derek grumbled.

Dorsett must have slipped in and out himself, retrieving the Haustenberg from the bedroom. Neal hadn't said anything about finding cash, so he'd probably kept the hundred grand in another location entirely. Like Ghovat, he must have chosen a hotel that he knew the layout of well enough to make an unpredicted escape without being seen. We should have stayed to keep an eye on things, but we knew Dorsett was armed. If he saw Neal, he'd shoot us; he might have even shot Claire and Brigitte, because people who try to kill their victims in house fires don't tend to be the most empathetic, even to their own girlfriends. I had my own gun, but as the only person armed, one to four was not good odds for the three civilians I'd have been in that situation with.

I assumed that if he had wanted to tell me more, then he would have gotten into gear and said it. Closing out the call, I held my phone tightly in my hand and wished it had been from Katie, after all. I'd rather explain how I was roped into a scenario that usually ended in an orgy than have to go back to square one, with no idea where Dorsett or the painting was, not having the money on top of that. That was twice now that a plan had failed.

Lifting my eyes to Neal, I exhaled deeply, not entirely sure what there was to say. "Dorsett got in and out without anyone knowing. He took the painting." I said bluntly, truthful now, of all times. He had the right to know when his liberty was in immediate jeopardy, wasn't it? Two strikes. If we tried again and it failed again, then it was very plausible that I would end up in a meeting regarding Neal's conditional usefulness.

For a minute, we both just stood on the front porch of June's manor, the woman herself likely in bed hours ago and her dogs, Bugsy and Cinnamon, God-knew-where inside. Her housekeeping service had probably gone home. It was really the most alone that we had been all day; we weren't in an enclosed car, but no one was around to watch us through windows, either.

And instead of celebrating a success, we were quietly lamenting over the slipperiness of a snakelike threat and the loss of yet another lead. Dorsett wasn't going to be going to go to Brigitte again; there was no way he hadn't noticed the police presence. If he hadn't, then he wouldn't have been so careful to sneak away with the painting.

Neal swallowed, the lively spark absent from the lovely sapphire eyes. "This is bad, isn't it?" My consultant asked softly.

I respected him too much to play it down. "Yes," I nodded, agreeing. If his eyes were dull, then mine felt dead; exhausted and craving sleep, and in need of a reason to be happy for longer than a few minutes. _A successful case would be nice. That would kill two birds with one stone; ensure Neal's furthered probation and get a detestable man behind bars._ _Dorsett_ deserved a prison sentence; Neal had already served his. "This is _really_ bad."

Neal bobbed his head in understanding, looking down at the floor of the porch and at the welcome mat gravely, coat pulling even tighter around his body protectively, the threat of more jail time making the breeze seem that much more cutting.

* * *

I wasn't wrong about Katie being pissed that I didn't answer my phone. It would have been worse if I hadn't sent her a text, but she was still not pleased with me. Upon entering my house again, I started getting bludgeoned with a throw pillow from the living room. She'd been staying up to wait for me to return, even though she'd usually like to either be asleep or at least in her bedroom by the hour.

We sat down on the couch, me with a flavored strawberry Popsicle to tide over my hunger until the morning, and I explained how we'd decided to try to find Dorsett's girlfriend, then ended up outside the _Ganzebord_ , and then gotten invited inside. I tried to skip over the part where I was too indisposed to answer my phone, but when I got through explaining that Neal slipped into the bedroom through the bathroom connector, she questioned where I was in all of this. If I wasn't working, then would it really have killed me to at least shoot a quick _busy now, talk later_ message? It was at this point that I had to painstakingly admit that I had been preoccupied by Brigitte and Claire, whom had been very into Americans…

Kate had snickered once, and then gone quiet. She indicated for me to finish the story, so I did; Neal found the painting, but Dorsett must have found a sneaky means of getting in and out under our noses, because the painting wasn't there, and neither was the hundred grand that had been stolen in the Lambert. I was just playing with the Popsicle stick, stained orange from the color, when I concluded.

"That's it?" She double-checked.

"That's it," I nodded, seeing how far the stick could bend before it snapped. Not very far, it turned out.

With no further waiting or preamble, Katie proceeded to start quietly giggling into her fist, which escalated into full-on howls of laughter. I uncrossed my legs from under me and kicked at her ineffectually, bowling her over onto her back. She kicked her legs in the air and gasped for breath, rubbing at her face with her hands as her eyes started streaming. The whole time, I sat in my corner of the couch in embarrassment and shame, aggressively snapping my Popsicle stick into as many pieces as I could.

I was glad that she was happy now, and relieved that her wrath was diverted by my apparently fucking _hilarious_ storytelling. Most people would probably be irritated by Katie's need to check up on me, but I couldn't bring myself to be bothered when it wasn't exactly unlikely that someone with a grudge might come injure or kill me at work. Just… did it have to be that part of the events that made her laugh? Why couldn't it have been Neal's complete childishness in the car?

"Any time you'd like to stop laughing at me," I said calmly, my cool exterior belied by the violent snap of another piece of the Popsicle stick. "That would be nice."

To show that she heard, Katie made the A-OK hand sign, but her hysterics were only just beginning to wind down, her chest panting and still giggling with fresh entertainment every thirty seconds or so, right as it seemed like she was going to be able to control herself. I rolled my eyes.

"This is actually a really bad thing, Katherine," I huffed, using her full name. I felt like I wasn't being given the full solemnity that the experience demanded. I had bigger things to worry about than being teased. I had thousands of dollars in the wind, as well as a painting worth millions, and a violent, gun-toting shark God-knew-where in New York, possibly trying to flee the state. As if that wasn't bad enough on its own, it also reflected poorly on Neal. How could I wrap this case up quickly and efficiently, before anyone started questioning the common denominator of the failed recoveries?

"I'm sorry," she apologized. Then it was ruined by another spat of chuckling. Karma struck in the form of a cough. She pushed herself to sit up on the couch again, tossing her legs over the edge and leaning forwards. She hit herself over her breastbone until she had a clear airway again. I felt oddly smug. "I'm sorry," she apologized much more sincerely. "It's just… ha." I sulked and glared; she had made her point. "What else is there?" She picked her legs back up and folded them under her crisscross, shifting to an angle to face me.

I had my collection of broken pieces of stick and put them down on my right thigh. I could throw them away when I got up. Reluctance was a primary motivator for my hesitance to further divulge my problems, but it was also accompanied by a very loud guest referred to frequently as nervousness, and the same kind of nerves that incited anxious laughter and responses without word filters took over.

"With all the money involved in this?" She truly was done laughing about it, at least for now, and I caught my lip with my teeth, looking down wearily and sighing. I hadn't quite realized how tired I was. "If Dorsett isn't caught, or at the very least the money recovered, Neal… has to go back to jail." Despite the logical argument being that some things were going to go wrong, no matter who was or wasn't on the case, the bureau was very insistent that we take preemptive action. As soon as this reached higher-ups, I had to either act fast or get my partner an excellent lawyer.

I pictured the smooth, warm skin mottled with bruises, cuts on his face and his hair knotted, an oversized jumpsuit hiding his injuries from guards, because you don't want to be the one who goes to tattle. If you're not strong or smart enough to defend yourself… or if luck is just really against you… you end up as someone's bitch or the tattler, which no one ever felt much sympathy towards. I tried to imagine the radiant man who had happily balanced an origami napkin on my head as one of the sullen, hollow-eyed and demure prisoners who had to march in uniform lines, and the scariest part was that I could do it. I had seen it happen; had watched part of the security videos when Neal escaped the super-max.

"I can't let that happen," I said resolutely, but my voice shook uncertainly. How would I stop it from happening? Take him and move to the amazon? I really didn't know how many lines I was willing to cross, and that was unsettling, but nowhere near as panic-provoking as the idea of my sweet informant being returned to his idea of hell.

Even to Katie, nothing about the case was funny anymore. Prison statistics are not something anyone wants to think of. You don't put someone in a cage with vicious dogs when they misbehave; you put them in a place where they can't do any more harm until they've atoned for their crimes. People just like to turn their heads away from the increasingly apt statement that sometimes, no matter whether it's intentional or not, you accomplish the same objectives by doing the same thing. We care about Neal. He's one of ours now, not just a number or name on a rap sheet.

Katie picked up her hands and breathed carefully, looking at the fingernail paint that shone reflectively after a good coat of varnish. "Do you actually think he stole it, though?" She asked, unsure she wanted to know the answer.

"I don't-" I started to say impulsively. I had been so proud of the reformed conman to be able to confidently say that he had nothing to do with the theft in the gallery. In the moments when I considered that I had completely trusted him and he had done nothing to take advantage of or disprove that trust, I felt like I could take on anything. Except… now there was this.

"You know, I want to say no." The first step to protecting him was to consider all the possibilities, not just the ones that I liked, and I didn't want to look at Katie in case she was personally affronted that I dared to even suspect Neal might have had something to do with the later failure. "We know that that was Dorsett's girlfriend because the painting was there, and we know it was because Neal promised me it was in the hotel with us."

 _Professional liar,_ the same voice that I had gotten a little bit better at tuning out whispered in my mind, taunting me with the phrase that had made me so unwilling to trust him to begin with. _For all I know, the "I don't lie to you" claim is a ploy._

I dismissed that. How could I protect someone who wouldn't help themselves? It had nothing to do with my subjective emotions. "He got lost pretty quickly, so he knew someone knew where he was, and there were agents stationed at all the entries that we knew about, so it wouldn't have been hard to tell." That was in Neal's favor. "But then, the hotel's not as old as the one Ghovat did that trick with. Maybe there's not a hidden entrance. What then?"

I turned to stare at her helplessly. The more I thought about it, especially as I verbalized it, the less likely my assumptions seemed. The less credit they seemed to merit. But _Neal._ How could I just let my concerns get the better of me and start irrationally taking away the trust he had worked hard to earn?

"The painting's not there. Would Neal really lie to my face like that? Would he really take the painting after swearing to me that he wouldn't?" I wasn't being rhetorical; I was desperately asking for some sort of reply. Katie was good at this; she understood Neal better than I did sometimes.

My sister was the one who turned on the lightbulb for me that Neal had it in his head that our intimacy extended beyond the confines of closed doors. Maybe there was more insight here that she could offer, either into Neal's head or Dorsett's. She had also deduced Maria's plan of attack to get a mobster alone, and she'd been entirely right about that, too! I didn't give her nearly enough credit.

She smiled sadly and reached across the short gap between our legs. Covering my hand with hers, she patted me comfortingly. "I'm sorry," she offered. Looking downward, I let disappointment sink into my very pores before I forced myself to rebuild those stubborn walls and determination.

"You won't say this is karma for keeping my soulmark a secret?" I checked, a little surprised that Katie was being so sparing in the comments she made about that. It went against, like, half of her morals, and yet she was stunningly quiet about her opinion of my choices in regards to it, and on top of that, she was careful to never voice them in a way that posed me as the bad guy.

"I think a lot of things are karma for it," she pointedly reproached, since I had opened the door to the matter. Her eyes softened. She was tired. I felt bad for keeping her up even later. "Say, burning your tongue or getting a bad static shock. Those can add up and make a hell of a day. This? Your case is under review, your suspect is getting away, your friend-with-benefits may lose his deal and go back to prison." I scratched my head, digging my fingernails underneath hair still bound back in a ponytail. "That's just misfortune at a high, not karma. It's not fair."

Katie successfully summarized everything I wanted to say in a furious and equally helpless scream at the sky with a resigned and exhausted tone that didn't suggest she felt much for it. I knew better. I halfheartedly agreed that my life was in the realm of general suckiness and let her kiss my cheek. It was only after she had said goodnight and gotten up off the couch that I realized she had also scooped up the broken pieces of Popsicle stick to throw away for me on her way up.

I reclined into the corner of the couch, back supported and shielded by the furniture. Since she had so generously removed the trash I had to take care of, what would it hurt to stay here for a few more minutes? At least until my position lulled me into a quiet enough headspace to go to bed. I really wasn't sure what I had done to deserve my amazing sister, but I was damn glad that I had her. Without Katie, I would crash and burn.

* * *

"I'm coming, I'm coming," I muttered irritably to the persistent knocking on my front door. It wasn't even four in the morning. Who the hell would be trying to come by for a house call? Luckily, it was one of those nights where Kate was so tired, she slept like the dead until sunrise, so the visitor hadn't woken her up.

I wrapped my robe tighter around myself. Right out of the shower to wash off the scents of alcohol from Claire and Brigitte, as well as their perfumes, I had all but fallen into my bed, taking just long enough to pull on a spaghetti-strap camisole and gym shorts. The shorts weren't like yoga or running pants, and they weren't appropriate to wear in public because if I bent over, they rode up on my ass. Not the classiest outfit, but I'd wear whatever I damn well wanted to sleep in inside the privacy of my own house. Faced with a potential for anyone other than Katie to see quite so much of my legs, I yanked on a fluffy dark blue bathrobe to wear like a long trench coat.

I flipped on the hallway light to see where I was going. The person outside didn't knock again. Rubbing my hands into my eyes tiredly, I grumbled meanly under my breath. There were fairly few justifiable excuses for banging on my door before the sun was up, and most of them didn't even apply. I didn't really socialize with my neighbors. The residents of maybe two houses on the street knew I was an agent, so odds were slim that someone was coming to ask for help.

Ignoring all the memories of watching _One Missed Call_ 's Japanese version, I looked through the peephole in the door. The porch light was controlled both manually and by a motion sensor so that the person indoors could see who was hanging out just outside. I recognized the pretty face even in the shadows and cursed some more, undoing the locks and opening the door widely enough for him to come in.

"What the hell are you doing?" I asked complainingly, closing the door after him before moths or mosquitos flew inside. Neal dropped his head apologetically. At least he wasn't completely insane. He may be up and dressed at an unreasonable hour, but he wasn't in one of those Westwoods or Devores that he and June's husband seemed to share a taste for. No, instead he wore slacks, a button-up style of shirt that he favored, and a tweed vest that buttoned over his abdomen after the collar dropped into a steep slant. It was one of his favored clothing attires for days when he knew he wasn't going to do anything but deskwork.

"I'm sorry," he apologized readily, having expected such an unenthusiastic greeting. He knew I was not a morning person. "I really need to talk to you." He turned around in the hall while I twisted the lock and then the deadbolt, looking over my body and the robe, whose front had fallen apart without me holding it closed.

Well, it was just Neal; he saw me in much less on regular circumstances, and as long as I didn't bend over or spread my legs, I'd be fine. Which was really an ironic assessment, all things considered.

I put my hands on my hips and sighed, staring at him. My agitation decreased when I noticed his; he kept fidgeting, unsure how to stand or in which direction to lean, and he kept taking his hands out of his pockets to rub his palms. More sympathetic to whatever was bothering him, I motioned for him to walk ahead of me into the kitchen, where we could turn on the lights and talk in normal voices without having to worry as much about Katie being woken up.

* * *

Neal wasn't the only one who could stall. I was alarmed by whatever it was that made him so uneasy when usually he was unflappable, so I didn't think I really wanted to know the reason he came to my porch when he should have been sleeping. I killed the time by making hot chocolate. I fully intended to get some more sleep, so coffee wasn't the answer.

Even sitting down at my kitchen table, Neal was unable to sit still. Either he was lacing his fingers together or rubbing his palms, or he was tapping his foot or bouncing his knee. His anticipation was just making it worse, so I dumped in a packet of Swiss Miss cocoa mix, added a spoon, and carried the mugs over. Neal started stirring in the mix after he stared at it for a second with contempt. _I'm so sorry, your majesty, that you have to deal with instant cocoa._

"Okay," I said, taking in a deep breath to center my attitude and sliding into my chair across from him. The table wasn't really that big, so if I had actually tried, I might've been able to touch our feet underneath. Using the spoon, I mixed in the chocolate powder and vanilla cream. "So, the most I can do to you here is punch you." It was safe to assume that if he was this nervous about talking to me, he had done something wrong. My gun had been left upstairs in my bedroom. "But I'm going to refrain from doing that, because I actually frown upon violence against my friends." And Neal, like it or not, was one of my friends. _Weird world._ "What did you do?"

Just asking what he'd done felt like I was tempting fate. Neal was hanging his head down before he even told me. His spoon was left abandoned in the mug and he folded his hands in his lap, staring into the surface of the milk chocolate-colored drink. He spoke very quickly and quietly.

"I took the painting."

On some level, that had been the answer that I'd been afraid of. He'd barely finished talking before I was reacting. My mind translated _took_ to _stole_ and the uncensored truth of the matter made it sound much worse. I slammed my fist down to the right of my own drink and tightly pinched my nose. "Damn it, Neal!"

 _"_ _I can handle temptations."_ He had made me the promise that he wouldn't revert back to thievery. He _lied_ to me that the painting was in the hotel. Hadn't he? I could hear him now – _I don't lie to you_ – no, the painting really _had_ been in the hotel room at the time, because he'd taken it from where Dorsett had hidden it in the bedroom and at the moment, he'd been in the hotel, too. And that meant that when he'd been keeping his jacket tight around him, it hadn't been because of the cold, like I'd assumed. It had been because he was smuggling the painting under his clothes.

"I wasn't going to-" He started. I glared at him, eyes burning. He had spun me in a circle, vowing not to do something, and I had taken his word for it. I felt like a fool. "I did it for…" Shaking my head cut him off. I didn't want to hear him _justify_ what he'd done. Theft was theft. This was more than stealing a painting, this was obstruction of justice. Covering both of my eyes with my hand, I pleaded with the twisting, gnawing feeling in my stomach to go away. "How long do I have to explain myself?"

There shouldn't have been anything to explain, but maybe there had been extenuating circumstances? Maybe Neal had been threatened or blackmailed into doing it? Dorsett was slippery, maybe he had forced Neal's hand to get rid of the evidence against him? "Sixty seconds," I granted with my teeth grinding. "Starting now."

Knowing that I was counting down from sixty in my head, he jumped right into the explanation. "Remember how it wasn't insured? I asked Julianna about it. Her grandmother originally stole the painting from the Channing back in the sixties."

As if I wasn't already dealing with enough; Julianna's home was out of his radius, and that meant he must've talked to her when I went with him. While he was helping Julianna find the photograph from her family picture albums, he had this discussion, and then he chose to not tell me about it.

"There's an inscription on the back of the portrait that wills it to Julianna's grandmother, but the Channing must've seen it when they authenticated it and chose to ignore it." He bit his lip softly with his teeth and looked imploring. I was trying to understand how he could be so reckless and disregard everything he was supposed to be doing.

"So you thought you could play Robin Hood?!" I demanded furiously. Take from the rich, give to the poor – undo the injustices of the system? Just because the curator showed up didn't mean that there wasn't anything that could be done! All Julianna had to do was point out the inscription. She couldn't be charged for a crime her grandmother committed! Walter would be the one under scrutiny because the museum prioritized their collection over the law.

"It's not fair that they get to take what rightfully belongs to Julianna!" He defended hypocritically. _That's rich, coming from a professional thief!_ What made him think the law was too lame for him, but perfect for her? He doesn't get to pick and choose when it does and doesn't apply!

I spluttered. The hell kind of sense did that make? It was like the scene in _The Princess Bride_ when Vizzini complains that Wesley is trying to take back what he'd "rightfully stolen," whatever the hell that was supposed to mean. "What, so you've just… _rightfully stolen_ it back for her?" Neal saw how it didn't look good and meekly lifted his shoulders. "That's theft at worst, and – and vigilante justice at best!"

"I'm _sorry_ , Kenna," he apologized, face drawn in remorse. I just wanted to believe it, but how could I trust him after he'd said to me with the utmost sincerity that he would abide by the rules and then only followed his own convoluted versions? "I was going to give it back to her, but then Dorsett called. He found us on the tapes."

It had gone well past sixty seconds at this point, between his pauses for me to answer and my angry replies. I had stopped counting down. My mood hadn't quit sinking, but for a second – just a second – I didn't feel like kicking Neal under the table, instead almost paralyzed by the mention of cameras. "I didn't think about those," I mumbled, stomach flipping. Had they caught Neal stealthily taking the painting?

"They were in the restaurant," he hurried to specify. I breathed again, crossing my arms over my body in relief. Not out of the woods, but not quite so deeply lost, either. He could have seen us and recognized Neal, but he wouldn't have anything that he could give to the police. "He said-" Neal stopped himself then and shut his mouth, swallowing.

 _Oh, great. What could he have done other than the obvious to make the situation any worse?_ "Out with it," I wearily ordered.

"…" Neal blinked a few times and lowered his eyes demurely to the hot chocolate. "He said that if I didn't return the painting to him, he was going to hurt you." His whispered admittance clearly scared him, but it explained a lot; explained why he'd come to confess, at least.

"Jesus Christ," I blasphemed, again hiding my face behind my hands, elbows on the table. So now I had a killer after my blood to get revenge for the theft of a painting that he stole that Neal stole back after promising me that he wouldn't steal it. _What a headache!_

"I came to tell you right after he called me, I swear," Neal sounded desperate for me to believe him. "He said since I involved his girlfriend, he was going to involve mine." _And you didn't correct him?_ If Dorsett was after me, what if he tried to burn my house down like he did to that other notable victim? He didn't care if he hurt Katie in the process. I wasn't the only one whose safety was now compromised. A moment later, a hand loosely wrapped around my wrist as Neal stretched across the table. "We can use this painting to catch him! He doesn't know you're FBI."

I waited a few seconds to see if I'd feel comforted with his hand touching me. I didn't, just felt angry, like he thought he was entitled to touch me and be my friend even after doing this. He hadn't just risked himself; he'd risked me, my family. He broke my trust in him and betrayed me and the faith I held that he would honor his words.

I took my hands off of my face and yanked my right arm out of Neal's grasp. He retracted his hand quickly and sank back into his chair, crestfallen by the negative reception. "This is exactly why I check your anklet, Neal," I informed tersely, hard-pressed not to yell. "This is why I check your tracker and watch what you buy, because this is a crime, and this is ridiculous, and I _want_ to protect you because really, Julianna should have the picture if it's been willed to her, but this is not the way to go about doing it." He had no right to get so prissy and uptight when I monitored his activities if he wasn't going to respect what he wasn't supposed to be doing. "You should've brought this to me _before_ my life was threatened."

Even just having the part about the will left out up to this point… he'd been holding back and keeping secrets from me ever since this case had started. I thought we'd been doing so well. We had a certain synergy, even after things almost got too awkward from sleeping together, but we'd gotten past that. Of all things to get in the way, it had to be a stupid painting by an artist I'd never even heard of?

"I know." Neal's voice cracked. "I'm _so_ sorry." He wouldn't meet my eyes, and that just made me angrier. He sounded so sincere, but he had before, too. When _didn't_ he sound like he was telling the truth? Not letting me see his eyes was supposed to inspire _more_ confidence?

"How am I supposed to trust you when you apologize when I couldn't even trust you not to steal the damn portrait?!" I lashed out at him fiercely, curling my fingers into my palms tightly and relishing in the pinching of my nails on soft flesh and the aching in my arms.

Neal looked up with a sharp intake of breath like I'd sucker-punched him. "I have never lied to you, McKenna!" Looking wounded, he called me by my full name for the first time. I loved his voice and loved how my name sounded, but I'd have much preferred he chose to utilize it at a time when I didn't want to hit him. "Not once, never!"

 _Then why did you tell me you could handle temptations when you very clearly can't?_ Did it count as a lie if he had thought he'd be able to handle it at the time? After all, the moral trouble for him had started when he learned about the inscription on the back of the image, which he had then neglected to share with me.

I wrapped my hands tightly around the ceramic mug from New Orleans and burned my hands on the sides. Ignoring the pain, I picked it up and drank a few small sips, quietly seething. Finally, the temperature in my mouth matched the temperature that my stomach felt like it was at. I couldn't remember ever being so disappointed or mad at any of my friends before. This intensity was usually reserved for blue-collar criminals, sans the disappointment.

The disappointment wasn't because a crime had been committed. It was because Neal had let me down.

The conman looked up briefly. "There's something else I want to show you," he muttered, but he didn't reach for anything, waiting to know exactly how thin the ice was before he tried to add anything on to what he'd already piled on.

I stared at him blankly and cocked my head. "If this is another crime, it should really wait." It was easier to act apathetic than it was to keep my temper at a minimum. Neal deserved to feel the wrath of my anger management issues to the extent that he deserved to be yelled at until the message got through, but I did not need Katie to overhear and come downstairs, only to find that she may be on a list of would-be victims.

"No, I promise this isn't illegal," Neal assured, still looking worried.

I refrained from making the obvious snap about how his promise wasn't worth all that much, but instead just gestured with my hand at him. "Okay," I said, resigned. Whatever else there was, might as well get it all out in the open.

Swallowing, Neal took the assent and ran with it, leaning back and reaching into his slacks for something. He took out a piece of folded-up paper and laid it out flat on the table, running his hands over it repetitively to try to smooth it out. The paper looked like the manila color of a drawing canvas with letters inked by a black marker.

"This is why I was at Grand Central," he explained, turning it around to let me see. I didn't look at it for a minute, instead keeping my eyes on him. So he'd lied about being at the station, too. "The 'X' in the Bordeaux label was over a map of New York, and there was an 'X' at where this was, too. Moz and I found it the day before this case started." He looked up and shrank back when he saw the lack of empathy or curiosity, replaced by dull distrust. "I didn't lie then, either," he defended. "We really _did_ go to an oyster bar."

I shifted and looked down to what he wanted me to read. It was completely covered in creases where the paper had been bent and folded. The paper was un-ruled and had no margins, yet the writing was strangely centered and in-line. Not that the lines were the same length – they looked like they were supposed to be centered, but had been shifted to one side or the other on the page, and most weren't even the same length.

_Dear Neal_

_I heard you were looking around for me in the apartment where we_

_used to live. I'm so sorry I had to leave before you_

_could reach me. Know it wasn't my choice._

_Our friend M will stay here in New York City with you until the day_

_we can be together again._

_No one can ever take me away from you, Neal. I love you. Soon you'll_

_get to see me again, I promise._

_Love, Kate_

The note didn't give much away. I could guess that "M" probably stood for Mozzie. All I could tell from it was that it had been written after Neal had escaped from the super-max and Kate had abandoned her apartment to collect dust.

"This is what you were playing with the other night," I accused. Now I wished that I'd been more insistent to know what was so important about mutilating a piece of paper in the middle of the night.

"Yeah," he admitted. "I promised you I'd tell you what it was, and I'm telling you now. Look."

I wasn't all too inclined to do as he said, but Neal turned the page around so that the writing was the right way for him. He folded it in half, pushed the half underneath to one side, and then folded down the edges on the left and right, leaving a small width still exposed and legible that said _here friday Noon_ , taking letters from parts of words in the longer lines and connecting them to spell a clue. The capitalization was weird, but the message was clear.

"Kate's going to meet you?" I asked, anger temporarily forgotten in favor of surprise. Kate was supposed to be long gone by now, and I hadn't truly been expecting her to come back any time soon. Whatever had made her run in the first place didn't seem like it had been long enough ago to be resolved.

He nodded. Without me looking ready to do damage, he risked a small, excited smile, barely able to believe it himself. "I think so."

I looked at that heart-stopping, hopeful expression and had to put up my walls again before I melted. I swallowed and pushed the folded note back to his side of the table. "Why are you showing me?" I asked. Where yesterday I might have taken it as just sharing with a friend, like I'd sing about a good case to Katie, now I suspected he had ulterior motives.

"I want you to trust me," he said plainly. Neal's blue eyes shone with earnestness and compassion. For all I knew, it was entirely faked. I was sure that I didn't look completely sold. "I'm proving I keep my promises to you so that you can." I snorted. Only some of the promises counted, apparently; he was one for two at this point. "And I trust you," he added with conviction. "I want you to go with me to find her. It's not leaving my radius, even."

I looked away and towards the doorway behind him, almost expecting Katie to show up at an inopportune moment. Did I want to permit this? He was right that he was staying within his allotted perimeter, and while passing notes in code wasn't exactly approved, it wasn't illegal.

If I condoned it and went to Grand Central with him, then was I accepting his apologies for the lies and injured trust? It was one thing for him to say he still trusts me with his secrets and with his sister. I wasn't the one who had gone behind his back and put him in danger. Even now, just in my kitchen, I felt like I should've been looking over my shoulder. The only thing I was sure about in regards to his invitation was that no matter what happened, I didn't trust him the same way anymore. I could hardly even see him in the same light. I thought I'd gotten to know him so well, but I hadn't suspected a damn thing as he wormed the painting out in his jacket or as he kept information away from me. He was a much better liar than I had thought, and I hadn't noticed.

While I stared at Neal, trying to decide if I could respond with a level head, I saw his face, emotions laid out like a book, and I didn't believe that it was anything more than manipulation or an act. Hypersensitive from the betrayal, I wouldn't see anything as sincere until my feelings had had a chance to cool off.

"I'm talking about this later, when I _don't_ want to strangle you," I informed him flatly. It was not a debate; he had no say. I'd let him have his part. Now he was going to respect mine. "Thank you for trusting me." I left it at that. He wasn't going to guilt me into reciprocity. "Thank you for telling me when I was put in danger." Even hardly able to look at him, I still knew he hadn't intended for anyone to be harmed by his actions. That was the one grounding thing. "Now get out of my house."

He paused before he got up. I started to glare. Pushing his chair out, Neal stood up, leaving his mug on the table. "Okay," he accepted, standing there indecisively for a moment. "Goodnight, Kenna," he tried. I stayed silent. _Try to kiss me goodbye and I really will hit you,_ I thought, more hurt than I had predicted I'd be about the gentle kiss. Was that entire exercise meant to convince me he held me highly just so I'd be less likely to doubt him?

When I refused to say anything, Neal nodded to himself and turned to leave, looking down to the floor shamefully.

"Neal?" I caught him before he disappeared out of the kitchen, leaning over the table with bones that felt far older than they had any excuse to feel. I felt more than I heard him stop and stay inside the room. "Next time Dorsett calls me your girlfriend, make sure to tell him he's got it wrong." My heart thudded and my voice sounded detached. I had to remind myself to keep my breathing even. I didn't want to hyperventilate, I just wanted to stop. "We sleep together. That doesn't automatically make us a couple." _And we're not._

I couldn't be in love with someone who was liable to con me any minute. I couldn't be with someone I didn't trust not to do something stupid and get me attacked by a very violent murderer. I would not fall for someone who could put Katie in that position of danger by association. I certainly wasn't going to ever date someone whom I didn't trust. If Neal wanted me to ever consider him as more than a useful consultant and a convenient fuck, he'd have to prove to me that I could hold his word in high esteem and feel safe relying on him.

His shadow was still cast on the floor. I picked up my head to look at him and met him with a straight face. Neal's feelings were hurt. I didn't have to be a therapist to see that. There was always the possibility that he felt totally fine and just wanted me to feel guilty. The startled confusion and the bite of his lip as he stopped himself from making a sound had my heart wrenching. Under the table, I bounced my knee to vent some of the pent-up energy that wanted to release itself somehow, and I wasn't going to indulge it by running to Neal and cupping his face and kissing his forehead.

When he talked again, it was with an impersonal edge. He nodded once, face protected by a mask that had been thrown up in seconds. "Understood, Agent." Neal's hands were hidden behind his back, but I expected them to be in fists, or trembling.

"I'll call Derek as early as reasonable and set up an exchange operation." I waved him towards the wall of the kitchen, which was actually in the direction of the front door. _See yourself out._ "I'll call you then."

We didn't say anything else. Neal took the hint, and the door closed so soon after he was out of my sight that I wasn't completely convinced he hadn't run to get out. Afterwards, I was left alone in silence that felt encroaching and threatening, at risk of being swallowed whole by the thrum of the refrigerator and the ticking of the analog clock in the living room.

My hands were shaking already. Desperate not to feel what I knew was coming, I clung to my apathy with a loosening grip. Everyone at the bureau had warned me that Neal was a pain in the ass waiting to happen. They were wrong. They should have told me he was a heartbreaker. I didn't have to be in love with a traitor for them to shatter my heart. I'd been lucky so far that Katie and Derek were gracious and loving enough people not to do this. Acting like he was close to falling apart from the breakup of an imagined relationship was just a twist of the knife.

My hot chocolate wasn't cooled off, but I drank it down like a shot of whiskey anyway and hoped it would have a fraction of the same effect. My throat stung, even if it wasn't from alcohol; my tongue pricked and tingled from heat. Then I stood up, collected Neal's full mug from his side – _the other side_ – of the table and carried both over to the sink. The dishwasher was empty. I put the cups to the side and turned on the hot water. Might as well do dishes, I figured.

We didn't usually have much in the sink, since Katie and I didn't have a schedule that exactly synced up where meals were concerned. We did our own fast and easy meals and washed our own dishes. I loaded the ones that had already been rinsed into the dishwasher and then picked up a steel wire pad and started scrubbing out the rest of what needed to be cleaned. I dumped Neal's un-drunken hot chocolate down the sink with the water and rinsed it out, setting it in the top rack on the dishwasher.

While turning back to the counter to look for the other dishes, I knocked my hand against the edge of the sink and swore. Overcome with a mind-hazing _need_ to destruct _something,_ even if it was just myself, I grabbed the nearest thing and threw it to the floor. A glass shattered into tiny little pieces and, even over the running water, sounded like a bomb.

Staring down at the broken glass in shock, I made a poetic comparison of it and my feelings, then puffed, shakily breathing and covering my mouth with hands spotted with soapy water. I was standing barefoot. I ran my hands under the water to get the soap off, then turned the knobs to turn off the sink and took a wide step in the direction opposite the glass. Nothing pricked at my foot, so I skipped over in that direction and wandered into the hallway.

Trying to not have feelings wasn't working. I pulled on shoes without my socks and went back to the kitchen to clean up the mess and hoped Katie wouldn't ask why we had one glass less. While sweeping up the mess, I hummed along to a classical score. After I couldn't see any more glinting pieces, I went upstairs, crept past my sister's bedroom, retrieved a towel, and took it down to the kitchen, where I soaked it under the tap and threw it onto the floor, rubbing it around the linoleum to pick up anything I couldn't see. I bagged the wet towel in plastic and then took it up to the laundry room.

Thinking it probably wasn't best for me to keep trying to do chores, I turned off the light in the kitchen and went into the living room, taking the blanket from the back of the couch and throwing myself down on the sofa with a long sigh. I tried valiantly for a long time to get comfortable, but it felt like there was a crushing weight on my chest, and lying down only made it worse.

Eventually, I sat up in the corner between the arm of the couch and the back cushion, pulled my knees up as tight to my chest as I could, and pulled the blanket up so the corners were hanging over my shoulders. I wrapped my arms around my legs and leaned heavily against the back cushion, and, finally, because there was nothing else I could think of that was any more productive, I started to cry.

It started out as sniffles and warm, wet tears that rolled down my face and made me blink, insistently rubbing my face on the blanket like if the tears weren't on me, they didn't exist. It didn't stay that calm, though – it turned into torrents, the longer I cried, the worse it got, but somehow the better I felt. I could breathe easier while struggling for breath and trying not to wail than I could when I'd been inhaling and exhaling steadily. Before long, my nose was stuffy and congested, my head had a pounding ache, my eyes were red and irritated from being rubbed with the blanket, my mouth was still trembling because I wanted to scream and fuss, and my face was slick with tears that didn't want to stop falling.

I had been so delighted and ecstatic that I could trust Neal to behave himself, only to find that I was _wrong._ That I _couldn't._ That Neal didn't care about me as much as I cared about him, because if he did, he wouldn't have lied to me and betrayed all of the trust I put in him and his honor.

What if I couldn't pass off our sudden possession of the painting as something other than Neal having had it on him to begin with? What if someone looked too closely? What if I couldn't protect him, and I couldn't stop him from being sent back to prison, where anything could happen to him and I wouldn't be there to save him? Neal was too kind, too untrained, to defend himself against the kinds of inmates that populated the super-max.

Had I overreacted and been too dramatic when I broke us – whatever we were – off? Was it possible that he had kissed me that morning because he wanted to? He didn't have a lot of friends, maybe he just needed to feel close to someone sometimes. Had I just made him feel unwelcome and more alone by telling him he couldn't use me as that someone? If his torn and upset face, only one ill-timed comment away from crying, had been a genuine emotion, then…

I couldn't tell which of those scared me the most but I knew that they were all tied up with that I had had a great relationship with my soulmate that worked for me and I had thought I'd known him, and then this entire mess had happened. I might have hurt his feelings, I might lose him to the cruelties of the courts for the next four years, I might never be able to feel the same trust and comfort with him again. What if I couldn't work efficiently with him in the field because I didn't trust him to protect me, even as I put myself in danger defending him?

 _Reciprocity._ It's as dangerous one way as it is the other. Too much from either party, and everything collapses.

I had pushed away my soulmate in a fit of anger and confusion and despair, however justified those feelings had been. More importantly, I had shoved Neal Caffrey out of my house. That had to mean something symbolically that I had never wanted to come to pass.

* * *

I got in the car that Neal was already waiting in, blasting the air conditioner to stay cool and quietly listening to an eighties' song on the radio while he waited for me to follow after him as we left the FBI. Trying to shield Neal was hard. It was even harder here, where I couldn't tell anyone that he stole the painting and had to craft some lie about how we had gone back and only just this morning found it in the hotel. I'd asked the forensics team if they had looked in the secret compartment in the mirror. None of them had thought to, and to cover that I was actually watching out for Neal, I lied and told them that I'd found it on accident and we'd recovered the Haustenberg.

I hated myself for lying and I hated myself for being so angry, both with Neal and with myself. I still felt a little ill from sobbing the night before. I'd woken up Katie unintentionally with the noise and she had gone on an ice-cream run to the nearest gas station, coming back with entire pints of Ben and Jerry's. She didn't ask me to explain, but I did anyway; I told her that Neal stole the painting, Dorsett threatened me, and I kicked Neal out while I came up with a way to handle the situation without anyone getting hurt.

I got in the car, pulled my seatbelt on, clicked the buckle, and then just sat with my hands on the wheel for a long minute. Neal looked at me, but then he quickly looked back out the window, minimizing the level of interaction I had to hold with him.

The problem was that it was hard to feel any one thing regarding the personal nightmare that this had become. I _wanted_ to be ready to throw him back in prison for committing a crime that not only went against his deal, but that disrupted my case. Battling that was the _need_ to keep him _safe_ and _out_ of jail, the fact that he'd done so with the intention of returning it to its owner, and, most importantly, that he had come forward about it at all, breaking all of the rules about being a thief in the process. And he'd done it not because he needed help or protection, but because he knew _I_ was in danger. He knew full well that I could have chosen to incarcerate him again, but he still owned up to it for my sake.

Whatever he'd done, he still valued my safety and health over his own freedom. I never would have expected that from Neal. Conmen don't _care_ enough about other people to jeopardize themselves with threats of prison, but that's exactly what Neal had done. I could have held his hand, because I knew he was scared of the consequences that his actions would bring onto him, but it was really hard to tell myself to sympathize when, as pleased as I was by my apparent worth to him, he had violated the terms of the deal that I had chosen to make at great risk to my professional standing and had betrayed the trust I'd placed in him to behave. He had broken the promise he'd made not to steal the painting once we had found it.

I was breaking the law to protect him and he was obeying the law and turning himself in to his handler to protect me. We were one fucked up pair. Hardly a match made in heaven, yet somehow the very _definition_ of soulmates in television – doing the insane and uncharacteristic for each other. I had thought that maybe we could still be close, maybe I could enjoy the merits of having my soulmate be someone I could trust. Neal was my best friend, my confidant… until apparently I could no longer place that trust in him, and the mystery of whether or not my soulmate was a danger to me was no longer absent or abstract. He could have very well gotten me killed by pissing off the wrong killer – not out of straightforward malicious intent, but through an apparent inability to consider the repercussions until they were right in front of his face, which was almost worse.

I breathed out, long and quiet, and it somehow sounded as loud as a tornado, what with me not talking and Neal trying his best to pretend he wasn't there, too worried he'd say something wrong. I pinched the bridge of my nose tightly when I felt my eyes starting to water. I squeezed harder. The pain distracted me from the emotional confusion.

Finally, I spoke, soft and mellow because I didn't have the energy or the clarity of feelings to raise my voice. I highly doubted Neal was going to instigate something. "I've set it up," I informed calmly. "It's a very fast, very easy exchange. You give him a call on the number he used to reach you, he meets you, you give him the painting, and the bureau surrounds him."

"I understand," Neal promised simply, not pushing my patience by making some witty retort or commenting on the safety assurances in place. I kept breathing deeply, inhaling the scent of my car's air freshener – which smelled like vanilla and sugar from a bath and body store – and Neal's rich but subtle cologne, close enough and in a small enough area to tell apart.

We just sat in the parking space, me not ready to drive and Neal not ready to ask me for anything more.

"How tenuous is my probation right now?" He asked after he apparently couldn't take the suspense any more, finally daring to look right at me with his head bowed and eyes lowered right after he caught my eye. This ended with him staring resolutely at the divider between our seats.

"With me, or with the bureau?" I asked steadily, because I had a different response for each. No matter how well this went, Neal was going to be on desk work for a while. I wasn't sure I could take him out into the field and expose him to another situation that gave him the opportunity to fuck things up quite so soon. He made a vow to the government. He also made a more personal promise to me. The government did their duty to pay his living wages. I did a hell of a lot more for him than that. The government was never in direct or reputational danger because of him.

Neal cringed slightly, most likely able to guess which had suffered more. "With both?"

I let a full breath pass before I answered, trying to find a way to say it both honestly and impassively, without saying anything designed to make him feel guilty or afraid. "We need Dorsett in jail," I asserted. "That's what makes it right, and that's what makes you useful to the bureau."

He nodded slightly, looking back down again to his lap, running his hands repeatedly up and down his thighs anxiously. I had never seen him so poorly composed. I had avoided saying that he would be returned to the super-max if this case wasn't closed, mostly because it was very obvious, but also because I did not want to take part of the responsibility for making that decision. Just because he broke the law didn't mean I wanted to see him in prison, which was the worst thing about having a criminal as my partner. I was emotionally attached, sex or not. The beliefs that criminals went to serve time and that I had to be loyal to my friends were conflicting viciously.

Neal really didn't want to go back to jail. Was it the loss of his liberties that bothered him, or the dull confinement, or the hazards to his wellbeing? I was most terrified by the thought of what happened to the inmates in prisons that the government liked to gloss over. Since Neal was apparently a giant child incapable of determining the results of certain causes, I wanted to say that he was afraid because he wanted to stay in the luxury of June's penthouse. Realistically, I had to acknowledge that he very obviously _did_ understand what happened when the wrong people were mad at you, otherwise he wouldn't have taken the threat to me as seriously as he did.

"If I get it," he said in a small voice, "Will you trust me again?"

I sighed. So he was also concerned about his standing with me. Well, I was largely a deciding factor in how far he was allowed to push before he'd gone too far. If I didn't trust him, then he wouldn't be getting laid unless he found another decent person willing to do the dirty with a convict. If I didn't think he had enough impulse control, I wouldn't let him see his friend Katie.

While I listed the reasons I was inclined to think were most important to him, I also tried to see my reaction to the outcome of this case. If Neal got the painting and the money, then that was great. He was back to being a useful asset… but it wouldn't change that he had broken the law and put me on the spot _and_ on the firing range, all at the same time.

"Trust… doesn't work like that," I sighed wistfully, because I _wanted_ to say that it was that simple, but it really wasn't. I wanted to go back to carefree teasing and the trust that he would uphold his end of our deal, but evidently I couldn't.

"Why not?" He asked, seeming to be sincerely shocked by how the world worked. I turned my head to stare at him, lips parted slightly. _Do you really not get this? Do you have that few relationships that you don't understand how trust works?_ "Screw up, fix it, trust re-earned," he summarized defensively.

I snorted. _What a narrow view._ "You prove to me that I can trust you by being honest and honoring the commitment we've made to each other, both with this deal and as friends." My CI on a work release was obligated to be truthful and law-abiding. My friend was obligated to avoid situations where I would have to either arrest him or jeopardize my integrity, especially knowing which I would do and which would hurt more. Doubly so, when those are the same thing. Neal had failed to uphold all of those vows all at once.

"I know that cases can go either way due to unforeseen events, and it's not necessary anyone's fault. We have no reason to believe that this won't work, but if it doesn't and it's not because of your meddling, then I'm not going to trust you _less_ thanks to an unexpected misfortune," I explained the difference. His meddling was breaking personal promises, snapping bonds I'd been hesitant to make. I knew that not everything went to plan. A case could go cold or fail to close and it wouldn't always be Neal's fault. Things happened. Bad people did bad things. All I required was for Neal to not be one of those bad people. "The bureau, however, operates differently." The bureau was a little shortsighted; even without the knowledge that Neal had stolen the painting away from Dorsett, not just conveniently found it, because he was on the case, it would be generally blamed on him if it went awry.

I covered my face with my hands and rubbed my cheeks. The air conditioning was making the car colder than it had to be and I could feel my lips chapping by the minute.

Neal stayed quiet as he processed and understood what I was saying. Then, sadly, apologized. "I'm sorry, Kenna." He didn't mutter, or mumble, or say anything to the effect of justifying himself or his poor choices. It was just a plaintive, as well as very saddened and disappointed, apology.

I licked my lips, heart hurting even more as he made it harder to stay angry. "You've said it a dozen times now, Neal," I reminded wearily. I felt unreasonable, I felt like the bad guy when he kept trying to tell me he never meant it to get this far, never meant to hurt my feelings. I had the right to be angry, damn it, but instead, with every time he said it, I just felt worse; like I was letting him down, like I had turned my back on him (despite doing the exact opposite) right after breaking up with him, even though there was never anything to actually break up.

"Because I mean it enough to say it a dozen times," he insisted sorrowfully. "Doesn't that tell you I'm being truthful? Why would I keep apologizing if I didn't care whether or not you trust me?"

 _Oh, you care,_ I snarled mentally, but didn't have the energy or the capability to do so out loud. In my head, it went terribly wrong and made me even worse with an implied threat. _If I don't trust you, you're drop-kicked back to prison!_

Clearly, though, this extended beyond his work-release and had more to do with our personal interactions and friendship than just his security. I rubbed my nose, irrationally angry inside and robotic and relaxed on the outside.

"Why do you care if I trust you to begin with?" I asked monotonously instead. _Why is my friendship important to you? What do you gain from having a fed as your best friend? What is it you gain from me trusting you personally? Do you feel guilty for empathy or for your conscience?_

Minutes later, when I finally had the motivation to not just start the car, but also start driving, the vehicle was left ringing with the figurative echoes in the otherwise silence, accusation, distrust, and guilt all weaved in among the fading sounds.

* * *

The trade was set up cleanly through a two-minute phone conversation between Neal and Dorsett, who had kept the phone in case Neal wanted to take him up on the trade before his _girlfriend_ was harmed. We could have traced the call, since this time we actually knew it was being made, but I opted against it when Derek offered, because even if we closed in on Dorsett, we still might not be able to get the cash.

Set in the parking garage, we gave Neal the same Mercedes Benz we had authorized him for the operation to nail Patrick Aimes. This time he actually used it, driving it to the fourth floor, which was all but empty. We had planned for there to be as little civilian interference as possible and had contacted the office building next to the garage, telling them that there was a temporary warning against coming out that should be lifted within the hour, but we couldn't put guards at the entry in case Dorsett suspected us.

Neal had the painting on his person and was leaning against the back of the car, almost sitting on the ledge off the trunk while he hummed, ostensibly waiting for his criminal adversary. To keep up appearances of a normal setting, we had parked a few other cars near the civilian vehicles, though most were in the lower levels. Myself, Derek, Diana, and an entire team of other armed agents were in position, some in the cars with their heads down and earpieces in and others on the sides to the walls of the garage, out of sight. I was one of them, not wanting to leave Neal to Dorsett's mercy and have to take the time to climb out of a car to shoot if it got worse.

Dorsett wasn't punctual, which surprised me. I guessed he'd been staking out the place for a few minutes in case it was a trap. Then he came riding in in a Toyota Corolla, metallic grey and freshly-painted with perfect rims and a nondescript license plate. The car crawled forwards slowly. Neal had been looking in that direction since he heard the engine, and he held up the Haustenberg portrait in display. Upon seeing it, the ex-pat put it in park, turned off the dims, and shut off the motor.

"I'm surprised you had the guts to come yourself," Neal remarked, sounding as though he was praising Dorsett for his courageousness in agreeing to the meet and coming in person instead of using a pawn.

Dorsett closed the car door. He didn't send it slamming, but the noise echoed and made me flinch. I tightened my grip on my gun. One false move and the bastard was going down – he wasn't going to get the chance to hold a gun on Neal again. No matter how badly I may have wanted to throttle him, he's still under my protection.

The killer was wearing thick and dark sunglasses with lashes of fire illustrated on the sides. Rather fitting, considering he had appreciated arson in the past. "It's not bravery," he told Neal with boredom, pulling at his cuffs until they were impeccably straight. His sharp shoes clicked the concrete. Neal shifted to stand up without the Mercedes as a prop. "I simply don't trust Joshua with a million-dollar painting."

"A little hard to live like that, not trusting the people closest to you." Neal sounded so sad that his own words echoed in my head without the help of the parking lot's acoustics. I imagined he was thinking of our strained relationship, battered by his broken promise. _I should say that, not you. I kept my vows even after you forsook yours._ Could it have been empathetic, trying to understand how I must feel? Or was he trying to tell me something that he wouldn't say to my face?

Dorsett considered Neal as if he'd spoken words of profound wisdom before he seemed to give him his credit. "I suppose," he noncommittally stated. "But, I'll be taking the money." I should've known he had no intention of bringing it. We'd have to find it ourselves. Probably in his car or in wherever he'd sent Joshua to hole up until it blew over. It wasn't a surprise. I wasn't even disappointed.

 _Maybe that was an excuse to put Neal in the field again instead of just using a phone trace. Maybe I had just wanted Neal to prove he would go through with it to make amends to the bureau._ That would be the first step to earning my trust back.

Neal held out the painting, looking down to it wistfully. "You won," he sighed.

"Yes," the Frenchman gloated, greedily taking the portrait off of Neal's hands. At least he held it by the frame instead of the canvas it was painted on. That was a small mercy for the art's sake, although I was dubious that Dorsett looked at it and saw anything other than a large paycheck. "But it was a good game," he added in a mocking attempt at manners.

Neal's voice changed as he slipped out of character from his undercover persona and back into Neal Caffrey, standing with more confidence and a hint of a satisfied smirk. "Oh, you don't know the half of it," he assured, stepping to the side of the car and out of immediate danger as the guns came out and agents came out of hiding.

"FBI!" I called, walking out from behind the Silverado I'd been perched behind with my pistol out and aimed, safety off. Diana popped open the door to the Mercedes and stepped out next to Neal. Neal moved behind her and let her guard him protectively. The team of backup crept out of other cars and shadows, surrounding Dorsett. He wouldn't make it back to his vehicle, that was for sure; unless he could do a swan dive over the edge of the guard wall, he wasn't getting away.

"Hands up where we can see them!" Derek barked from behind Dorsett, using the Corolla as a shield to hide behind.

The murderer's face as he realized that the entire trade was a setup – and that he wasn't, in fact, making a deal with George Devore – was perfect. He turned the portrait out so we agents could see it with one hand and the other was raised slowly to his face, taking off his sunglasses and then holding them above his head.

I stood with my aim fixed on Dorsett, but I looked to Neal, who was happy with his frighteningly-vicious cover of Diana Berrigan, and nodded towards Dorsett. Towards the Haustenberg, more specifically. "Neal," I called evenly. "Take the painting back."

I should have instructed someone else to do it – Derek, preferably, so that Diana would have still been in an ideal place to keep Neal out of danger – or done it myself. It wasn't protocol to put my CI back on the floor like that, but my terms to fixing this rift involved him personally returning the painting the bureau, not hovering behind Diana while someone else did it for him.

He must've known that, and he looked around nervously at all of the guns, even as he crept out from behind his defense. I took pity on him; he had put me in danger, maybe even risked Katie's safety, too, but not with malicious intent, and someone being startled and shooting wasn't worth the satisfaction I would get from this exercise in forcing him to trust me and uphold his word.

"Guns down," I ordered strongly, voice echoing in the parking unit. "Derek, stay on Dorsett." The others obeyed within seconds. You don't keep your firearms out after you've been told to put them away.

With only people he knew and trusted holding the weapons, and neither of them aimed at him, Neal moved faster, getting out into the open. Dorsett dropped his head, chin to his chest with chagrin and insult, as Neal murmured, "I'll just take that…" and removed the painting from his outstretched hand.

While Neal got back out of the way and returned to Diana, Derek stepped around the Corolla without ungluing his eyes from Dorsett's back, prepared to shoot at provocation. I turned the safety of my own gun back on and holstered it at my waist, padding closer. He lifted his eyes from the concrete grudgingly to glare, only for his eyes to narrow as he recognized me as the woman he'd been trying to use as leverage.

"Word of advice?" I said tauntingly. I _hated_ being used as leverage. I also detested being threatened. Dorsett truly knew how to push some buttons. "Next time you feel like throwing threats around, don't threaten an agent. We don't take very kindly to it." I gestured around the parking garage demonstratively. As he could see, we took our cases and our agents very seriously.

* * *

Friday morning, we called the Channing's curator to bring him in to accept the painting into their gallery. I hadn't wanted to, but Hughes had done the calling behind my back. I thought it was pretty unfair that a painting stolen from Julianna's home was going to an organization that hadn't even bothered to put it on the registry – especially when she had been attacked by Dorsett's muscle man to get it. Not every part of my job was glamor and heroism, though, and according to federal law and the acquiescence of the Channing, as long as Julianna didn't fight to keep the painting obtained illegally from the museum, she wouldn't be charged for what her grandmother had owned before she was born.

Because Hughes didn't exactly trust me to keep my opinion to myself (and that might be a founded concern, not that I would admit to it), he accompanied Neal and I to turn it in to the salt-and-pepper-haired curator in the conference room. I produced it from the evidence lockup with carefully-donned gloves that Elliot Walter had insisted on, and handed it to his equally-covered hands.

Through slim reading glasses, he stared down at the portrait for way too long, turning it at various angles and squinting like he thought it was a fake. I put my elbow up on the table, rested my chin on my fist, and stared at him impatiently without saying anything. Hughes coughed. I ignored it because I was perfectly content with being rude. Neal sat on my other side, his hands in his lap, watching Walter expectantly.

He picked it up and handled it to turn it over to look at the back. In the process, he turned it at an angle where Neal and I could see the back of the canvas, and I caught a note written in white paint against the dark backing. I sat a little more rigidly and reminded myself at the last minute not to show that anything was off. _My Dearest Walter_ was written at the beginning of a message.

"Neal," I hissed, barely even whispering because I didn't want Hughes to think that anything was wrong. "What have you _done?"_ I don't think even Neal heard me, because he didn't act like he had, instead starting to smirk at the curator when the man's eyes went wide as he read the rest of the note scripted on the back.

I glared stonily at the very smug look on my consultant's face. We were evidently going to have to have another talk.

Walter reread it again, his face paled. Hughes cleared his throat and leaned forward. "Is there a problem?" He asked calmly. His throat was tense, having noticed the reaction even if he didn't know the cause.

I wished I'd just gone ahead and called the man myself, because I felt much dirtier not saying anything with the agent who repeatedly had my back sitting right next to me. It was a terrible churning feeling in my stomach of guilt and irritation that Neal had put me in yet another scenario where I had those feelings. If Hughes happened to see the writing or Walter showed him, then he would know that I either knew or hadn't controlled Neal with a tight enough leash, and it would be as discomforting as being caught running to third base in my parents' car by my dad.

Which I steadfastly refused to acknowledge had happened.

Strangely enough, Walter was the one who looked like he'd been caught red-handed. I spared another flick of my eyes to Neal, who appeared to be gloating silently about something I wasn't let in on. Picking up the handkerchief from his shirt collar and pressing it to his face, as if the pallor was caused by heat, the curator forced a see-through smile at Hughes.

"No, no," he hastily assured. He wasn't convincing in the least; Walter was a terrible liar. Hughes raised an eyebrow. "Just, uh, overcome with the… I'm thrilled to have the original Haustenberg back where it belongs." He covered with an antsy smile.

Whatever Neal had written had to be more than just a patronizing note on how Walter didn't understand the Matisse influences or whatever, because the curator had struck me as a very self-righteous man. Lying about being given a forgery seemed unlikely unless there was something else going on I wasn't aware of, and I was definitely going to be questioning Neal about it once we were no longer in present company.

Even Hughes didn't believe it, humming discontentedly but not pressing any further. If Walter was happy and the museum was ready to be done with this mess, then it would be over and he would turn a blind eye to the strange reaction. It was just a painting, after all – no one was dead because of it, even if it wasn't technically real.

Although damn, it sure _looked_ real. If I wasn't busy being aggravated and wanting to take Neal's head and knock it against the wall, I'd have appreciated his incredible artistic abilities and creative flexibility.

* * *

Neal requested that we stop at Julianna's house. I didn't bother asking why, I just told Diana that I was leaving and to redirect anyone looking to find me to my email.

In the rich neighborhood, Neal carried a cloth satchel like it held precious jewels and took it inside when Julianna let us in, surprised to see us, but pleasantly so, I think. I promised her that we'd found the people responsible and that the man who had attacked her was going to serve a very long sentence now that we finally had the grounds to arrest him on several counts of theft, trespassing, battery, and aggravated assault. She was relieved that he wasn't going to hurt any more people, but she was happier when I told her that the mastermind, who also happened to be a very violent person without much more detail, wasn't going to be able to hurt anyone else, physically or financially.

Neal could barely wait for us to finish talking before he beckoned for Julianna to follow. It felt a little presumptuous to march up the stairs of a place that wasn't even his own, but his excitement was radiating off of him. If nothing else, Julianna was curious what put him in such a good mood. I followed the two of them with a little bit of annoyance, but mostly just relief that it was almost over with.

When Neal presented Julianna with the original Haustenberg portrait in the parlor, she had squealed and covered her hands with her mouth, staring in shock before she stole a quick hug from Neal, throwing her arms around him while he laughed, affected by her delight. I wished he hadn't forged the painting, but I wasn't as angry then, when it clearly meant so much to Julianna.

"My dearest Walter, I know what you saw here last time." Julianna had crossed the parlor to the front of the room to hang the portrait back over her mantelpiece where it had rested before, and Neal draped the empty bag over his shoulder and quietly disclosed his message to me. "NC."

 _Of course you signed your work, Neal_. He really was incorrigible.

"You forged the painting," I stated, trying to act like I was seething. I should have been. I was more pissed at myself for not being ready to spill steam from my ears than I was at him. Stealing the painting the first time put us both, as well as the case, in jeopardy; forging it and giving a copy to the Channing closed the case and ensured that Julianna got her property back without affecting the court proceedings. "I should kick your ass."

"Allegedly. This was an entirely hypothetical situation, remember." Neal murmured while Julianna took her hands slowly away from the frame, checking that it was hanging on its own. She admired it for a moment before she turned back to join us, her face bright.

Exasperated – he really still felt the need to remind me of the definition of _alleged?_ – I reached up and whacked the back of his head. "Yes, Robin Hood, I remember," I sarcastically assured, while he mouthed 'ow!' and rubbed the back of his head, then tried to smooth down his hair.

Julianna looked at us and giggled, even more so when Neal leaned to the side to look at his reflection in the window and vainly slicked his hand down his hair to fix what I had messed up.

Neal grinned at her. "Check this out," he added to me, holding a hand out to the blonde woman and then pausing, waiting for consent. She nodded and tilted her head to the side, and Neal brushed his fingers against her throat while he picked up the chain of one of her necklaces and ran his fingers down the cord to the locket, holding it up from her shirt.

I looked at it, first puzzled. What could be so important about a locket? Then I realized that it looked familiar. Really familiar. The heart-shaped piece was gold-colored and had the etching of evenly-spaced lines around the sides, was chipped in places, and some of the color had rusted by the hinge – but there was a very, very specific aspect of it, the engraved _KH_ on the front that perfectly matched the inscription in the portrait.

"Unbelievable. This is the actual locket." I declared, stunned. Julianna smiled crookedly, possibly as an apology for not being entirely forthright with the significance of the picture, and Neal nodded knowingly as he let her necklace swing back over her chest. I did the math quickly in my head. "Haustenberg was your great grandfather."

"Yes," she confirmed my estimation. "My grandmother was his illegitimate daughter, but he had a family then, in Hungary. It was before the war." Pursing my lips, I understood at least part of the ramifications. War changed political climates and strengthened the borders between different countries. An illegitimate child wasn't as accepted then, and the term 'illegitimate' carried a lot more stigma to it.

I still had another question regarding it, though. If it had belonged to the subject, then how had it gotten to the museum in between its owner and her granddaughter? "If she rightfully owned it, how did the Channing get their paws on it?"

Julianna hesitated. Neal placed his hand on my arm confidently, indicating that she could trust me not to go blabbing the real story. "He willed the painting to my grandmother, but when he died, the museum chose to ignore his will." Bitter for her family's sake, she snorted. "Who cares about the illegitimate daughter of a famous artist?"

"It's not theft when rich men do it," Neal agreed grimly.

"How do you know the Channing won't try to take it back again?" Clearly second-guessing her decision to put it back in plain view of both guests and the window, Julianna looked back to the mantel worrisomely.

Neal shrugged. "Because if they do, the curator will have to explain why the museum went against Haustenberg's wishes." Art being a form of expression, most art enthusiasts would probably rail against the Channing for violating the intention of the artist to have it passed to his forsaken family. Most of the decent people who weren't art fans would probably object to the principle of stealing something from its rightful owner, especially something that was meant to go to the next of kin of a dead man. Then they would loudly raise the questions of how many other artifacts in their collection had been gained by the same illegal means.

"Famous artist or not, his will was legal. And it was dismissed by the museum." A fact that would not go over well if it ever came to light. Had Gary realized the significance of the painting he'd set Dorsett up to steal? Obviously he knew the financial value, but did he realize that his mother was the girl depicted? With both Neal and Julianna looking at me hopefully, it was hard to care about those as much as the injustice that had been done. "No matter how long ago it was, to admit they know this is real would be to give the bureau cause for an investigation into their claims on all of their artifacts. If they try, give me a call. I swear I'll jump on the chance to make them regret it."

* * *

Noon on Friday, and Neal took me to Grand Central Station. Or I took him. I'm really not sure who exactly was in charge of the decision that I would accompany him, but Neal didn't complain and his eagerness to unravel the mystery behind Kate's disappearance was rubbing off on me. I wanted answers, too. Obviously something weird was going on, or Kate wouldn't have been leaving clues.

I kept looking around. Grand Central was busy, throbbing with the pulse of lunchtime rushes and the beat of the city, excited high schoolers and desk workers on their lunch breaks, rejoicing in that it was soon to be the weekend. The traffic was a nightmare, which was why Neal and I had left my car at June's and walked to the station, since it was less than two miles away. Our hands were clasped together so we'd stay close and not get broken up by the hubbub of people around us.

We turned down one direction and left a line of restaurants, getting a little bit further away from the tourist street and the subway stations. An oyster bar to the right caught my eye for a second before I rolled my eyes and tightened my grip on his hand.

"Where are we supposed to go?" I asked. Neal stopped on the sidewalk and looked around, someone veering widely to the side of the street to avoid us.

Neal dropped my hand. I closed my fist around empty space until my fingers were curled against my own palm. He spun around, looking. "The note was around in this area the first time," he explained nervously. He could be as composed as he liked, but I knew when he was nervous, and boy, he was nervous. "I don't know if she meant it literally, or…"

"Look for another X, maybe?" I offered, trying to be somewhat helpful.

"That might be a little obvious." Neal raised a hand to the back of his head and scratched his fingers through the short hairs curling over the back of his neck. "If she's being watched, she probably won't try the same trick twice."

 _Oh._ He seemed to have about as much attention for me as I did for a mosquito, and since I apparently wasn't helping, I started feeling a little useless. He was the one that told me about the letter; he was the one that, for whatever reason, had wanted me involved. He wanted a friend. I just wanted to feel like I was his friend, and I suspected that was why I'd come.

"Right, of course, my bad." I sarcastically crossed my arms, wondering why I had even bothered. Messages and covert meetings weren't my thing. I was the one who spied on them and then arrested the culprits, not who caught the clues and arranged the meetings. This was Neal's domain, and I wasn't good at it. I didn't know how to be. "Sorry, I dropped out of my espionage and cyphers class." When I rubbed behind my ear, I also noticed someone familiar coming toward us but looking anywhere but me. "Oh, and look at that," I called to Neal. "We're not alone on our grand adventure."

Neal turned around to see, a little alarmed at first, but then he recognized his shorter partner-in-crime and his shoulders fell. "Forbidden meetings are kind of a personal thing, Moz," he scolded.

Mozzie narrowed his eyes at Neal. "Says the genius that invited a fed to a forbidden meeting," he retorted, making a very good point, but then he threw a fish-eyed look at me that kind of just dissolved any trace of agreement I might have otherwise expressed. "You'll be glad I came along when a red laser dot suddenly appears on your forehead!"

 _As if there are snipers,_ I thought in exasperation. His paranoia wasn't very funny when I felt like I had only one more straw to go through before I needed therapy. After this, I just needed a few calm cases where I could keep an eye on Neal and not worry about having to trust him with Hungarian paintings.

"Well, I see where your confidence lies," I muttered. I hadn't seen Mozzie since he had attacked Aimes with his limousine, but clearly we weren't meant to be best friends just because he committed vehicular assault for me.

"Not that you don't have a gun, Suit, but the first step to getting away with it is to leave no loose ends." Mozzie said it like it was obvious and he crossed his arms. I stuffed my hands in my pockets so that we weren't in a mimicking pose of each other. I still weirdly didn't object to being called Suit – it was kind of ridiculous that he refused to say my name.

I cocked my head at him. "You realize that by coming here, in the fantastical universe in which this is a trap where snipers will attack _in the middle of Grand Central,"_ I paused for effect and rolled my eyes. "You have made yourself one of those loose ends?"

"Did I ask you to remind me of all the reasons I didn't want to come?" He snipped back, and turned his ear to me. "Sorry, what was that? _No?"_

"Sarcasm is the retreat of a narrow mind, Moz," I lectured with the falsified tone of all-knowing wisdom that he employed himself when he quoted someone. I didn't know who I thought I was quoting but it seemed like the smart thing to say.

"Where'd you get that one, an internet psychic?"

"Says the guy who says fortune cookie sayings every other time he opens his mouth!"

"Guys!" Neal exclaimed loudly.

Mozzie and I both broke eye contact to glare at Neal for interrupting us. He was staring at us in reprimand and amazement at the same time. We did probably seem like an odd pair, bickering in the middle of the sidewalk and completely forgetting about the rather important reason we were there.

I looked at Mozzie and sighed. He huffed and turned his head to look the other way. "Sorry," we both mumbled to Neal.

Neal kept looking around. Mozzie and I both made a reluctant truce for the moment; it was probably not the best time to banter while Neal was looking for his abducted sister. He looked disoriented and confused, hopeful with a dash of desperation, but he didn't know which way to go. Being kind, I reached out and tapped his arm. He held his arm out, more in surprise at being touched than anything else, and I slipped my hand through the crook of his elbow and started to tug him down the sidewalk. Obviously Kate wasn't here; maybe further down the street. Grand Central could be a generalized area.

Mozzie walked along with us, but waited until we were far enough along that he could jog up by Neal's other side, keeping him surrounded with friendly faces. "Look," he said, putting his hands out with a grimace at playing the bad guy. "Maybe she wrote the note four days ago, or maybe when she left four _months_ ago."

"She'll be here," Neal insisted stubbornly.

Mozzie looked around Neal and at me. I shrugged. I didn't know how to talk him out of it. I wasn't really sure I wanted to; weren't we obligated to check it out thoroughly in case it proved to be a real thing?

The sketchy thief sighed. "Well, it _is_ Friday," he grudgingly conceded.

"And it was noon… seven minutes ago," I announced, picking up my right arm to check my watch.

"So where is she?" Mozzie asked Neal, suggesting none-too-gently that maybe he was wrong, and that Kate was long gone, out of the city, state, and possibly country at this point. Neal's jaw tightened and he ground his teeth with frustration.

Nearby, someone's phone started to ring. Mine was in my pocket and yet it wasn't vibrating, so I knew it wasn't someone calling me. It wasn't close enough for it to be Neal's either. Mozzie was looking around to pinpoint where it was coming from. Despite the people who were moving, the ringing seemed to be coming from one point in particular. I looked around. There were people with their phones out, but none of them were going to answer new calls, and no one without their cells were particularly interested in the noise.

My eyes landed on a payphone on the edge of the sidewalk, facing the street, and I zeroed in on it. It was a few yards away and rang loudly again. "I don't think those are supposed to get incoming calls," I said aloud, tugging on Neal's arm.

Neal broke out of my hold and sprinted. He crossed the space in leaps of long legs and picked up the black phone from the receiver. The twisting cord was suddenly swinging and stretching, the coils bobbing in midair, and Neal held it to the side of his face with a daunting mixture of hopefulness and nervousness.

"Kate?" He asked. I had taken off after him and woven past a passerby to stay on his heels, and I stopped right at his side, stood up on my toes, and put a hand on his shoulder, bracing myself to keep up closer to his height.

Neal glanced down at me, his fingers curled so tightly around the phone that his knuckles were starting to turn white. He gripped it tighter like it was going to try to rip itself away from him and take his sister with it. I just strained to stay on my toes. Then he turned to the side, keeping the phone possessively close to his face but bending down enough so that I could sink back down to stand flat on my feet.

Heavy breathing was over the phone. I stopped pushing on his shoulder and wound my arm around his back, getting almost cheek-to-cheek with him to listen to the other line. Mozzie put his hands on his hips, looked around, sighed, and crossed his arms, trudging to the side of the payphone's glass shelter above and on the sides to lean against.

There was still the breathing. It was hard to hear; quiet and not even right at my ear. Neal's breath was coming faster with anticipation. Even I felt some of it rubbing off on me, my pulse picking up anxiously. And then, with a sudden spark – _"Neal?"_

"Kate!"

He recognized her voice. He laughed as he said her name. Even I knew that this wasn't a con; he could have tried his whole life and would never have been able to fake a reaction like that, like he'd just been reconnected with his…

… Like he'd just been reconnected with his soulmate.

He jumped up straight and looked up to the sky, grinning brighter than I had ever seen, lifting his free hand to his hair and raking through the formerly-neat style. My breath hitched. He looked so _mesmerizing,_ beautiful in his joy. Not me, not Katie, not Moz, not a single one of us had gotten such a strong positive reaction. I was envious. Did Kate realize what she had? Not just a brother who cared, but the loyalty of a man who would rather stay in prison than let her go. I watched him draw his hand through his hair and rub his neck, ecstatic, only just remembering as an afterthought to come back to me and bring the phone back to where we could both hear it by our faces.

"Where are you?" He asked. It was hard to listen. Not only was he desperate to hear her talk again, to listen to her voice after almost six months without any sign of her, but he sounded so hopeful and joyous. He could cry hallelujah. It was better than music… and it was simultaneously more painful than any scream. If he loved her so much that just her voice elicited that response, then… what would happen if even I, with my connections, couldn't solve the problem of getting her back to his side? If he loved her that much, how much would he hate himself, the world, and anyone involved if anything happened to her?

Kate's voice caught in her throat, about as affected as I was, but nowhere near Neal's level. _"I – I don't have a lot of time,"_ she warned softly. Neal's Kate's voice was a little bit lower than my sister's, but I didn't know if it was her normal tone or if she was being extra quiet or if her voice was lowered for emotional duress.

A stoplight turned green, permitting cars to drive underneath a huge, stone grey overpass that looked over the street with a crystal clear view, no obstructions in the way for at least a block. A car honked obnoxiously when it took more than one second for the traffic to accelerate and move on underneath the overpass. The same honk echoed itself from the phone line in Neal's tight grip.

 _She's here._ "She didn't call until we were a few yards away from the phone," I told Neal, clapping his back to make sure he was actually paying attention to me instead of just being so incredibly taken with his sister that he forgot Mozzie and I existed. "She must be watching us."

Oh, he heard me, alright, but I think he missed part of the intention. "You're here!" He exclaimed to her gleefully, his face breaking out into an ear-to-ear smile, full of joy and adoration, looking around almost in a full circle to try to spot his most important person in the Grand Central crowd. He only stopped because the phone cord didn't stretch that far.

I looked back to the traffic light on our side of the overpass. For the honk to have come through the microphone that clearly, she had to have been close to it, not off in the direction we'd come from. A dark head of hair was visible on top of the overpass that I hadn't thought to even notice, but then…

"There!" I elbowed Neal and pointed, Mozzie raising one of his hands to shield his eyes from the sun to look up and see Kate Moreau… closer than she had been since before Neal and I had even met, the sole reason we knew each other, because without her leaving, Neal wouldn't have broken out, would never have been arrested by me, would never have had a reason to make his deal.

Kate had her hair down, long brown hair blowing softly in the wind but always coming back to rest, mostly-straight, over her shoulders, a dark pink cardigan covering her arms and a plain, low-necked black shirt underneath. She was looking right at us. We could see her face, just barely, but I couldn't have told anyone what color her eyes were or if she was wearing any makeup.

For a long few seconds in which I felt my heart and head both _screaming_ ( _this is violating our arrangement, I have to stop this, what if it goes wrong – he's found Kate, he's found his sister, she's the one he'd do anything for, there's not room for me with them)_. It was fucked up, I knew, to be jealous and insecure and upset and angry because of something _good,_ but all I could think was that Neal might need me to be his legal defender, and maybe his stress relief, but he wouldn't need anything else, because he could get everything from Kate.

People mistook Katie and I for soulmates all the time. Hell, if Neal had seen us together _before_ I'd told him I'd tried to find her mark's match, he probably would have made the same assumption. Compared to us, Neal and Kate were like a supernova. How could I possibly compare to that? _I don't want him attached,_ I told myself; _I don't want to be attached,_ but I had my soulmate as my best friend and not everyone was that lucky, and he didn't even know it.

 _Why did it have to work out like this?_ I swallowed and covered my mouth with one of my hands, masking hurt and furious attempts not to cry with shock at seeing Kate Moreau at last. It wasn't fair! Neal and I were complete opposites, hardly anything alike, from entirely different universes; criminal and cop, pacifism and violence, lover and fighter. We didn't mix. We clashed. I wouldn't be feeling this if Kate were his mate. They'd be like me and Katie but stronger, and more surreal, and untouchable, least of all by me.

At least Kate probably wouldn't have hidden it from him. She wouldn't have had to. She was the light of his life; she wouldn't have had to fear being rejected, or hated, or been in a complicated moral situation because she had his power of attorney. _Kate should have his mark, not me._

Neal looked as reverent as he gazed up at Kate as any Christian would if they'd bore witness to the second Coming of Christ. "Hi," he breathed into the phone, locking eyes across the space between us and the top of the overpass, which seemed to be both miles and mere yards.

Kate's lips moved. _Hi,_ I imagined her saying back, smiling awkwardly because it wasn't a normal reunion, but she was here and she loved him and he loved her, and they were together again. That was what mates were about, no matter what their relationship was; siblings, cousins, friends, roommates, lovers. Soulmates were family above all else.

Neal swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat, well-pronounced from looking up to his sister. "Stay there," he commanded, suddenly urgent. "I'm coming-" He was already preparing to shove the phone at me and take off at a dead bolt in her direction, had it halfway between us, when Kate interrupted with a startled shout.

 _"_ _No!"_

Neal froze and hurt, anger, and confusion warred over his face instantly, too vulnerable to spare the energy to act like he was unaffected. I stayed at his side, loyal. He had no obligation of loyalty to me, but I owed him compassion. I was getting in the way of him and Kate. Gently, I guided his hand back up so the phone was closer to both of us, and before I knew it, one of his arms was around me and he was leaning over and sinking his weight like he needed help to stand.

I shouldered against his side and bit the inside of my cheek. Only Kate could knock him off his game like this, by telling him not to go to her. Only she could.

 _"_ _No, Neal,"_ she protested over the phone, as if she hadn't already just about knocked him off of his feet. She was leaning over the edge of the stone wall. _"They're close. You can't."_

"The people who have you? The one with the ring?" He asked intently. I narrowed my eyes and looked up to him in surprise. _How do you know about the ring…? Are we thinking of the same ring?_ When I saw his face again, Neal looked pained and terrified, like he recognized this as the beginning of Kate slipping away again, right as he got her back.

 _"_ _Yes,"_ Kate said emphatically, and I saw her nodding on top of the overpass.

Neal looked away from Kate and I, turning his neck to look mournfully in the other direction. I looked over my shoulder at Mozzie, who was watching us with open concern for his friend. I started to pick up the shoulder that Neal wasn't still leaning on as a support. The conman pressed the receiver of the phone along the curve of his shoulder.

It wasn't hard to guess what he was thinking. Interacting with Kate, risking being caught… it would certainly get him off of his probation and back into prison, the place I _never_ wanted him back in. It could get Mozzie in trouble. It _would_ get me in trouble, just because I was here and I wasn't stopping him. All this aside, there was one pro to disregarding his sister's warnings… the chance of getting her back. And Kate had been and would continue to be more important to him than I was, more important to him than his own freedom was.

He took the phone off of his shoulder, looking back to her stubbornly and taking some of the weight off of my shoulder. Some unspoken agreement that I would get to listen in kept him a couple of inches closer to me. "I don't care," he determined fiercely.

For a second of pause, Kate didn't say anything. _"Listen,"_ she said stubbornly. On the overpass, she withdrew from the solid stone side, standing fully on her own feet. _"I need you to tell me where you hid everything."_

"What?" Neal frowned up at her, shaking his head, not understanding. He was more thrown by the question than I was. Everyone in the bureau knew that Neal had stolen a treasure trove of valuable things before he was caught from various countries and continents, but no one had any leads on where they were, and his stash took a backburner once he was handcuffed for good.

I wasn't surprised that it had come up sooner rather than later, but I _was_ affronted on Neal's behalf that it was coming from his sister, of all people. Kate. Less than five minutes after she made him the happiest man I've ever seen, just by _talking_ to him, she was asking him about his horde.

Kate, however, wasn't deterred by her abhorrent prioritization. _"The money, the bonds, the art – all of it!"_

Transfixed on her, Neal blinked slowly. His breath came out shakily. Kate had to have heard it, what with the phone right by his mouth. "Why?" He asked cautiously. Even the thrill of seeing who _should_ have been his mate wasn't enough to mute the warning bells that I wasn't the only one to hear.

 _"_ _He wants something,"_ Kate explained, her tone taking on anxiety. She didn't look away from us on the overpass. It was weird, talking to her here while she was so far over there. _"Something you took, something you hid."_

 _Legal defense…_ I pressed my hand harder into his back. "This could be a trap," I warned. If I were him, I'd have zipped my lips at the first mention of my portable fortune, all obtained illegally. … If it were my sister up on the overpass, would I be urging for him not to tell her everything he knew? I wanted to think so, but it was an impossible situation, even hypothetically. "Anyone with the resources to call a payphone can also plant a bug. Be careful what you say."

 _Plant a bug. Be careful._ I swallowed. There wasn't a way to quickly communicate on hand except for using our words, and in advising Neal of why he should be careful with his, I had just given anyone listening to a bug ample reason to have me discredited. Why trust an agent who advises a convicted criminal on how not to get caught? I ground my teeth and looked away. I couldn't make Neal do anything, but even if I was nothing compared to the woman on the overpass, I hoped our friendship was enough to persuade him to listen.

 _Friendship, yes, because this is too much to handle. Not Kate, not the horde, not the people who took her away and not the soulmate drama all on top of that._ I could forget Dorsett and the painting. I had to, at least in the moment, because how could I possibly stay sane otherwise?

If Neal did me the honor of giving me a second of the attention that was all for Kate, I didn't see it. "I allegedly hid a lot of things," he told her, voice tight, but at least he had listened to me, proved that I wasn't completely invisible when Kate was around.

 _"_ _Well, then give him everything!"_ The more time that passed, the more impatient Kate seemed to get. _"If he gets what he wants, he'll let me come back to you!"_ Okay, maybe she was on a deadline. If I were her, I'd be willing to be a little rude if it got me back into her mate's arms. – _My_ mate's arms.

Exactly whose soulmate was he, anyway? The only claim I had to him was the physical soulmark on his back. Kate had his heart and, apparently, his head, too, since he didn't retain the ability to think rationally when she was involved. I didn't want Kate to have him, I wanted him myself, but that was unfair because at the same time I knew I couldn't keep him. I was the one refusing to have any feelings for him about our soulmarks. I wasn't losing my heart to him now, was I?

"Who is he?" Neal asked intensely, his eyes burning.

Kate's voice cracked. _"I can't tell you. It's too dangerous for you."_

"Dangerous for _me?"_ Neal repeated incredulously, no doubt recalling that Kate was the one who was forced out of New York, the one who had to leave him all alone in a big, scary world with prison guards for company.

I found I couldn't just stand and watch. It wasn't enough to be moral support, not when I was slowly watching his heart be broken all over again as she shut him out without further explanation. It was horrible. Ten minutes ago, he had been thrumming with anxious anticipation and an eagerness to see her. Now she was already tearing him apart once more. I was taking the phone away from him and pulling it to my face before I could even consciously decide what to do to help.

"Kate," I said into the phone, feeling the balance settle in my hand. It had been a long time since I'd used a payphone. "My name is Agent Anderson. No matter who has you, I can protect you. I have the resources to keep you and Neal both safe," I promised. There were other people who would help. I wouldn't let anyone touch Neal, and Kate was his family, so I had to protect her, too. If she came forward about being threatened, she could be afforded protective custody – maybe Neal, too…

Kate took a deep breath. She sounded dulled to me, with her voice right next to my eardrum and Neal no longer able to quite make out the nuances of her tone or what she was saying. _"This is the_ _ **only**_ _way I can be helped,"_ she stressed the 'only' and sounded exhausted. _"Give the phone back to Neal, Agent Anderson."_

Upon vaguely hearing his name from her, Neal took the receiver back. I let him. What else could I do, if Kate wasn't going to listen to me? I couldn't force her to come forward or change her tactics, not without employing some of my own plans that Neal would disapprove of having been implemented on his own sister. I felt like I'd failed as an agent to protect civilians like Kate, failed as Neal's friend to help the situation, failed as his soulmate to rescue him from another wave of hurt.

"Of course, why listen to another option," I mumbled sarcastically. Kate was going to hurt me, too; the moment she hurt Neal, I was hurting. _God, how did I not notice this before?_ Everything Neal felt and did, it all affected me. He sulked, I felt guilty; he felt upset, I felt sad. He acted affectionate, I felt affectionate; seeing him near a killer made me want to draw blood. I didn't just look after Neal like I looked after my colleagues. I was a _lot_ more protective, a lot more possessive over who was allowed to do what in Neal's operations to make sure I had the utmost confidence in everyone's abilities to do their jobs.

 _We are not just friends-with-benefits,_ I concluded, a bit too late.

Neal's shoulders were low. "Kate," he said, whispering her name in prayer and plea.

 _"_ _You always told me I had to trust you. Well… now, you have to trust me. I want to come home. Please, just tell me where you hid everything!"_ She begged, imploring Neal by not looking away from him for even a second on the bridge over the street. Neal's lip started to tremble, but he sank his teeth in quickly and cast his eyes down to the cement underfoot. How much of a threat was the man, really? And how high were the odds that he could make a run for it and catch up with Kate, and refuse to let her go?

"No," he said finally into the phone, surprising me. I'd been sure he'd give in to her. Give her what she wanted, reap the rewards because they wanted the same thing: for Kate to be with Neal again.

She was quiet, not knowing what else to say. Quietly, dejectedly, she repeated, _"I want to come home,"_ as though she was about to start to cry, pleading with Neal to let her come home. She sounded like his little sister then, like anyone's little sister, lost and alone and frightened.

With a look of pure anguish, Neal held his ground, but at no small cost to his own feelings. "Hypothetically," he prefaced, still covering his bases. "The things I hid are all the leverage I've got." _Leverage on whom?_ "Just stay there, okay? I'm coming up," he instructed, lowering the phone from his head. Once he had it below shoulder-height, he just dropped it. It happened in seconds – one instant he was there and the next he was turning, coattail flying out like a banner behind him while he made an insane rush down the sidewalk towards the overpass. There were stairs to climb up onto the public bridge on both sides of the busy avenue, and I wasn't entirely sure it was within his radius, but I hoped so. How would I explain it if it wasn't?

"Neal!" Mozzie objected as his friend started to dash, hurrying forward but only taking the place where Neal had been standing. I stood on my toes and tried to see, but he was moving fast; even standing six feet tall, even knowing his figure better than I know my own, he was melting in between groups and getting too far, too quick. I doubted he'd even heard Mozzie.

I had a hand half-out after him, but made a frustrated growl in my throat and snatched up the phone instead of chasing after him. The plastic receiver had avoided banging against the payphone when the cord stretched out. I had to bend my knees to reach it as it pulled towards the ground, but stood up shortly and sought out Kate on the bridge again.

"Kate, why are you doing this to him?" I demanded angrily, tears pricking at my eyes. Kate was supposed to be benevolent, a victim, and instead she was reopening all these semi-healed wounds and causing even more new damage, as if Neal wasn't forced to carry enough baggage as it was.

 _"_ _I'm sorry,"_ she said, saddened over the line. On the overpass, her body was a rigid line, not leaning or moving, just standing and watching with disappointment. She had to have seen Neal start sprinting to get to her.

The idea that she thought what she was doing constituted as serious lack of options was even worse. "If you were sorry, you'd let me help," I hissed at the phone. "I'm trying to help!"

I felt the hair on my neck standing up, gooseflesh rising on my arms as she watched me. _"How can an FBI agent help Neal Caffrey?"_ She asked forlornly.

 _What?_ Did she not know about the deal that Neal struck? "The situation has changed," I informed her, keeping an eye out for any sign of Neal getting up to the overpass, though it seemed like it was too far away to cover all that ground in such a short amount of time.

All we heard from each other on the phone was each other's breathing, Kate's staggered like she was hurting and mine a bit heavy like I was angry. Which of us had it worse? Kate had Neal, but she was being ripped away every time she got close. And for me, I had just pushed him away… dumbly pushed him away, and it took feeling inadequate for me to understand that I want him right next to me – not all the time, but a good chunk of it. Like, seventy percent at least, not including the sleeping hours.

Her head turned and the color of her hair moved. That was my cue that Kate was moving, too, looking at something to her left and my right. I wondered if she was hearing Neal, no doubt screaming for his sister before she melted back into the masses the way she'd already done once before. Kate looked back out from the edge and found Mozzie and I again after just a second of searching to relocate the payphone.

 _"_ _Thanks for your concern,"_ she said heavily. The speed with which she talked increased, and Kate stepped away from the edge of the bridge. She turned to the left and started walking, going in the wrong direction, going _away from her brother. "And thanks for being concerned for him, McKenna,"_ she added solemnly, a little sniff making its way through. _"He needs someone to keep him from getting himself hurt."_

A thought occurred to me to sprint. To dive into the street as traffic slowed down for the next red light, weave and run around cars that hadn't quite stopped, cut off Kate and prevent her from leaving. Then it occurred to me that she knew I was an FBI agent. I could've been in the CIA or any number of other offices, as far as she knew.

 _My name is Agent Anderson… McKenna._ She called me McKenna, but none of us – not me, Neal, or Mozzie – had said my name for her to hear.

"How do you know my name?" I asked, beginning to wish I had fingernails to bite at again. People got my name for few reasons – surveillance, stalking, harassment, legal reasons, very few good, much less something I wanted to be involved in.

My question got Mozzie's diligent attention span, snapping to me when I asked Kate the question. He knew as well as I did that Kate did not have a good reason for knowing my name, and what if she wasn't alone? What if someone else was around, spying and snooping and relaying to her, and that's how she got it?

Kate mulishly refused to answer. _"I have to go,"_ she said evasively, dodging the question, moving swiftly across the overpass.

"I never told you my name," I stuck on it, unwilling to just let it go. That raised way too many warnings that I was not cool with just giving up on. "How do you know who I am?!" Worse than anything else, had she been nearby the whole time? Had she been possibly just miles away from Neal at any point in time, pretending to be in San Diego or Alaska or anywhere but within New York's bustling confines and Neal's stifling radius, and not come forward to find him, comfort him?

 _"_ _Tell Neal I love him."_ There was dismissal in her voice, a quality I hated, because no one was supposed to dismiss me, and especially not while telling me to tell my best friend that she loves him even as she runs away from him when what he wants the most is her safe return.

"Take the phone!" I barked and turned on Mozzie, shoving the payphone receiver at him. He took it quickly, one of the very few times when he interacted with me without fussing about my career or whining about how crazily opposite we are of each other. Possibly against my better judgment, I left Mozzie alone by the payphone while I pursued Neal.

I may not have been able to stop Kate from leaving when she didn't get what she wanted, or from leaving without even telling him a personal goodbye, but I wasn't going to be the woman who stood on the sidelines while he was in trouble and needed someone. If he was going to take on the world in this battleground, I was going to be right there with him, decked out in armor with a fist held high.

* * *

"Kate!" Neal turned around in a half-circle and stumbled to the wall of the bridge, looking out. He was almost exactly where Kate had been standing when I made it up the overpass myself, arms thrown out against the stone and shouting for her in a desperate hope that she might come back if she heard his voice. I couldn't imagine the betrayal of being abandoned again, or the completely helplessness he must've been overwhelmed by as he stood where she had been mere _moments_ ago.

 _"_ _Kate!"_

I hated being the person left to think rationally sometimes, because I had nowhere to begin when it came to telling Neal that Kate wasn't going to come back, no matter how many times he shouted her name or how loudly he did so. He could yell until his lungs were sore and his throat was bloody and raw, but she had left with finality.

There had been no one forcing her to leave the meeting. She made her choice and obligated me to do damage control. The sad truth was that Kate had come whizzing back into his life in an instant, and only minutes later, when she didn't get the answer she wanted, she was long gone.

* * *

**I'd say that nothing hurts more than being alone, but abandonment does. Abandonment, betrayal… someone you care about turning their back on you does things to a person.**

**My parents didn't give me the sex talk. Why should they? I mean, I'm just their little princess (no, really, my name is a variation of "Zara," which is Hebrew for "princess") which means I have no libido or sexual agency of my own, and I don't need to because one day I'll marry and I guess my husband will explain the bare minimum of what I need to know to have his kids and be a respectable trophy wife like Mom.**

**But what did they expect was going to happen? I mean, it's not the seventeenth century. I didn't sit back and** **_listen._ ** **I just had to go learn for myself, because I hear about it in school and it's all over the media, who screwed who behind someone else's back, and you can't walk a block in a shopping district without seeing someone modeling in clothes less-than-appropriate for a five-year-old to look at.**

**I took one of the cars and went out with a girl. I won't say her name because I don't think I trust Mom and Dad not to snoop through my things, and I don't want them calling her parents and getting her in trouble. Well, they never knew about the boy I was with when I had sex for the first time, so as far as they knew, I was just out in la la land when I was actually hanging out with my girlfriend. Unofficially. Mom and Dad were supposed to be gone all weekend, so when they got home and a car was out of the garage, Mom went inside and got ready to call the authorities while Dad came to see what was going on, and… well… he found his daughter and a stranger, one of them sitting in the foot well and the other with her shirt open and her skirt rucked up past her thighs. Use your imagination – we weren't exactly studying. Again, just in case anyone reads this that shouldn't be, I'm not gonna specify who was doing what, but you'll remember it pretty clearly, unless you've got some sort of brain damage going on.**

**I'm not allowed to leave for an entire two weeks. I'm not even allowed to go to school. Their records will show that I'm home with an absolutely terrible case of the flu. Mom lets me hear it every time she sees me, but she avoids me, like she's so disgusted by her apparently gay daughter. That's not what I am but she doesn't know and I don't care to tell her. If she's going to act like I don't have the right to explore and experiment safely and consensually, then it's none of her fucking business. I'm seventeen. I may not be all grown up but I'm sure as hell not a child.**

**Dad's even worse. He won't talk to me. He won't look at me. He goes out of his way to avoid me and I think he's enlisted his staff to help him manage that. My relationship with Mom's been bad ever since I started showing an interest in things that make loud noises, but Dad's always been different. As long as I'm not somehow shaming him, he doesn't care. Apathy sucks, but it's better than being shrieked at. I always thought, you know, if you don't care, how disappointed or angry can you get? So I kind of assumed he'd never turn his back on me, thought I'd always have a place to go if I needed one. He might not acknowledge I exist, but he wouldn't lock the door. Or something like that.**

**Except now he's pretending I don't exist and he's locking the door and changing the security codes and getting guard dogs and hiring muscle men with guns to shield the doors. Figuratively. That's what it feels like.**

**I know you're cutting all ties when you get out of here, and I know that you won't know anyone where you're going. You'll have to start fresh, meet people, protect yourself for a while. More than I'm worried about anything else, I'm terrified that you'll be lonely. Which is a ridiculous fear, right? There are literally billions of people in the world. Except… except it doesn't take all of their rejections to be lonely. It just takes one or two, from the people you thought you could count on. I want you to build relationships because they're precious and amazing to have, but I'm terrified they'll be ripped away from you and leave you broken.**

**If I were with you, you'd never be lonely.**

**Zarra L**


	11. Tell Me All of Your Stories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Although McKenna is slow to trust Neal again, unfortunate circumstances force her to give him the benefit of the doubt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Lucy Hale's "You Sound Good to Me."

**_Chapter Eleven – Tell Me All of Your Stories_ **

"Please tell me this isn't going to be another mortgage fraud case," Neal complained over the sounds of a couple of adults in letterman jackets with a beatbox over someone's shoulder. One of them was playing the music and yelling for attention from passersby while the other two were putting on a well-choreographed dance routine.

_Street performers. They keep the streets alive._

I sucked up some coffee from the lid of my cup. It was mostly cooled by now, especially since I'd gotten whipped cream which had since melted. Taking my sweet time drinking, I left Neal hanging for a few seconds for fun.

 _Ah, that hits the spot._ "Have you noticed that you complain more about mortgage fraud cases than any other kind of case?" I asked him thoughtfully, knowing damn well that of course he noticed; he was the one doing it. Mortgage frauds were too mainstream of a crime for him, and a lot of times, they weren't anything major; just claims filed in an attempt to undo damage that had legally been done, or technicalities that screwed up the paperwork process. They weren't stolen jewels or multimillion-dollar bonds.

Neal laughed, giving away that he knew exactly what he was doing. "They're boring!" He tried to argue with me, but he was smiling.

"If you think I'm going to hand you some bond forgery cases to spice it up, you're sorely mistaken," I said upfront, walking closer to his side so I could give him a little nudge against his arm, making him veer off-course for a few steps.

Neal kind of shrugged and looked up at the sky, squinting against sunlight, before he looked ahead of us again and pulled at the brim of his hat to keep the light away from his eyes. "I want something that's interesting," he explained innocently. _Yeah, right._ "Neal" and "innocent" hardly ever belong in the same sentence. "Bond forgery, mortgage fraud, stolen ID, they're all the same – stare at paperwork all day."

That was an exaggeration. In almost all cases, due diligence required enough footwork to talk to people, gather information, and fact-check. Still, I understood what he meant; it wasn't typically an exciting gig. It was like going to the post office – a change of scenery, but usually nothing unexpected or interesting happened.

Being on a work detail meant that he was supposed to be doing work for the FBI, however, and unlike the life of a conman, the life of the average FBI agent was not as glamorous as Neal's history. "Okay, for _one,"_ I stressed, to show that I had many objections. "I think we both know you spend more time socializing like a little butterfly than you do staring at the paperwork. For two, it's either stare at paper or stare at bars. Which would you prefer?"

I was maybe a bit too smug when I said that, but I still like to remind him sometimes that I'm in charge. It makes me feel better when I feel like I've been undermined, which is a low blow, but knowing me, it's better than letting my temper fester; it also serves to remind him sometimes not to step out of line, because there are some things worth getting in trouble for, but something like a run-of-the-mill mortgage fraud case is not one of them.

He sighed predictably, but I didn't hear any actual irritation. "You're really still playing that card?" He asked with disapproval.

"Eh." My lips quirked without my permission and I raised my coffee up to my mouth. "It makes me smile!"

* * *

"Excuse me!"

"Move it, Caffrey."

I wasn't even out of the elevator yet before I was getting knocked to the side, stumbling out and catching onto the wall to keep from falling over. Three agents from the division were pushing their way in urgently. Neal inched out to the side by the wall to avoid getting practically manhandled out of the way.

Within seconds, my hopes of an easygoing day at work, where I could be home by dinner and take Katie out to a nice Brooklyn restaurant, were completely dashed. Not even a thin sliver managed to hold on, because I had never seen the WCCD look so completely insane before. The doors were just closing after the agents who had taken the elevator, but the inside looked like a nightmare. Only a handful of agents were sitting down at their computers; some were standing at their desks with paperwork, some in files and some in boxes; most were running to one side of the room or another to retrieve something off of a desk or exchange words at rapid fire with someone else. The bullpen was packed with almost twice as many agents as actually worked there. There was undoubtedly another division intermingling with my own.

Suspecting I might be about to suffer many more pushing and impatient hands, I pushed open the door to the unit and held it for Neal to get inside. The noise magnified itself threefold, until I was barely able to make out the words of any but those closest to us. Someone dressed in a US Marshal's uniform snarled to get out of his way as he stormed for the doors. Neal and I shrank back and tried to become invisible and take up less than two square feet of space to avoid the throng.

_Marshals and multiple units? Oh, boy…_

"Why all the craziness?" Neal asked, his hands in his pockets, looking for anyone he recognized in the crowd. I did the same. I saw Derek upstairs on the mezzanine, leading someone whose back was to us towards Hughes' office, and Diana was trying to break away from a hastily-engaged conversation with an auburn-haired female agent I vaguely remembered from violent crimes.

As soon as I recognized that a lot of the agents in here were either specialists in organized or violent crime departments, I noticed Eric Ruiz himself on the phone at an unoccupied desk, using his cell phone over a wire line, sour and short-tempered as usual.

Pretending that I wasn't just shamelessly using Neal as a human shield to keep myself out of Ruiz's line of sight, I inched to the other side of him. Ruiz and I had a bitter history and since I would never back down from a confrontation with that dick, it was better just to avoid permitting one to rise.

"Don't know, but probably nothing good." Underestimating the problem seemed like a good way to go. It meant that I wasn't _wrong,_ at least. Jesus, it had been completely normal yesterday. What had I missed?

Diana freed herself from the redhead (Shaw, I think?) and when she saw me, she jogged over. She was armed and antsy, bursting with energy and ready to go _do_ something, yet cooped up in this office building. "Boss, Hughes wants to see you. Right away."

"Great," I said sarcastically, looking around. Diana pointed helpfully up to the mezzanine. The blinds in front of the conference room were pulled up, leaving the transparent glass as the only barrier. Hughes had rolled a bulletin board inside and was standing at the doorway, lecturing an agent from violent crimes. "Behave," I said to Neal, slapping his shoulder. I almost envied him the chance to stay behind and not face Hughes. In a situation like this, staying out of the calamity was almost always more peaceful.

"So… this what it looked like when I escaped?" Neal asked Diana hopefully, his ego preening at the idea that he had been such a big deal to the bureau that it had reduced an orderly assembly of well-trained adults into this complete kindergarten classroom equipped with guns instead of glitter pens.

"I don't know," she replied promptly, cutting him down without pause. "I was working _important_ cases."

I barely had time to applaud Diana on her wit before Hughes saw me, made eye contact, and pointed two fingers at me, then gestured up to the conference room. That really was a _pronto_ order. I waved at my two friends as if I was being summoned to the gallows and carved a path through the bullpen, sweeping widely to one side of the desk rows to avoid Ruiz and putting my hands out to block overly-eager people from running directly into me.

It was like being in a zoo. This was the downside of working in the bureau. For all of the credentials and qualifications your colleagues can boast, the entire place can turn into a wildlife exhibit with the organization of the Grand Bazaar when the stakes were up and the time was crunched.

Not as many people were on the mezzanine, thankfully, since that part of the division was reserved for higher-ranking agents and supervisors' independent offices. People like myself and Hughes across the units get to have our own workspaces. I knocked on the side of the open door out of habit and leaned in. The poor soul whom had been taking a hurried scolding was nowhere to be seen by the time I got there. "Sir?"

He glanced up and then pointed at me, then pointed at the carpet where he wanted me to be standing. He (and myself, in intention) was at the front of the table in front of the bulletin board. "Anderson, get in here," he barked, like I was being stupid for using my manners. "Your caseload is postponed indefinitely. We need your expertise directed on this one."

Just like Neal had been, I stood up a little prouder. I was very proud of the honor and reputation I had built for myself from my past with violent, blue-collar criminals. Having given everything I had – up to and very nearly including my _life_ – to that career path meant that any time it was referenced favorably, I felt like I had achieved a great goal and was finally being recognized for it. In white-collar, there weren't usually many chances to show off. Instead of standing on a foundation of well-earned respect, I had started out in a new field.

The bulletin had profile pictures tacked to it with the names pinned up underneath them. One was of an Asian man with dark olive skin and black hair, cut close to his head and with sideburns and a shadow of facial hair. His dark eyes scowled at the camera, thick eyebrows furrowed meanly. He looked Chinese. His name was Lao Shen, which rang a very loud and very dangerous bell – no wonder violent and organized crime units were mixing in with white-collar agents if Shen was involved.

The second face was Caucasian, very Western European or American in features and professional, well-groomed, and clean-cut in specifics. Emerald eyes dulled by the quality of the photograph and pink-tinged skin, neatly-combed and somewhat flyaway brown hair… I'd never seen him before, but he seemed charming and happy. He smiled slightly to whoever had taken this picture of him, straight white teeth showing. His shoulders were covered with a suit jacket and the knot of a tie was pushed up to his throat. _SA Mark Costa_ was written on the paper underneath.

"What is it?" I asked, already growing concerned for whatever reason had Agent Costa up on that board with one of the most notorious underground criminals of New York. He came and went freely between America and Asia, had his own posse protecting him on paper, and was very careful never to be caught on any damning piece of evidence.

Hughes pointed out Costa's picture and his hand had moved to cross his arms before he even started speaking. "An undercover blue-collar agent has gone missing."

"Gone missing, as in…?" _As in suspected murdered or kidnapped, or as in went AWOL from his mission?_ Since there was a collection of agents taking over our floor and scrambling the calm atmosphere all to hell, I was going to assume it was the former, which meant time really was of the essence. The first day after an abduction is the most crucial, as a shockingly high percentage of the victims are dead within twenty-four hours. In the case of organized crime and agents whose covers were blown, the statistics were even less favorable, as most perpetrators decided to cut their losses, execute the loose ends, and go to ground.

"He missed his check-in twelve hours ago and hasn't made contact since," Hughes elaborated shortly.

It was weird that we were the only ones in the room. I mean, sure, I was probably the only one aside from Neal who didn't know what was going on, but I could have filled the pieces in for myself while sitting in on a debriefing or strategizing meeting. There didn't seem to be anything about me or my skillset that required the privacy of a conference room, door closed or not.

"Organized Crime isn't handling this because…?" A legitimate question. Why base the operation in the WCCD when the victim belonged to another division?

Hughes sighed as he had to spell everything out, but he just had to get over the fact that I wasn't there at five AM or whenever the alarm had been raised. If he'd wanted me here sooner, he should have called me in with an emergency case. I'd have come running and he knew it, even if I'd had a broken leg. The only thing more important to me than the safety of civilians and agents was my sister. Mortgage fraud could wait until I'd had breakfast, but a missing agent with possibly more to come (as large cases usually sent a handful of undercover operatives) I could starve for.

"Agent Mark Costa was posing as a drug trafficker looking to recover cash through a Chinese money launderer." Right. Made enough sense. Take drugs confiscated from prior busts, sell them as if they're a new batch, and then not only do you get back some of the stolen money, but then the bureau has solid charges of drug trafficking to hold over whoever buys them, whether it's Shen or someone else. "Money laundry is white-collar, Lao Shen is blue-collar. It's a combination. I want you working point."

Any other circumstance and I'd have been slow to believe that anyone else agreed with that assessment, but jurisdictional disputes were put aside once one of our own was in the line of fire. "I'm guessing my exceptional experience with blue-collar crime isn't the only reason?" I guessed, having a hard time separating the urgency settling itself in as adrenaline and wakefulness from the sting of resentment I felt. There were people who had more faith in other up-and-coming stars in the violent crimes section. I was getting to be old news, no matter how hurtful that was – I was only out because of something done to me, not because of my lack of merit, but few people were involved enough to know the full story.

My supervisor wasted no time. "We need somebody who knows what they're doing and who understands money laundering inside and out." I started out impressed with the acknowledgement, but then turned confused, and I'm sure it showed on my face. _Well, sure, I've definitely got plenty of experience with abduction and violent cases, but money laundering isn't exactly my game any more than Defense Against the Dark Arts is Hermione's._ "And someone who can keep the latter on a leash," he finished.

 _A leash. Neal._ My insides started boiling. They wanted to use Neal as a tracker dog and they just wanted me to keep him in control, implying that, if it weren't for his anklet, they would go straight to Neal and bypass me. Because I clearly wasn't useful for anything except telling the convict to heel or sit.

I wish that I could have claimed that I was insulted on Neal's behalf, but the truth was that my anger was almost entirely selfish. _I worked_ to establish myself for exactly this kind of case and now I was being practically ignored. If I didn't have Neal, then despite it being sent into my unit, it would still be presided over by someone else. _That_ was the kind of repayment I got for the blood and pain and indignity that my devotion got me? This was a blue- and white-collar mix; Neal knew white-collar, but he had very limited experience with the former, and I had impressive histories with both. _I_ was the one they should be enlisting for help, not my consultant.

I swallowed several times and tried very hard to remind myself that Costa was of a much greater priority than my hurt feelings and indignant self-esteem, which had just taken yet another hit since being demoted. I didn't want to say anything that I would later regret. Hughes gave me a few seconds, most likely realizing exactly _why_ it was taking me a minute to process and respond. He was one of the few administrators who seemed to actually respect that it wasn't my abilities that had led to my downfall in the ranks, and were the decision entirely up to him, I probably _would've_ been the go-to, but he had to collaborate with everyone else involved.

Hughes and I had an interesting relationship, and a large part of him being willing to put up with my attitude came from knowing firsthand part of what I had to feel every time I came to work. A combination of hypertension and other hereditary health issues that ran in his family had the bureau overly concerned about keeping him on as an agent in high command, so as he reached older years, they had politely yet firmly suggested that he retire with a generous benefits package. Understanding that it was either retire or have someone be sent in over his head, Hughes took the deal better for both reputation and finances. Being shot down for something that was not only out of his control, but that also had nothing to do with his merits as an agent, gave him a perspective that the majority of the bureau didn't share. His own supervisors, especially a younger man in the higher-ups who minded the WCCD, had pulled strings and found a loophole to bring Hughes back in as an administrator instead of a field agent, which elevated him from my current position to the one he now held. It was less risky to have a possibly medically-compromised agent behind a desk than out undercover.

That wasn't to say that he had just sympathized and had the utmost confidence in me from the get-go. Although appraised of the full story, Hughes and I started out somewhat distant, with him reluctant to send me out into higher-pressure or higher-profile cases. The bureau put me in as the highest order of field agent in the division because they thought it made it somehow more bearable. It was more dignified than having to start over as a desk jockey who did all the coffee runs for the big kids, at least. At first, I had let Hughes get away with it. Then, once I had several all-clear checkups from both my physician and my therapist, I demanded leads in better and bigger cases. Through those, I proved my worth to the unit. Hughes and I became better friends and he learned to trust my judgment, even if it wasn't strictly on the same page as other agents with less jaded pasts. This closer relationship put him in a good position to see the struggle I had with depression and self-loathing. He was the first to approve the transfer when Derek requested out of his former unit and into the WCCD, and promptly assigned Derek to work with me. He also happily checked out Diana's records when she was fresh out of the Academy and gave me my first choice of probationary agent. I think both of these allowances were made in hopes that with people I wanted to be near, including the old friend from my previous post, the new job would become more bearable.

Some days, I thought that maybe he had approved of me taking out Neal for the same reason. He thought the distraction, the responsibility for another person, and the challenge of keeping him in line would be enough to keep me in better spirits. So far, he was right. Since getting over the initial rough start, Neal had improved work and made it less of a chore to enter the button for the floor of the white-collar division. I had a friend I got to work closely with, I got an endorphin boost and serotonin rush at least once or twice a week, and I had a colleague who offered brilliant solutions and engaging puzzles.

I took a deep breath and resigned myself. I may have been working point, but I was being asked to do what Hughes had done – take a step out of the field, because evidently the other supervisors would rather trust a professional liar and con artist than a traumatized yet commended agent, and instead work behind the scenes through papers and cameras. I hated being the one left out and forced to work the situation secondhand. If something went wrong, there was very little I could do. I was kicked out of the action.

Every other day, it seems like _no one_ trusts Neal, and now they trust him for the most important mission they've had yet more than they trusted me. Yeah, that seems about like my running luck.

I stepped out of the conference room. Instead of leaping over the rail of the mezzanine and just leaving the building, which seemed more and more appealing by the second, I locked eyes with Neal, gave him the same double-finger-point Hughes had given me, and jerked my head towards the conference room. His big blue eyes widened and he pointed at his chest. I nodded. He grimaced, looking similarly sentenced to the gallows, and Diana slugged his shoulder supportively.

I breathed deep again. It was better to focus on what Neal was going to be doing than on what I wasn't. "You want him to use Halden, don't you?" I guessed in advance, ignoring the butterflies of trepidation. I hadn't quite been ready to take Neal out into the field yet. For the last several weeks, I had kept him on desk duty. It was hard to trust him to go talk to witnesses and victims of frauds and thefts while haunted by the memories of the last time I'd done so and it went so terribly wrong. When it was unavoidable that I go out, I re-paired Neal with Diana or Cruz and took Derek with me.

"It's a believable mark," was all Hughes had to say for the moment, which I took to mean confirmation.

And, speak of the devil, "Nick Halden" himself sauntered in through the door, hands held behind his back. "What's going on?" He asked, keen on finding out the answer to his earlier question about what had everyone acting like they'd each downed several pots of coffee.

I pointed at the bulletin to get him to look at the faces pictured and commit the names and looks to his admirable memory. "Cliff Notes version, an undercover operative working a violent launderer and gambler has gone missing and we've been enlisted."

 _You've been enlisted, more like; I'm just your babysitter._ I looked away from Neal before he saw the bitterness on my face. It took me a few seconds to push it away again.

Hughes took over to give Neal a little more information that I didn't previously know. _Was I ever the intended recipient of this meeting, or did you just call me in first to warn me that I'm being disregarded as incompetent?_ "According to his last contact, Lao was making a pit stop in New York for seventy-two hours. After that, he boards a flight to the homeland and we lose him."

Neal looked over at me inquiringly. "So why are you telling me this?" He directed at Hughes. At least his first assumption was that I would be the one who was actually required to know this.

Hughes' response was in the form of a name. "Nicholas Halden," he replied simply.

The damn conman acted like he'd never heard the name before. If I wasn't as sure of my knowledge as I was, I might have actually considered believing it, but Peter Burke had done very solid work that had only been enforced by later investigations.

"Who?" Neal questioned, cocking his head.

"Your alias," I said shortly, having very little patience, both because of the time sensitivity and because of my simmering negative feelings. Neal looked at me with a picture of bafflement on his face. I resisted the urge to smack him and instead turned to Hughes. "You know what, every minute we waste here going over technicalities of alleged crimes raises the probability that our missing agent becomes a dead agent before we find him. Full immunity for the Canary Island con?"

While I bargained for Neal, I hoped that the exposition Hughes didn't really need had sunken in and reminded him of exactly whose time he was wasting by denying what we already knew to be truth. Halden had been used in a money laundering scheme, which was enough to question Neal's morality without the context, but it came to light from more inquisition that the people who had their money taken away had been targeted specifically because of their own crimes, funneling money from charities whose funds went towards people who really _did_ need it (and other revolting crimes), and Burke had found that, while some of the money did seem to mysteriously disappear after Halden got a hold of it, a large sum went towards charitable organizations. Although being a career criminal definitely took financial resources, I wasn't entirely sure that that particular con hadn't been set up just so Neal could get revenge for the people being wronged by the thieves who were already well-off as it was.

"Done," Hughes decided, waving it off in a second. He pointed at Caffrey's chest. "I don't give a damn what you did five years ago, I want to find my agent."

I really did not think that it was worth being proud of, especially not when surrounded by federal agents, but the sly smile that began to cross Neal's face showed no sign of shame. I guess there was no point in hiding what you've done wrong once you've been granted immunity from the law. _Damn it, he could at least_ _ **act**_ _guilty. Maybe then I'd feel better._

"Then what can Nick do to help?" He asked silkily, taking a seat comfortably into one of the chairs and swiveling it to face me, Hughes, and our bulletin.

I stared back at him flatly and hoped he understood that I wasn't amused.

"I want you to make contact with Lao using this identity." Hughes leaned over the table and set his hands on the edge, looking down over Neal carefully and scrutinizing his sincerity and attitude. "What do you know about Pai Gow?"

Neal's eyebrows rose. "I know it sounds delicious," he commented.

 _Oh, for the love of –_ "Neal!" My voice went up at his facetiousness and I glared angrily. He should really be careful, because Hughes looked ready to reach over and pop him in the jaw. "This isn't a joke!"

Neal rolled his eyes to the ceiling, sighing since neither of us could take a joke. "It's a Chinese version of poker played with dominoes, not cards," he explained in summary, proving that he actually did know what it was. "Not really my game."

Well, it was the only way we knew of to reach Lao, and while most consultants had the option to say no and avoid the danger to their person, Neal's work-release stated that he was to be used in whatever manner the bureau needed, barring a medical condition that prevented him from participating.

"You have twenty-four hours to make it your game," I informed him flatly, still unimpressed with how lightly he was taking the matter. I'd been happily taking shots at his criminal history thirty minutes ago and now I felt like my blood pressure was through the roof and out to the stars. "Shen makes contact with his clientele through rounds played in his underground meetings. The next one is tomorrow night in Chinatown, and without raising suspicion and putting you in more danger, we can't shove you into his circle any sooner." Which, if it were possible, the bureau would absolutely do.

"I'm not going to lie to you. This is a dangerous one, Caffrey," Hughes warned. It wasn't an out, but he was doing Neal the favor of letting him know exactly what he'd been signed up for.

"High stakes…" Neal mused, looking at the photographs of Shen and Costa on the board. He smirked and looked up at my boss. "I'm in," he declared like he had a choice.

That smirk put me on edge. I was wary of letting him go into the field even just to talk about stolen property. If I had the authority, I would pull the plug on this and do it myself – not just because of trust, but because I was not willing to put my informant and friend in such a compromising position. I didn't have that choice, but I sure did have the power to do damage control, and I was going to exercise it if the need arose.

"Let me make something clear. This isn't a _do something stupid and save the day_ scenario." I looked right into his eyes sternly. He had gone out of his way and could have gotten hurt by blocking Ghovat's cell phone signal, which had possibly saved my life, but if he tried something dumb like that here, then if Lao didn't kill him, I might. "This is a _do something stupid and get killed, so we're going to play it safe_ minimal loss scenario."

 _Minimal loss._ I hated that phrase, yet in spite of my personal reaction, it was one of the few rules I always deferred to. It's based on the principle of playing with the foreknowledge that there _will_ be a casualty – not necessarily of human life, but of something we'd like to have secured. In hostage situations, playing "minimal loss" is what incurs the use of snipers to execute the armed teenager or the mentally-ill former veteran, whatever the case may be. The theory is that it's better to take a life and end it there than to risk the loss of several more. Applied here, it meant that we would do everything in our power to rescue the missing agent and any other endangered people, but it was reckless and just plain dumb to sign anyone else's death warrants in the process.

"You take your orders from me, you back down if you get threatened, you forget the operation if it looks like your cover's blown," I summarized intensely, knowing I would revisit it at least two or three more times before I let him go in the next night. If Neal got another righteous hero complex in the middle of Lao's lair, the only thing I could do was pull him out. If he didn't listen…

"I've got it," he calmly assured. For some reason, I wasn't assured. "No stupid decisions, you own me, lots of guns." He finished in distaste. "Can I go now?"

Hughes and I both looked at each other, me with a _see what I have to deal with?_ face of exasperation and he asking silently how I had managed not to kill my CI yet. Neal read our expressions correctly and defended his flippancy.

"If I've only got a day to make this my game, I've gotta get started," he reasoned.

Shaking my head slightly – I couldn't disagree with that – I looked back to him. "Do you know anyone who can help you?" I asked, willing to find someone who would if Neal didn't have anyone in mind. June, with her eccentricities and exciting youth, or Mozzie, with his quirky array of knowledge and know-how, were the first names I thought of, but there was no guarantee that either of them were experts in Chinese gambling.

"No one will help me at June's," Neal said simply, shrugging his shoulders.

It was our code for talking about Mozzie where there were other ears around to hear and then inquire after the paranoid hypochondriac (I had found out that _that_ descriptor applied in a particularly stressful evening). I nodded in understanding. Hughes realized something had passed in the air that he didn't pick up on, but stood up and pushed himself away from the table, ignoring it. If it wasn't said out loud, he had plausible deniability. Finding Costa was the priority, not his agent and her pet criminal talking in preplanned codes.

"Then I'll stay the night and teach you via internet," I promised, going along with the _no one_ part of it. I wasn't going to pretend I knew anything about Pai Gow, but I could teach myself some and pick up some from Mozzie, as well. I wanted to be involved. If Neal had to go into a life-threatening game of dominoes, I was going to be able to understand and follow the game. "Hope you've got a lot of coffee." I was going to need it.

* * *

Neal, Mozzie, and I all sat crammed on the two-person couch in front of the television mounted over the entertainment center in June's penthouse, watching a long movie Mozzie insisted on bringing. For every minute that passed, my hype from a venti Starbucks latte died a little more. It was a dull movie, in my opinion, despite Mozzie's complete thrill. He silently and dramatically quoted the lines with the same zeal I had when I spoke along with the actors on _Sherlock_. The cast was entirely Chinese and the English dialogue didn't match their lips, so I assumed it was safe to say that this was a dubbed version.

Dominoes rolled and the loudness of the speakers woke me up a little more. The sound quality wasn't the best. If the camera hadn't been so steady and the cut takes so well-edited, I might have said it was done from a camera I could have bought at Wal-Mart. It was done in a studio, but I was going to guess that it had been made a long time ago.

"I asked you to teach me the game," Neal interrupted the scene on the television impatiently. "This movie is terrible."

"Wait!" Mozzie hushed him intently, covering his mouth with his hand and bouncing on the edge of his seat. "Sh!"

Neal sighed, but he did so quietly. Mozzie almost couldn't contain his excitement – I wouldn't have been surprised if he spontaneously combusted and left a pile of glitter in his wake – but the artist and I were bored out of our minds, trying and failing to keep our attention on the movie. To Mozzie's credit, it _did_ feature Pai Gow, as the plot, from what I could gather, was centered around a gambling habit escalated and gone bad. It just… wasn't interactive and wasn't particularly interesting to us. Neal was leaning back into the corner of the couch to make room, his arm up over the back of the seats, and I was laying as far as I could with my arms crossed in a sulky pout.

I had wanted to use YouTube, but Mozzie just _had_ to watch the two-hour-plus film. There were still forty-four minutes left, by my count, and they couldn't seem to pass by fast enough. It didn't even teach the viewers how it worked. You either picked up on it from the fast shots, which was nearly impossible, or you went into the movie with a working knowledge of the domino game.

Since it wasn't being useful, I was seriously considering hugging Neal from the side and turning him into my pillow, taking a nap on his chest until Mozzie had satisfied his fanboying needs and was ready to be productive.

Kang Li – or Li Kang, in the Western style – was the antagonistic force: a Chinese gangster with a wealthy reputation who dealt with honest money. Unfortunately for the child of an agricultural family on the border of Lanzhou, with a bad year for crops on top of the already-lacking agricultural production, Li Kang was a dishonest gambler who would then hustle the people who took his money and take back all of theirs, leaving them starving on the streets. If they couldn't pay, as the proud new owner of barren land could attest, then Li Kang made them pay with their lives.

 _"_ _Let's take this… to the next level,"_ proposed the gangster on the screen. I covered my mouth with both hands while I yawned so widely that I felt my mandible pop.

 _"_ _You took it to the next level…"_ the now-orphan returned, narrowing his eyes and chewing on a slim wooden toothpick. They had an annoying habit of putting inappropriate pauses in the middle of their sentences. _"… When you killed my family!"_

_"_ _Your wager, then?"_

_"_ _One hundred grand?"_

_The fuck are you doing, kid? You don't even_ _ **have**_ _a hundred grand._ I glared at the television. _Of course, the best thing to do is put out a huge offer and just hope that, by some miracle, you can hustle the hustler who has been hustling other people out of their money, land, and lives for the last decade._ Even for a fictional kid, this one was pretty dumb.

I was just about to turn to Neal and move over to his chest when I noticed that he'd been looking at me for the last minute or so, his eyebrows pulled in concentration, jaw taut and one cheek sucked in as he chewed on the inside of his mouth. "How did you know about Nick Halden?" He asked plaintively.

"Sh!" Mozzie hushed again, this time more insistently and without looking.

 _"_ _Surely, you can't believe that you, a mere…"_ I tuned out Li Kang's arrogant and rather douchebag-ish behavior.

"That's for the bureau to know," I gloated, tapping the tip of his nose with my finger and smiling as he frowned at me. "Having the leverage on you is what keeps our game fair. Hughes would kick my ass for spilling." Mostly because it meant that he would know what _not_ to do if he tried something like that again. It was still a very clever pull on Burke's part. I stretched my legs. If I tried to sleep on him now, Neal would probably just shove me off. "Moz, do you want cocoa?"

"With gin," he answered instead of shushing me, since I was offering him coffee.

"With sugar, then," I amended to myself, standing up and stepping over Neal's long legs, extended to rest on the coffee table.

Neal took his feet down, negating that work I'd done not to trip over him. "Hey Kenna, did you bring your headphones?" He asked hopefully, pushing himself to the edge of the couch cushion and crossing his arms loosely across his thighs.

I had, actually; I didn't go many places without them. When I started getting overwhelmed, music helped greatly. They were in the overnight bag that I had brought, containing a change of clothes just in case I really did end up sleeping, as well as some other extraneous things I had thought that I might want, including my laptop and phone charger.

"Why-" I started to ask, then connected the dots between my headphones and him wanting to talk about Nick Halden. "Oh, fine. Plausible deniability." I picked up my bag from the side of the couch, got my bulky wireless headphones out from the larger compartment of the backpack, and held down the button on the side with my thumb to turn them on while I put the bag back down. "Don't make me regret getting your immunity," I warned, setting my hand on his head and ruffling his hair up, the strands soft against my skin.

Neal took the remote away from Mozzie, who didn't see the traitorous hand coming until it had already stolen the controls. Growling at Neal, the conman flopped back into the couch as the video paused and the audio shut off. I set my headphones over my ears and picked up my phone from my pocket while I wandered over to the small but well-stocked kitchen area a few yards away from the couch. The living room, kitchen, and dining room were all combined into the same space; there was a carpet over the living room, but the kitchen, dining table, and the door out to the balcony were all tiled.

After I thought it had been long enough to have put on a song selection, I set the phone down face-up on the marble kitchen bar and set to work filling up the coffee pot with filtered tap water to boil. I didn't actually turn on any music. I wanted to listen in. There had been a time when I might have considered the request – and hopefully that time would come again in the near future – but truthfully, my trust was still a little shaken by the theft of the portrait. Neal wanted my unconditional faith, but he was going to have to first prove to me that he was reliable.

"Suit!" Mozzie started calling over the back of the couch. I glanced up to the shiny silver front of the fridge, checking out the reflection. Moz was on his knees on the furniture, arms over the back and watching me. "Hey, Suit!" He persisted. I ignored him, assuming he was testing to be sure I couldn't hear, turning on the percolator.

"What are you doing?" Neal sighed.

"I'm making sure she can't hear us," Mozzie informed like it was obvious. "Suit! The bureau is brainwashing you!" I bit the inside of my cheek to stop from turning around and asking him how he knew _he_ wasn't being brainwashed. _If I set it up right, I could probably send him into an existential crisis…_ Instead, I located and pulled out the cocoa mix. "JFK was an inside job!" I rolled my eyes. Why wasn't I surprised? Oswald was _not_ hired by the CIA to murder the president. Mozzie probably didn't need any more caffeine. Finally, he gave up and sank back down into the sofa like a normal person. "Okay, she can't hear."

Softly, I heard Neal direct a "why?" up towards the powers that be.

"Let's be honest here," Mozzie said, getting straight down to business. I counted out the cocoa packets and then pushed the others back into the high cupboard, standing on my toes to do so. A look at the percolator showed that it wasn't quite done boiling yet. "Nick was _not_ your best work. He's no Steve Tabernacle."

 _Huh._ Burke had suspected, but the bureau had never had confirmation that Tabernacle was actually Caffrey. _Well, we do now…_

Neal chuckled fondly at the reminder of one of his stealthier and less conspicuous aliases. "Steve was a good man," he reminisced nostalgically, having gone well over four years since he had last used that name.

"Steve _is_ a good man," Mozzie encouraged. I turned off the water heater and got three mugs, making a little bit of noise as if I couldn't hear it over my headphones. If Neal ever took up the name Steve Tabernacle and started making trouble with it, I would certainly know who was to blame for the confidence. "Besides, you should be more concerned with what the guy with the ring wants."

I knocked a mug over with my shock. Thankfully, there wasn't anything in it, and it just rolled onto its side. I stopped it before it went off the edge of the counter. I added a punctuated swear like it had been an accident and then just continued to make the drinks.

 _They know about the picture?_ My mind raced and I started to make the drinks on autopilot, ripping the packages open and pouring in the powdery chocolate. It shouldn't have surprised me that they'd had the whole photograph. Not after Neal had showed me a cropped version, back when we were chasing after Hagen, and not when Neal shared everything with Mozzie. _But… why wouldn't he share the part with the ring with me, too?_

I turned back to the conversation. That was a question I'd ponder later. "I don't know," Neal thoughtfully murmured, making me strain to tell what he was saying from all the way over in the kitchen. "I've stolen a lot of stuff in my lifetime."

"Maybe… Poe's Tamerlane book?" Mozzie suggested. If I remembered from English classes right, then that was a rare-edition collection published by Edgar Allan Poe under a different name that had only had fifty copies printed. That would certainly make it valuable.

"Nope, sold that a while back," Neal nixed and pulled his legs up onto the couch, looking towards the TV but staring past it. "The Tamayo painting?"

I could have had a heart attack. I wished I was recording this – blackmail, insurance, confirmation and confession – but I was simultaneously glad that I wasn't, because then I would've been ethically obligated to turn it in, and I really didn't want to get either of them in trouble. I hadn't even known Neal had ever had those.

"Not worth all this," Mozzie dismissed.

"Hmm… Washington's love letters?"

Mozzie hesitated before he answered, and when he did, it was with a slow whine. "Seriously, I… I don't even know why you stole that in the first place," he groused. I grinned at the drinks and pulled out the silverware drawer, took three spoons, and dropped one in each of the mugs. Then I took the sugar canister and shook some out into two of the three cups, retrieved the low-fat cream from the fridge, and poured some into Neal's. I set that one aside so I'd know the difference.

I picked up the mug with the cream and one of the ones with sugar, carried them over to the couch, and handed Neal's to him. He cupped it with both hands. I set down Mozzie's on the coffee table and pushed it further along and closer to him. Neal took his legs off of the couch and sat up to kiss my cheek gratefully while I was bent over. I smiled at the brush of warm lips on my face and when I stood up, I touched his head again. Instead of mussing up his hair any further, I just rested my hand on top and held it there for a second. I wasn't completely over the portrait, but I was getting there.

He leaned his head back, baring his long and pale throat, and smiled at me. I held out a thumbs-up questioningly. He nodded. I took my headphones off, playfully set them on Neal's head, and left to go get my own drink while he laughed and pushed them down around his neck.

Mozzie made a gagging sound as Neal and I played nice with each other, and he took advantage of Neal being distracted to retake the television remote. He aimed it at the TV and restarted the movie while I walked back over. Neal kept his feet down until I was in between the two men again, then kicked his legs up on the table. I put my drink in front of me and settled in between the two, draping my arms over the couch instead of being squished to my sides. I let my right arm fall around Neal's shoulders, but didn't do the same to Mozzie. That was just a little too friendly for the two of us – we still spent at least half of our time together arguing.

A few minutes in, and both players of the game had agreed upon the bet of a hundred grand (which the kid _still_ didn't have), toasted with some amber drink, and started to play the game. Dominoes were rattled. The cameras were so focused on the players that it didn't show much of Pai Gow itself, which was just annoying. _I don't think Mozzie fully grasps the goal of the night._

Back to being slowly driven to complete insanity, I chanced a look at Neal. The conman was trying admirably to focus on the movie. I was content to just admire _him_ – large, gentle hands wrapped around the cocoa mug, soft and plush lips slightly parted for his tongue as he tried to concentrate, his hair less than perfect – ruffled and loose, curling down over the tops of his ears and brushing his forehead. He was always handsome with so much time put into his appearance, but he was equally sexy, if not more so, when he lacked all of that carefully-built composure; he seemed open, more honest somehow, more approachable, more human, and the messy curls called to be hand-combed. That wasn't even considering my headphones. I wasn't so kinky (as far as I knew; that didn't necessarily discount anything) as to want my lover in a collar, but seeing something of mine around his neck made me feel possessive and affectionate – kind of like how I felt proud and fond when Katie wore something I bought her, except in a different _way._ I had never particularly felt the desire to stroke her neck or kiss her.

 _No, do not touch and kiss the conman,_ I scolded myself before I got carried away, blushing a little bit and turning back to the television. I wasn't embarrassed to have been obviously adoring him – _obviously_ I found him attractive, I was sleeping with him on a regular basis – as much as I was embarrassed that I had been doing so out of an interest that didn't seem to have anything to do with sex and yet wasn't completely platonic.

 _"_ _Too rich for your blood, Li Kang?"_ The kid on the television was taunting, taking the toothpick out of his mouth.

Li Kang cackled. Mozzie shook with excitement. Neal and I both turned our heads to watch while Mozzie mouthed enthusiastically, _"I believe it is your blood that will make me rich, farmer boy!"_ And then silently threw his head back, laughing in exaggeration with the actor on the screen.

I scooted a little closer to Neal.

At last, they finally showed a prolonged visual of the dominoes. A small pile had been arranged by the third party which supervised and instructed the game, as well as provided the drinks to toast to. Neal sat up. "Okay, what are they doing right now?"

"Oh, they're drawing from the wood pile." Mozzie's voice suggested it was self-evident. Both of us looked at him, a little irritated. "With these tiles, they make two hands – oh, oh, wait! Wait! Sh, sh!"

"You're the only one talking!" I objected.

Li Kang set down his dominoes, taking care to lay them in such a way that the dots on the pieces were fit together in a specific way, and then covered them with his hands. The adolescent turned over one of his dominoes that he had taken from the collection pile. There was a Chinese symbol carved into it instead of a number of dots. There was a collection of gasps from every actor involved. The orphan reared back in his chair, eyes wide and jaw dropping in fear.

"He just played the death tile," Mozzie narrated with a huge grin.

 _"_ _Death tile?!"_ Neal and I all but shrieked in synchrony, both of us staring at Mozzie with wide eyes.

When we both yelled, Mozzie remembered the context and stopped looking so completely thrilled with the drawing of a tile that essentially spelled out execution. He faltered and cowered back into the corner of the sofa. "Well… the movie takes a few liberties," he excused.

Neal sighed loudly and threw his head back, relieved that this wasn't an actual thing. "Then why are we watching it?!"

"It's a cult classic!" Mozzie claimed defensively.

 _"_ _Perhaps… Or perhaps, too bad for you!"_ Li Kang was delighted. I shook my head, feeling a little pale and panicked from the scare, and took the remote back from Mozzie quickly, pausing the movie and handing the remote to Neal, who planted it on the other side of his leg where his friend couldn't snatch it back.

"Okay, fine," Moz relented, putting his hands up as both of us leveled strong glowers at him. We wanted Neal to get out safely without coming to any harm, not having an unclear idea of how to play that was only based off of a fifty-percent-accurate movie. "What do you have to do?"

I could feel my heart calming down and leaned back into the couch, ponytail trapped between my head and the cushion. My chest heaved as I breathed deeply. Neal looked around me to Mozzie and continued the conversation while I reminded myself that Mozzie wasn't used to being serious all the time and probably didn't realize exactly how terrified I was for Neal's sake.

"Fold above the bank. If I get a better hand than the dealer and then throw it away, Lao knows I'm a prospect."

Mozzie went for the box of playing dominoes on the table. Neal and I both waited. I felt like I'd regained my normal cardiac rhythm and leaned forwards to take my hot cocoa, which had by now cooled down enough for me to drink without burning myself. Neal and I mimicked each other's postures, cuddling our drinks close to our stomachs while we watched our friend take out several dominoes, being picky about which tiles he chose.

"Well, ideally, you want something like this." Mozzie moved his hands back. Like the boys in the movie, he had turned the tiles in very intentional directions so that certain numbers of dots were grouped in particular patterns. "These are some of the best tiles you can get. You trash a hand like this, and you're in. It's like folding pocket aces."

Neal scanned those tiles. I felt like I was still missing things – like the objective of the game and what each tile was worth, how to organize them, et cetera. Neal may not have claimed to know the game well, but clearly he had more advance knowledge than I did. He set down his cocoa and rubbed his hands together. "Alright. Then let's practice."

Mozzie squinted. "All you have to do is lose. You want to practice losing?"

"It's not just losing," I protested. "It's throwing the game." An idiot could lose. Losing wasn't hard. What made it significant was actively choosing not to win. "He has to win it first to throw it effectively."

A quick knock on the door made Mozzie's cynicism lift as we all turned to look at the door. June, Neal's hospitable and lovely hostess, leaned inside after opening the door to the suite. I suppose she had knocked and we hadn't heard over Neal and I shouting at Mozzie. She was carrying a food platter, still dressed in her getup for the day, a skirt and long blouse, shimmering brown shawl around her shoulders and keeping her neck warm.

"I thought perhaps you gentlemen and Agent Anderson might like something to eat," she offered kindly, letting herself inside and carrying the tray of what turned out to be sandwiches to the coffee table. Mozzie pulled his dominoes all the way to the edge to make room.

June had always been a bit of a puzzle to me, but I partly owed her the easy relationship I had with Neal. She had been one of the two people it had taken to remind me that Neal wasn't like the criminals I normally dealt with; Neal was kind and sweet, and while he could be the exact opposite at times, he had already paid for those exploits, and my job was to be his coworker, not his judge and jury. Sometimes I thought she housed Neal because she was truly a nice woman who missed her kids, whom had moved out, and sympathized with him since her husband had been a conman, as well. Other times I thought she was lonely. She was always up for game nights and movies, frequently utilizing her tenant to keep company.

True to the stereotype that men had black holes in place of their stomachs, Neal and Mozzie both perked up. Mozzie immediately grabbed at one of the sandwiches, which seemed to be divided between peanut butter and jelly, turkey and Swiss cheese, and ham and cheddar. "Thanks, June," they both chorused together.

I picked up one of the ham and cheddar cheese sandwiches, wondering absently if June had taken all the time to make so many (several of each kind) or if she'd had one of her house helpers do it with or for her. It didn't really matter, it just seemed kind of sad if she had done it herself. I came into her house pretty often, had sex in her house, for God's sake, and yet I barely spent much time with her. It seemed like I should make more of a point to include her sometimes. I was over with Neal plenty, although admittedly less since he stole the Haustenberg, and we weren't always getting down and dirty.

I mean, getting fucked is nice and all, but it can't truly compare to calling each other names during Mario Kart.

"Thank you, really," I said sincerely, smiling at her earnestly.

She smiled at me kindly, then turned her attention to the television and saw the frozen frame on the gasping audience that had collected around the anxious farmer. "What're you watching?" The landlady queried.

 _"_ _Tiles of Fire!"_ Mozzie excitedly answered, delighted that someone in the last hour had shown genuine interest.

To my absolute horror, June's face lit up. "Part one?" She asked eagerly.

Mozzie bobbed his head quickly. He was quite taken with June, I noticed – probably took to her very quickly, as not only was she putting up his friend, but she seemed to have no issue with his general strangeness, and she had no known affiliation with the federal government. She was certainly an interesting woman.

"Part two's up next!" He announced gladly, while Neal and I both stopped. I almost choked on my sandwich. Neal looked sadly at his as though he'd lost his appetite.

"Ah-ha!" Neither of us could bring ourselves to voice our disapproval of this idea when June was so lively at the prospect. She waved her finger at Mozzie and scolded, "Don't start without me!" Hurrying behind the couch towards the door, she went in haste to go do something to prepare for a movie marathon – maybe put on pajamas or get more snacks.

I swallowed my sandwich, which tasted dry now that I could feel the beginnings of a nightmare stirring to life in my reality, and I asked Mozzie in dread, "There's a _sequel?"_

"Five!" He corrected. He held himself up happily and chowed down on his sandwich, not seeing a problem.

Neal and I met each other's eyes and shared looks of painful misery. Now I regretted my modesty. If it weren't for trying to preserve the allusion that Neal and I had a strictly platonic affair, and generally having too much respect for June to bang her tenant in what was technically one of her bedrooms, I would just pull him into his room and have my way with him for the next _long, long_ hours.

It would certainly be less painful than the four upcoming movies.

* * *

I didn't have to call either of my agents before I was accosted with a one-armed hug from Diana and the smack of a coffee mug against the desk from Derek. They must've seen me come in – either that, or they happened to come see if I was in yet and saw through the window when I slammed my head on my keyboard because I was so tired I started to fall asleep.

I just breathed it in and I recognized the brew. "Thanks for the coffee," I said on automatic, reaching to wrap my hands around the piping hot mug. If they tried to take it away from me, there would be blood.

"You looked about to fall over," Derek chuckled. My face went as red as my hands were turning from the heat. _Yeah. They_ _ **definitely**_ _saw the keyboard thing._

"Up almost all night," I admitted. I didn't feel meek about it, since I'd been working all night on a deadline, but I still had that residual sense of nervousness that I'd be smacked for neglecting myself. "The good news is that Neal is now as good at Pai Gow as he's going to get… in a day." Part of me still thought it was stupid to send him after only a day of training, but we didn't have any forewarning. What were we going to do, sit on our asses until the next opportunity? I trusted Neal to do this more than I trusted some other agent with no idea what the game was. It was his opponents that I wasn't trusting. "The news that depends on your perspective is that Lao's people took the bait. Nicholas is on the list for his game tonight. It takes place on Mott Street, so we're setting up just around the corner, only a few dozen yards away."

It was supposed to be good news. We got an in; we got what the bureau wanted. I wasn't so sure it was a good thing, because it was a reason to send my consultant in undercover with an aggressive man who we knew was violent and very dangerous. I wasn't super psyched about it. I let Diana threaten to break his bones and I laugh about it because I am reasonably sure she wouldn't _actually_ break him. I don't have that comfort with Lao; I'm reasonably sure that he _would_ , and he'd do a lot worse than break a few bones.

"… At the Mai Shilin restaurant," Diana told Derek, her hand landing on my upper back. I jumped slightly and thought maybe I should stand up and drink my damn coffee. I guess she'd been waiting for me to say it, but then did it herself when it took me too long.

Derek smiled and rubbed a circle over his stomach. "Ooh, I've been there." He licked his lips. "Good dumplings." This wasn't like an underground club – Mai Shilin was a small restaurant in Chinatown, open to the public, with a very pleasant atmosphere and very kind staff.

Unfortunately for Derek's stomach, we weren't going for the benefit of his appetite. "And an even better home base," I reminded him, shaking off my worries. Being nervous about it wasn't going to change it; it would just make me less confident, which wasn't something I could really afford. I needed to be able to make decisions and give instructions fast. "The family that owns the restaurant are trusted C.I.s for the bureau, and have been for almost three years. They've dealt with Lao in the past. He pushes them around to get his place in the city, and that's why they've turned for us.

"We're monitoring Neal from the second floor." It was too far away, in my opinion, but any closer and we might be caught out. Gravely, I looked between Derek and Diana. "There's already one missing agent here, and I am sending in an unarmed CI _under protest,"_ I emphasized. This wasn't a kid's game. They knew that, but Diana was still fairly new and Derek sometimes put himself in danger to protect others. He couldn't do that without express permission. We had to rely on each other to stop ourselves from making stupid choices. "I don't want any other risks, understand?"

* * *

This family was a small one, and one of its members was far too young to be a source of any information for the bureau - aside from maybe which toys broke the fastest. Mike Twan's wife had died several years ago and left him behind to run the restaurant and look after their daughter, who was now four years old. The Mai Shilin restaurant had been started when they moved here in the nineties, at first working as their own chefs and waiting staff. Then, once it became a successful location, they bought the apartment on the second floor so they owned the whole building. It made it easier to commute to work and blend both professional and personal needs. Now, Twan worked in his restaurant, but he also had employees that did a lot while he singly raised his child.

"The FBI cannot aptly express our professional gratitude for your assistance and hospitality." Although I meant what I said – he really could have disagreed, not wanting Shen to threaten himself or his daughter as a response to helping the bureau – my words lacked originality. They were something I'd said to dozens of people dozens of times before, and I might as well have been reading them off of a cue card. Some recording equipment was already in the apartment, but there was more where that came from, and with Derek and Diana in the van retrieving all of their equipment to discreetly carry up, that left Neal and I to make contact and establish a base room.

Needless to say, I was the one doing the talking.

Twan may have understood why I was doing said talking, but he didn't really want to hear it. "I just want Lao out of the neighborhood," he complained with good reason. "He's been taking from my business for years. And with my own debt piling up, I can hardly afford to be in his." He pushed open the door to the apartment and toed off the heels of his shoes, kicking them to the inside of the doorway. The soles never touched the carpet, instead landing on a shoe mat. I pursed my lips, already seeing a potential issue for me.

"I understand," I said with a sad sigh. It was hard not to understand. He wasn't the only one suffering from Shen. If everyone banded together and took it to court, they would probably be able to win. The problem was, Shen wouldn't ever give them the opportunity, and if he couldn't stop them in person, then he would ensure that someone they loved was either harmed in revenge or threatened for leverage. There was a reason I wasn't too pleased about sending Neal undercover. If he thought that Neal had anything to do with us, he would try to have him executed. I just made sure to keep those thoughts to myself around Mozzie, who didn't need any more reason to be paranoid.

That thing with the death tile was still freaking me out a bit. He was supposed to be helpful, but this was a low for him.

Neal stepped over the foyer when I held my hands out in invitation for him to go in first. Behind his back, I looked down the hallway from the stairs. Having someone spying on us didn't seem very farfetched. My CI slipped his shoes off neatly, using his hands so he didn't get marks on the heels, and set them neatly down next to Twan's pair of tennis shoes. Meanwhile, Twan looked around his side to me, biting his lip and rethinking his tone.

"Look, I too am grateful for your help," he assured, backtracking to make sure that he wasn't coming across as rude. There was no need, but I appreciated that he bothered to mend an unbroken bridge. I used to be surprised by how many people just didn't really care how we felt about our treatment, feeling that they were entitled to be brats as long as they cooperated. "I want my daughter to be safe, which she cannot be with Lao investing himself in my restaurant."

I nodded, fully understanding and trying to stall before I had to take my shoes off. I was hoping that Neal would venture further into the apartment and waste no time in making himself at home, like he does in my house. Instead of doing as I was trying to telepathically tell him to do and walking away, Neal turned around and rocked forward, casting his eyes down to my loafers and then back up at me in a message.

I grit my teeth for ridicule, stared at the opposite wall while ignoring the gleam of anticipation that made his face light up, and pushed off my black loafers, kicking them lightly to the side with my left foot, leaving me standing on the mat in white socks with multicolored _Doctor Who_ icons on them. The door served as a momentary distraction while I pulled it shut, but eventually I had to face the men. Twan had already escaped the living room and gone through a doorway into another part of the apartment, which was sparsely furnished but looked very simple and comfortable. Neal had a smug smirk on his lips as he stared at my socks.

"Are those standard FBI issue?" He teased, snickering while I glowered at him, imagining how it would feel to hug him around the neck with my hands for a few minutes.

"They're standard badass issue," I retorted with fire. Sure, I knew how lame it sounded out loud, but it seemed like a better comeback in my head. It's not like it was wrong, either. I refused to believe that there was anything wrong with my socks.

"Are those pepper pots?" He continued to press, trying hard not to smile at me in glee while I tried very hard not to "accidentally" kick him in the shin.

I huffed and crossed my arms, flexing my toes in my socks. "Excuse you," I corrected haughtily. He had no right to be insulting me about my apparel when he had no idea what the significance of it was, did he? Wasn't that a good reason not to be bothered? "They're called _Daleks,"_ I educated stiffly, holding my head high as I mentally repeated to myself that it is okay for me to wear Dalek socks to work. If Neal is mature enough to handle my wardrobe at a minimum, he can deal with some _Doctor Who_ socks. And if he couldn't, then all he had to do was stop looking at my feet.

Twan came back into the room. His shadow on the carpet was followed by a half-size blob of arms and legs and the whipping end of a bobbing ponytail. Although he carried in a couple of collapsible plastic chairs from the kitchen to set around the coffee table, sofa moved against the wall, his daughter stopped short before she crossed the doorway, placing small, chubby fingers on the edge of the frame and peeking her head around the side to look in and see what was going on. Ebony hair brushed back into a ponytail and big, curious brown eyes were the first things I noticed before she saw me looking at her and shyly jumped back out of sight.

"We tried to make room…" The owner nervously set up the chairs by propping them down on their legs, then pushing so that the higher set was forced to extend.

"This is perfect," I assured him. There was a reason we'd chosen this place. There were no windows in the living room, which meant that we could operate in relative safety and privacy. We didn't need much space, and although some equipment would probably have to be on the floor, it wasn't the end of the world if our laptops, recording equipment, and transmitting sound technology didn't all fit onto a medium-sized coffee table. "Don't worry."

A little pink kid ran into the room without warning. I pushed my hands into my pockets, wiggling my toes in my socks again self-consciously. She bolted to the coffee table, picked up a small piece of the equipment that had been resting on top of a carrying case, and clenched it in a small fist as she lowered it down. Neither Neal nor I were worthy of being looked directly at in favor of staring in intrigue at the little clip-on microphone.

Twan laughed. "Apologies." He lowered a hand to his kid's head and forced his fingers through the strands of her pulled-back hair. She didn't react, too intent on the gadget she held. "This is my daughter, Bai."

At her name, Bai looked up at me. She then looked at Neal and her eyes got twice as wide, and she looked down very quickly again. Her lips parted and her jaw moved, but whatever she said was in a very soft murmur. I could barely hear the sound of her voice, let along tell the individual words apart. If she were several years older, I'd have thought she'd gotten an instant crush on my consultant. As it was, I think she was a little too young to register appearances in that way, and took a guess that it was the clothing he wore that made him look like a very expensive and very intimidating man, especially since Shen also dressed in the luxurious styles.

Her trepidation was cute. It actually made me feel guilty for coming into her house without talking to her myself first, even though her father probably had. I bent at the waist to lean over and talk to her. "Ni hao," I greeted friendlily with a smile, recalling what I could from a trip to China and the language book I kept in my room. I had an entire shelf dedicated to world languages, having wanted to be a linguist at one point. "Wo de mingzi shi McKenna. Wo keyi qing you?"

I held a hand out to below her eye-level and let my fingers curl in slightly, trying my hardest not to seem frightening or demanding at all. Spooking her was not my intention. Crestfallen, the girl said a very quiet "zai jian" to her most recent – and shortest-lasting – toy and placed it in my palm, averting her eyes as her pouting lip began to wobble.

 _Oh, God, no, I was very careful to prevent this from happening!_ Alarmed, I looked up at Neal for help. Instead of seeming amused by my issues, he wore a face of concern and compassion.

"Do you have a business card?" He asked, holding out a hand in my direction while he stepped forward. I was prioritizing the lack of tears over knowing whatever it was Neal intended to do with a piece of cardstock, so I handed over a card from my back pocket without overthinking the request. Swiftly, the conman dropped down onto one knee in front of her and held the card between two fingers, sticking up away from his palm. "Hey, hey, it's okay," he cooed. "It's okay." Bai looked at him with watery eyes and he smiled supportively. "Ready? Watch this." He started flicking his wrist, moving his hand up and down. "Ready? One, two, three!" On the last flick, he turned over his hand so that his palm was facing up and spread his fingers. The card was nowhere in sight. Logically I knew he'd slipped it up his sleeve, but it was still impressive. Judging by the sheer _awe_ on the miniature Twan's face, Neal was practically Houdini to her.

"Where'd it go?" He asked, turning his hand over so she could see. "Where'd it go?" He sounded ready to laugh with her. She started giggling and he moved forward to touch his hand to her shoulder softly before he stood up from the carpet and turned to me. I should've have been surprised by the way he looked like he could light up the room. His eyes had a sparkle that came from mischief and being the center of attention, and his smile was both honest and sneaky, enjoying being able to trick his audience (albeit that she was only four). Neal really was a showman – as if I'd ever doubted it. "Wait a second – is it right here?" He looked down at Bai to see that she was watching as he reached for the back of my collar. He raised his elbow just enough for his forearm to be pointing down. The card slipped out from his sleeve and into his hand while covered from her view by my shoulder, and made a big deal out of finding it again from my jacket. "It's right there!"

Twan politely clapped for Neal, who thrived under the excited laughter from the girl. He took a short bow, swiping his hat off of his head and holding it to his abdomen as he ducked down low.

He flicked his hand out again, giving over the business card to the enchanted four-year-old. "There you go," he offered kindly.

She grabbed it out of his hand with both of hers, holding onto both vertical edges in barely-contained zeal. "Xiexie ni!" She enthusiastically exclaimed. Neal looked at me as he straightened and he smiled, nodding towards the kid to show exactly what he was happy about. The not-so-quiet-anymore little girl zoomed out of the room, clutching the prize.

The event left me chuckling. It was like watching a magic performance for free, and seeing one of the best sides of Neal. I see a lot of him, but most of the time it's either to do with crime or to do with a darkened room, which means that anything that happens in said room is left there. Souvenirs are checked at the door on the way out; we don't talk about it after it's over, and that's okay, it works for us, but it's still nice to see that it's not just me that Neal can be nice to, he's not just considerate when he wants something, he's not just charming and playful when he's trying to get his way. He proved that just now, and while it only reinforced the trust I had in him to allow him to try pulling this scheme, it also emphasized my doubts and my worries about things that could go wrong.

"Every time I see you do that, I feel like I should check for my-"

I was halfway through my sentence and patting at my pockets when Neal smirked, allowing the barest flash of teeth to show as he held up my wallet, which he must have lifted with his other hand while I was paying more attention to his card tricks. Twan chortled as he followed after his daughter. I reached to Neal and snatched away my billfold, feeling a lot less endeared to him than I had twenty seconds ago.

"You know what, let's just get you suited," I decided, short and brisk. "Stop lifting my wallet whenever you're bored!" I waved it at him to prove the point. He just lifted his shoulders and caught his thumbs in the insides of his front pockets, acting innocent like he had no idea what was wrong. I shoved my wallet away, into my back pocket so I was more likely to feel it being pickpocketed, and pointed aggressively towards the front door with every intention of making him help Derek and Diana carry in punishment.

* * *

A little while later, I felt a little bit less vindictive after listening to Neal complain about exactly how much equipment we needed and why we couldn't have just brought it in the van. _Poor baby._ I pulled him into the next room after I looked at the time on my phone and started to pull at his tie, smoothing it down straight over his chest and adjusting the tie pin so it was fixed evenly. I guess one of the luggage trips had knocked it out of place.

"The game is set to start in ten minutes, to we need you out of here quickly." I tugged at his lapels and then flattened his collar. He kept his hands at his sides and looked down at me amusedly. I scowled and stepped away. "You've seen the blueprints, right?"

He nodded and waved me off, pushing my hands away from his person. "There's camera surveillance, electronic pass codes – it's all standard stuff."

Sometimes it was like he lived on another planet. Those didn't sound like minor inconveniences to me. Was there any heist or con that would actually give him pause? Was he legitimately comfortable with the plan, or was it just another example of how good he was at lying and pretending to be cool when he actually felt something else? And I suppose the most concerning question was… if there _was_ ever a job he didn't feel comfortable doing… would the deal, or his pride as a con artist, prevent him from _telling_ me that he didn't feel safe? He has a deal, but that deal doesn't say _risk your life on pointless missions._

"Do you have any questions… concerns?" I asked, intentionally pressing to see. We were alone in the room. He would talk to me honestly, right? Especially if he was afraid. If he was scared, then he had a damn good reason to be.

"Just one." The relief I felt at being proved right was extremely temporary. He started smirking again and looked down at my feet. " _Where_ did you buy those socks, because Christmas is-"

"Leave my Daleks alone!" I laughed, pushing against his chest and sending him stumbling backwards. He chuckled and pulled at his jacket while I rubbed the back of my calves with my Dalek armies.

He pushed his right hand into his pocket and kept his left hand's palm flat over his thigh. "There is one small problem," he said more seriously.

I glanced down to his hand. "Mm?"

He wrapped his fingers into the material of his trousers and pulled up to reveal his tracker where it blinked along his ankle. I pursed my lips and slowly nodded, having expected it to come up sooner or later. Neal didn't whine about his anklet as much as I had first thought he would, but I never let myself think that he had forgotten about it, either.

Hughes certainly hadn't. He'd given me a toy in preparation for this, and I presented it to Neal with a 'da-da-da!,' draping it over the back of my wrist the way it was meant to be worn.

"It's a really nice fake," Neal observed, looking over the golden wristwatch, reaching out for it before I even made a move to hand it over. _A shiny watch; shouldn't be surprised he went straight for the accessory._

I let him take it from me and turn it over in his hands. He rubbed the pad of his thumb over the back of the watch, which was solid gold with the line of a compartment with a tiny little painted screw to keep it closed. "Unlike your concerns," I embellished with a roll of my eyes, "Mine lay with your safety. This has its own tracker under the watch face. Your anklet was deactivated a few minutes ago."

Similar to the way I'd gotten the watch, I produced a pair of thick kitchen scissors from my pants pocket, slipping my fingers through the holes and snapping the blades open and shut, open and shut, listening to the noise they made as they sliced the air and slid together.

Neal's eyes sparkled. "Be gentle," he joked, pulling the cuff of his pants up further while I dropped down to a kneel in front of him.

"You're no fun, pretty boy," I teased in return, sliding one of the blades underneath the cuff of the anklet, next to his skin, and closed the blades. The anklet's strap wasn't very thick, and it didn't put up a fight when faced with scissor blades, but the important part was the wires that I ended up cutting through. It was sturdy enough to survive most hardships that Neal might face in any given situation, short of some freak accident that brought a blade over his ankle, and that was what counted.

The anklet pooled over his shoe and I set the scissors down, gently touching the bared skin on his leg and rubbing over the slightly paler stripe. He sighed softly. I thought it was hilarious when Kate's clothes left tan lines on her, but the context was so much different here…

After a few seconds, I remembered that we weren't that secluded and I blushed, grabbing the anklet and the scissors and standing up. I avoided Neal's eyes and set the scissors and anklet onto the nearest table. While I'd been touching him, I'd been half-expecting a soft hand threaded through my hair. What a bad time to start getting sentimental.

Because that's what it was, right? Sentimentality for intimacy? I liked the guy well enough, but I didn't exactly crave affection or anything, and I didn't need more intimacy to be comforted. I'd have been upset if Diana were going into this operation, too!

Clearing my throat, I took the watch back from Neal, figured out which way to turn the watch, and wrapped the leather black band around his wrist. I didn't want to pinch him, so I was careful not to tighten it further than it needed to be, but I definitely caught myself before I started doing something stupid. He took his hand back abruptly.

"We can't speak to you unless we call your phone, but you can say anything to us just by talking." I indicated the watch. "We're going to avoid calling or texting unless absolutely necessary, and I'm getting you out of there at the first sign of something going bad," I vowed. Personal discomfort aside, I still had a duty of protection to uphold.

"Fine," he agreed, smiling slightly in mischief and lifting his head up a little higher. "As long as I don't draw the death tile."

It wasn't funny when Mozzie did it and it wasn't funny when he did it, either. Scowling, I smacked his shoulder. He just rubbed over the hit and laughed brightly at the disapproving expression on my face.

* * *

Those minutes while we were waiting for Neal to get to the location were some of the most anxious minutes I'd had since waiting for him to confess that he had stolen the painting. It was a real pain to have to be waiting on the bench while he went out to play. We had to listen to muffled and distant sounds on the street through the transmitter in the watch.

After a few moments of walking on the streets, the overall background noise quieted down. I took that to mean that he had entered the building. His breathing was too quiet to pick up on, but when Derek turned up the volume so we wouldn't miss anything, his footsteps were easier to hear.

A short time after that, Neal came to something else. He said a muttered "good evening" to someone who didn't talk back. Something clinked loudly really close to the watch. A few seconds later, there was the sound of a metal detector being scanned – someone waving one of the portable sticks over Neal's body, I guessed, and a grunt confirmed that he was clean. Neal thanked the person – a man, going by the voice – and seconds later was on his way.

 _"_ _Halden's golden,"_ Neal murmured to his watch once in the clear from prying eyes or ears, just to let us know that he was there and he was safe.

My shoulders sagged. "He's through," I reported needlessly to Diana and Derek, both of whom had heard exactly the same thing that I had. He was only through the first, and possibly easiest, step of the mission, but hopefully it was a good sign that it had gone off without a hitch. He was that much closer to safely coming back to me.

With both of my fellow agents still listening in to Neal, I took off my headset and leaned back, stretching my legs under the table. This really was the worst kind of work day I could have. I'd gladly take a day of desk duty over this. I hated being exactly where I couldn't do anything. At least in the office, I could wander over and check up on Neal any time I pleased.

Speaking of wandering… my thought process made me realize just how antsy I really was, and how much I wanted to move around. I was never good at sitting still for long periods of time. I gave my headset to Diana, who took it and then placed it on the table in front of me, while I pushed my chair out and got to my feet, climbing up and stretching my arms first behind my back, then over my head.

The little girl was nowhere to be seen, and I assumed that Twan was locked either in his bedroom or the study. I walked around and explored the two connected rooms, barren from furniture but somehow having a very familial feel about them, even with their sparse décor. From the calm, dull green to the lighter-colored carpeting afoot, the entire apartment seem to emanate welcoming vibes. Except – _what was that?_ There was a darker spot on the wall furthest away from the front door.

I traipsed across the floor to go check it out. There didn't seem to be anything special about that particular piece of wall, except for that there was a hole in it, less than an inch in diameter, but with cracking plaster around it. I bent down to look at it at eye level – it was maybe four feet off the floor – and looked inside. It was too dark to see anything. Scraping my thumb over the edge, I wondered what could have made it.

The homeowner came up in my periphery from the hallway separating our sting operation from he and his daughter. He padded closer to see what I was looking at, changed into long sleeping pants and a grey wife beater. Unlike Neal's, which fit snugly to his chest, Twan's were looser and longer past his hips.

I didn't even have to look up from the hole in the wall that I was observing. "What happened?" I asked, quiet, both so I didn't disturb the girl in the chance she was sleeping and so that Derek and Diana weren't distracted. I couldn't keep my break for very long, but it wouldn't hurt to just alleviate my nervousness by talking for a moment.

Twan glanced at the hole in the wall and then stared, his eyes fixing on it coldly. "Lao," he spat, complete hatred forced into just the name.

My hand stilled. Feeling now like I was intruding upon a bad memory, I took my hand away. I didn't want to touch something associated with that man. I didn't want to be associated with something that resulted in the damage to his home.

"He came into your home?" I clarified, agitation thrumming under the notes of my voice. Just when I thought something I learned about this man couldn't make him any more detestable, I uncovered some other nasty surprise. Shaking down this single father wasn't enough for him? He had to invade the sanctuary of his home?

"No… but his men did. They came in one night to make sure I would pay." His eyes travelled to the wall again and locked onto the little hole.

I stared at it in disgust, having a pretty clear sense as to the cause. It was about the right size for a bullet fired at close range from a handheld firearm. "They threatened you," I gathered, repulsed.

He was struggling not to snarl. He should have, for all I cared; I wanted more than ever to tug Neal right out of that operation, to send him a text to turn around and just _get out._ And I was protecting a grown man, not a helpless child.

"They fired a bullet two inches from my baby's crib." Twan said flatly, looking down to the carpet. I followed his eyes unintentionally; there wasn't any sign of furniture having been here, but then, this would have been two or three years ago, when the happy little girl was an infant or a toddler, at oldest. "While Bai was still sleeping in it."

My throat burned unpleasantly. Lao was the kind of person I used to hunt. I had romanticized my old career, it turned out; it wasn't always just the fun in the chase or the triumph of a victory or the warmth of a grateful hug from the family of the would-be victim. It was complete hatred for the monsters I captured and the feeling of being sick from seeing the effects of their actions.

"If this pans out," I found myself swearing vehemently. "He won't ever be coming near you or your daughter again."

Twan solemnly looked at me. I met his eyes, swearing to myself, if to no one else, that before he got on that flight to China, Lao Shen was going to be rendered incapable of doing anything so reprehensible to anyone ever again – whether it was on American soil or on the land of the Chinese government. He was going to be held accountable.

Twan, however, didn't seem to hold my conviction. "For my and my daughter's sake, I hope you're right."

* * *

In a few minutes, I could have told anyone that Lao did _not_ know how to throw a party the way Neal, Katie, and I could. Our shebang had been a big blast and I had later found out that it had been on social media as a raving success (aside from the whole tackle-of-a-foreign-official thing) right as Fashion Week came to a close. Neal – or, rather, Nick – didn't even get to talk to us, because there wasn't enough noise for him to talk to his watch without it being weird. I could have believed he'd walked into an illegal library if it weren't for the telltale sounds of dominoes rattling.

It was hard to tell what was happening just through the audio, and it definitely wasn't of any help that we didn't know what the floor looked like. I envisioned it similar to a casino, but obviously quieter, and a lot more somber. I'd have liked to hear Neal say what was going on, but that wouldn't have been a clever move, so it was really better that he didn't.

A couple moments after he was close enough to the games for us to pick up on the dominoes, and a chair near his watch scraped on the floor. _"How're you doing?"_ Neal said to someone charismatically, receiving radio silence as an answer. _"Don't get 'em wet, don't feed 'em after midnight, right?"_

Derek stared at his laptop peculiarly, making an odd face. "Is he making Gremlin jokes?" He asked, not having a taste for the movie with the cute little mogwais and the rude little psychopaths.

"That's my fault." I held my right arm up and lied, "I'm sorry."

"No, you're not," Diana calmly accused.

Dominoes, closer than they had been yet, rattled and clinked up against each other. A cool feminine voice interrupted. _"Yum Seng,"_ she said in Chinese. I mouthed it to myself as I heard it but couldn't think of a translation. Luckily, Neal must have looked about to ask. _"It's a toast. Drink and win."_

After apparently drinking something (I hoped it wasn't laced), Neal returned cordially, _"Yum Seng. One down, one to go."_

One _what_ down? I hated not knowing. I didn't get anything filling me in on what was happening, either. The dominoes went quiet, too, except for the other games going on in the background. I was beginning to think that, since Neal hadn't talked to anyone about setting up or starting, there were just open tables. I'd seen arrangements like those before. The game had commenced. Now I was praying that Mozzie's instructions the night before had left more of an impact on Neal than they had on me.

 _"_ _Eight and seven,"_ the woman said without preamble. I jumped, a little startled, not having expected to hear her again. I wanted to hear Neal talk, even if he was still pretending to be Nick. _"Nice hand."_

Influenced by _Tiles of Fire,_ which really only got worse the longer it went on, I unwillingly imagined Neal chewing on a toothpick and rolled my eyes. If he had dared to make that reference, I would have to hit him. We waited for him to fold or bank or whatever it was that they did in Pai Gow – either he had a better option, in which case he was meeting the objective of throwing the game, or he was preventing himself from going out a lot of money that he didn't have to offer, so either way, it seemed the better deal.

And, surely, it didn't take very long before Neal said calculatingly, _"I'm out."_

There was another pause and the very quiet sounds of tiles being shuffled. I guessed that he was laying his hand out where the opponent (who was silent the entire time) and the mediator (the woman) could both see what he'd had.

 _"_ _You could've won,"_ the girl rebuked him sharply for folding.

 _"_ _I've got more important things than winning,"_ Neal told her, carefully constructing the way that he explained why he turned down an easy victory.

Nothing happened after that. Infuriatingly, the mediator and the opponent (winner by default) said zilch in reply, and something was happening that prevented Neal from making one of his ceaseless commentary points about the situation. Then – as if it wasn't annoying enough to be in the dark – the background noise went a lot quieter very quickly, like everyone had been corralled or hushed, either from fear or respect. Derek was leaning forwards in his seat eagerly and didn't seem to realize how on edge he was with anticipation.

A chair scraped. These people really needed to learn how to move furniture. Then there was another man's voice. _"You folded on a good hand, Mister…"_ There was no doubt in my mind that that was our mark. The way everyone else stopped murmuring their chitchat and even stopped playing their dominoes suggested they were afraid of him. I held my hand up in clear view of both of my accomplices and spelled out "L-A-O" in sign.

 _"_ _You know who I am,"_ Neal replied, not giving even his alias's name. _"And you know why I'm here."_

I thought for a second that Lao's pause might have been an indication that he didn't appreciate not being responded to when he asked a question. I shouldn't have worried. He still sounded relaxed. _"For a man of your reputation, Mr. Halden, it took some time to find the hand you needed."_

 _It did?_ Exactly how long were these rounds supposed to take when they weren't being dramatized for television purposes? Twenty seconds? Fifteen? It was going faster than any poker game I'd ever witnessed.

 _"_ _Pai Gow isn't my game,"_ Neal offered by means of vague explanation, excusing himself for his lacking domino talents.

_"_ _What is your game?"_

Neal cleared his throat. _"Perhaps we should discuss that in private."_

Derek's phone beeped and made Diana and I both jump. We were just as keen as Derek was to hear how things were turning out, and his phone's interruption had us glaring. He cringed and took the phone call, standing up and walking a few feet away. Oblivious to the startled feds, Lao seemed to respect Neal's discretion. _"We have time for that."_ He picked up some dominoes and the tiles fell through his fingers before he raked them up again, this time not letting them slip out of his hand. _"Another hand?"_

I nodded to Neal even though he couldn't see me, encouraging him from too far away to play into Lao's wishes. "Be patient…" I murmured. Getting too hasty could set off alarms with Lao and make him either retreat or decide to play nasty.

 _"_ _I'm always in for one more game,"_ Neal heeded his instructions and his intuition both by taking the safest route. The third option was that he was actually enjoying being in the scene and didn't care if it went on a little longer, but I didn't want to entertain the possibility that he enjoyed being the center of attention to a person we knew had no particular issues with homicide.

Derek rapped his knuckles on the table. I glared up at him again. Couldn't he see that I was busy fearing for my consultant over here?

"Mick, we've got a problem." He had his phone pressed against his chest to muffle his voice from the speakers, and the grave expression coupled with the foreboding words made Diana and I both forget to be cross. "NYPD got a tip-off. They're about to raid the game."

 _"_ _What?!"_ I jumped up out of my chair so quickly that my calves hit the edge. "Well, who tipped them off?!" Twan could probably hear my alarm, though I hoped as an afterthought that Bai didn't realize anything was wrong. _Damn it!_ I covered my face with my hands and then pulled my headphones tighter to my ears. The police were going to not only ruin our operation, but they were going to put Neal's life on the line from not just the gang and recruits, but also from the team that wouldn't know he wasn't a suspect!

"If I _knew,_ I would've _said."_

I started to pace while I kept my headphones on tight. If I could just listen to everything – get them close enough to my ears to even hear my friend breathing – then I could stop something from going wrong. "Shen will shoot Neal if he thinks he brought the police with him. Get me the captain before they crash the entire op!" I raised my voice.

_"_ _Cops!"_

"We may be a little late for that," Diana remarked, her unaffected demeanor almost perfected. Her worry for Neal, no matter how quick she was to treat him like a pest, was given away by the pull of her lips downwards, voice even but face not so much.

I could have screamed. No one in my headset did, but they may as well have. From the instant the alarm was risen, the noise felt like it had amplified in my ears. Dominoes stopped being a background track and came to a crescendo as they were scattered and packed away. Stampedes of footsteps raced to get lost before they got arrested. There was panic as controlled as panic could ever become… and there was a sinister clicking, and a very definite lack of movement from Neal.

 _"_ _They're not with me,"_ Neal swore fiercely. I could just imagine him staring at a gun and covering up his nervousness. My heart was either drumming like a snare or skipping violently and smacking into my ribs extra hard to make up for it, stomach fluttering and breathing picking up sympathetically.

Lao would be standing now, I presumed, so that he could shoot and run. _"I don't believe in coincidence,"_ he told Neal with the steely tone he could have employed if he caught Costa in this same situation.

 _"_ _Maybe you should."_ Angered vehemence slipped onto Neal's tongue. It sounded unlike any version of him I had heard before and I wondered exactly how blurred the lines were between himself and his aliases. Was he like a kid playing dress-up, or did he slip entirely into another person's mind when he went undercover?

 _"_ _Let's get out of here!"_ Someone hissed, voice down to not raise the attention of the police.

 _"_ _NYPD!"_ Something crashed. I slammed my foot down in a stomp as the police broke their way in. Why were we so late getting the call? Why hadn't they cleared it with us, knowing that we had a mission in Chinatown? What possible reason could they have had? _"Stay where you are!"_

 _"_ _Lao, let's go,"_ the woman cut in. I was half-surprised that she was still there and even more surprised that she was giving the killer an order. The clicking sound that made me feel ready to faint echoed again as the gun was taken away from Neal, and Shen and his female accomplice beat a hasty retreat.

 _"_ _Go, go, go!"_ The televised cliché was a cliché for a reason. The leader of the raid invited and urged his men inside. I could hear their trooping footfalls as they started to flood. _"Hands on the table. Everyone down, down, we will shoot! Freeze!"_

"Give yourself up," I whispered, shutting my eyes. Raids aren't like talking to suspects on the street. In a raid, you're prepared to be assaulted and fired at; you don't always have the time to think about a situation before you pull the trigger. If Neal moved… if he did anything they might have thought was guilty or aggressive… they wouldn't check out who he was and look for an ID before they took his life into their hands, and there was no one I trusted to do that – not even entirely myself. "Neal, please, just tell them who you are."

I thought someone upstairs might be listening; something might go my way for once, just for once. I mean, I had Neal in trouble yet again, but the police weren't shrieking or calling for paramedics and no one was screeching bloody murder in my ears. The more time that passed, however, the lower those feelings fell, until I was certain that there was a needle stuck through the balloon of hope. If Neal was going to hand himself over, then he would have done so sooner, wouldn't he?

And, just like that, hell broke loose. A huge crashing echoed and was then followed by the sound of something rolling. Officers started firing from their weapons and spraying bullets. I could have run my head right into the wall.

_"_ _Shots fired, shots fired. Got a white male, six foot, grey suit, heading out of the building."_

Derek grimaced. I just collapsed against the wall, ceasing in pacing long enough to breathe. He'd escaped. He'd gotten himself used as target practice, but if he was still running, then he was still alive. Neal was alright as long as he just ran fast enough and got out into a public area, where they wouldn't shoot for fear of risking civilian life.

"It may just be me, but I don't think he gave himself up," Derek sighed.

"Maybe it's not him," I suggested, clinging to a ridiculous false hope. I had given Neal very clear orders not to jeopardize himself. He wouldn't completely ignore those orders, would he? "There are plenty of six-foot tall men in grey suits that gamble in Lao's circle, right?!"

_"_ _This way!"_

Neal panted and picked his watch up towards his mouth. _"Trying to save my cover here, guys!"_ He called anxiously, sprinting like a runner and dashing any of my dreams that Neal had listened to me, full-stop, not pulled tricks or slipped through loopholes.

"It's him," I groaned. "Jesus Christ, it's him." I couldn't just leave him to try to outrun the cops on his own. Neal needed to be brought back here, where it was safe, where I could lecture him on unnecessary risks. I stalked for the door and started kicking at Derek's, Diana's, Bai's, and Twan's shoes, all in the way of me finding my own. "If I'm not with him in three minutes, mobilize our reinforcements. Call the NYPD and tell them to get the _hell_ out of our way, and _where are my shoes?!"_

Unable to hear us doing what we could, Neal tetchily said directly to us, _"Getting a little tired of being chased, Kenna! Call the cops off me!"_

_What do you think I'm doing?!_

"Where's he at?" I asked, forsaking my shoes. I didn't have time to start looking for my feet guards while my lover was running for his life.

"Moving north down Allen," Derek reported, bent over the table to look at Neal's GPS coordinates on his laptop.

"Call me," I instructed, throwing open the door and leaving it wide so I could still yell, even while I took long, leaping strides down the hallway and re-checked the last time I'd gotten a tetanus shot. "I want an open line!"

* * *

My feet burned on the sun-, car-, and pedestrian-warmed ground, yet I pushed on, wincing and sometimes yelping or moaning unhappily when I stepped on something uneven that hurt the soles of my feet. I kept to the sidewalk as much as I could so it didn't happen often, but it was unavoidable when I was running, especially at night, when I could easily make out the things up high illuminated by lights, but shadows had taken over the ground.

Where had he gone? The police had lost him. He'd ditched them quickly and they had been caught up in the kitchen that Neal had darted and escaped through, slippery as a bar of soap. He couldn't have gotten far, especially with this foot traffic, so where-

 _There!_ I recognized his face while I was scanning as I ran, coming down a dip in the incline as the street curb leveled out at a crosswalk. Neal was standing underneath a brightly-lit ATM sign, catching his breath, hair flyaway and looking around to collect his bearings. Catching up to him and recognizing him so quickly was a stroke of unbelievable luck, probably an apology from the universe for making me fear that Neal was going to have to be taken to the hospital.

I was just about to lunge to sprint across the street. A cry of his name was on my tongue, ready to be yelled out, relieved that he was looking hurried but had no new bloody wounds in his person. The honk of a taxi interrupted my readiness to bolt across to the next street, and by the time the car was passed, I had an obstructed view of my consultant – specifically, a woman was standing in front of him, seemingly appearing out of nowhere. This woman had long black hair down past her shoulder blades and a tight, form-fitting golden dress that sparkled and drew the eye like it was covered in glitter. It barely started down her thighs before it ended, and I didn't think she was wearing tights, although with the disadvantage of distance and lighting, I could have easily been wrong.

Neal's face was startled but not particularly alarmed, so I took a few steps back to the corner brick building and leaned back on it, slipping around to the other side and pressing my heels up against the edge, feet out of the way of being trampled, and, as a bonus, hidden from view of both of them.

 _"_ _Diana's getting through to the officers,"_ Derek reported, anxious and anticipating further information. Further progress. Confirmation that everyone we cared about was unharmed. _"Are you seeing Caffrey?"_

I peered back around the corner. Neal was still standing by the ATM, the woman in the golden dress in front of him. Neal looked cynical and reluctant but he was listening to whatever it was she was saying. I couldn't tell and didn't want to risk getting much closer, just in case I spooked her.

"I've found him," I reassured, telling him he could relax. "He's trying to save the operation."

Derek was quiet for a second, probably signaling to Diana that our own teammate was safe and unharmed. He chuckled then. _"Didn't you tell him to prioritize his safety?"_

I'd been hoping that he wouldn't ask that. I never particularly enjoyed the slap-in-the-face reminders of when my orders were listened to, then promptly ignored. "Yes," I grumbled, scratching over my ear and tangling my hair. The concrete was still hot, even though the sun had gone down. I flexed my feet over the rough sidewalk. My socks were dirty. "Yes, I did. Can you hear their audio?"

I had to wait for Derek to ask Diana and then for Diana to answer, but then Derek got back to me and he relayed. I kept looking over at the two to keep them within my sights until I knew what was going on. I didn't want to lose track of Neal if the woman turned out to be threatening him.

 _"_ _She's inviting him to a hotel on Lao's instruction,"_ Derek explained over the phone. _"I think they're okay."_

I kept watch for another few seconds, still not sure this was the greatest means of advancing the case. We had a missing agent and a dirty gambler, and a raid because the NYPD was a bunch of ferrety bastards that couldn't keep their paws to themselves. – Okay, that might have been a little harsh, but they had pursued and shot at _my_ Neal, so I was allowed to be angry. What Diana overheard must've checked out, because Mei Lin reached for Neal's hand. Neal slipped his hand into hers and let her lead him right into another wave of locals, and the shimmering of her dress was the last thing I could see of them before they were indistinguishable from my distance.

* * *

"I'm back," I announced, easing the door open and shutting it gently behind me. The carpet was relaxing against my feet after the pounding chase that drove hard impacts against my heels and, occasionally, pieces of gravel into my soles. "My feet hurt," I added to Derek with a pouty face, looking down at the little Dalek socks. I wiggled my toes. The socks needed to be washed ASAP.

Derek looked down at my feet in confusion and then looked at the socks more intently. In two seconds, he realized why I was fussing. "Why would you take off without your shoes?" He asked incredulously, staring at me like he was realizing his boss was an idiot.

"I couldn't find my shoes!" I cried back defensively. It wasn't _my_ fault.

"So, instead of looking…?"

"Really? You want me to prioritize my dignity over the protection of my consultant?" I demanded, crossing my arms and pursing my lips. Was he really trying to make me feel dumb for being panicked that Neal might be in danger?

"You two are horrible at focusing, aren't you?" Diana remarked very calmly where she was still sitting at the table. Twan and Bai were both still out of sight; not quite out of mind, but probably trying to stay out of our way. Bai was probably a little shy around all the people she didn't know, in spite of having taken to Neal quickly. My probie remained concentrated on the screen, looking at the tracking signal on Neal's watch. "They're not anywhere yet, but they're less than a block away from and heading to a hotel off of Mulberry. It's only a few blocks from here."

With a last dirty glare at Derek, personally affronted, I padded over to the table, walking mostly on my toes to give my heels a break. "It's still further than I'd like." Involuntarily, I flashed back to the setup with Maria Fiametta – we'd been a couple of blocks away from them. Any further and she would have had time to finish the job she'd started of pulling triggers and shooting bullets at Neal. I chewed on my lower lip, trying to figure the best course of action.

Chinatown was a lot closer in general to him than my home, so I wasn't going to be leaving. And I couldn't do this job on my own. "If Neal doesn't leave, then neither do we. I want agents on the front and back exits of the hotel, and I want the NYPD call log. Requisition it." I told Derek. Diana could keep on the tracker, and Derek could talk to Sheppard. Being in the FBI longer, he knew the captain of the police better than Diana. "I'm not in the mood to argue about who has the right to be angrier right now." Which was definitely what would happen if I were the one to make the calls.

Diana held both headphones on her headset close to her ear on the right side of her head. "Who is this girl he's with?" She asked, a little miffed at the lack of information.

I clicked my tongue and pointed at her like an overly-eager game show host whose contestant had finally asked a question that led into the next round. "That's your job to find out," I assigned with a grin.

Diana was not impressed, but she didn't complain, either. "Where do you want me to start?" She pulled the headphones apart, set them around her neck to hear if something happened, and hovered her hands over the keyboard. "Informants, cameras…?"

"Traffic cams, definitely." I remembered seeing several over the course of the afternoon, since Chinatown unfortunately had a pretty high violent crime rate. "Pull an image from those." Surely there was at least one that had caught Neal and that woman from the game. "Try the ones near the ATM, she was still for a couple of minutes while she was talking with Neal."

And the game had been going so well, too. It was ruined by law enforcement, not by an error in the con. I groaned quietly. When… _if_ … Mozzie ever found out what had happened, he would _never_ let me forget about it.

* * *

It wasn't very long after I got back that Neal started trying to narrate what he was doing without letting the woman he was with catch on to that there was a third party listening in. He was subtle about it, too. Things like _what floor?_ would have told us which floor of the hotel to canvas if we needed to get to him quickly, if the woman had fallen for it and answered. Instead, she just entered the elevator's destination herself.

After he asked which room number (likely walking ahead of her so it was justified), the door opened from her keycard. Neal would know the answer, but there wasn't a way of telling us without it being somehow redundant and suspicious, especially for what was meant to be a clandestine meeting. At this point, I stopped having Derek and Diana relay it to me and picked up my headset, setting it on comfortably and taking my seat again.

A lock clicked. I tensed. Was it for privacy or was it to prevent Neal from leaving? Was it something of a threat or was it just so they wouldn't be interrupted? _"Nice place. When will Lao be joining us?"_

_"_ _He won't be."_

_"_ _Then what are we doing here?"_

At the same time as I wanted to praise Neal for asking the right questions of importance, I also wanted to encourage him to shut his mouth. Questioning who they were supposed to meet when it turned out that they weren't going to actually meet with that person was usually quickly followed up with homicide, according to the television. I know Neal doesn't watch all that much TV that departs from the documentary genre, but surely even he recognized why this may not be so reassuring.

_"_ _He told me to stay the night with you."_

Ah. So Lao intended for Neal to live the entire night. That was something, at least. He just sent his female partner in to make sure that the potential prospect was actually a legit man to do business with.

_"_ _There's only one bed."_

_"_ _I wasn't planning on sleeping. Were you?"_ Neal probably meant to inform us that the hotel room was a single. The woman started flirting with him, but her tone was off for flirting. It was more like a rhetorical question that she didn't expect an answer to, so Neal didn't give her one. _"You can call me Mei Lin. Let me get you a drink."_

 _Don't drink any alcoholic beverage from her,_ I scolded internally, bristling with competitiveness and dislike. Mei Lin – if that was even her real name – could've been trying to drug Neal into compliance or weakness, if not just flat-out get him drunk, which was pretty much the same thing. I definitely didn't want Neal accepting some fancy wine or champagne whose name I didn't even know and letting her think that she might be getting lucky with him. She could find her own bedmate.

Not that I had much of a claim staked on Neal, but I detested the thought of sharing him with someone else. The only person I could think of whose bed he could be in that I _wouldn't_ want to scratch the eyes out of was Katie, but that was just… well, I didn't feel loathing, exactly, but there was definitely something weird about that pretend scenario that icked me out of further mental investigation. _My sister and my lover_. Sounded like a bad _Lifetime_ episode. The only thing missing was me returning the favor and sleeping with Kate Moreau.

Diana was chuckling while Neal wasn't saying anything. It seemed safe to assume that Mei Lin was getting drinks for them both. I hoped that Neal was being smart and watching her pour the drinks very carefully. "I think I've already seen this one on Skinemax," my probie joked.

My scowl darkened. She got the desired result from Derek. "Ditto."

Mei Lin started to chat again. If nothing else, it stopped my friends from making jokes in poor taste. _"Lao says I should keep an eye on you until we can arrange another meeting."_

 _"_ _So what do we do until then?"_ He succeeded at casually suggestive.

 _"_ _Relax. Have a drink."_ She was offering him one.

Neal must've been looking at it carefully. _"I'm good for now,"_ he declined.

 _"_ _It's not drugged or poisoned." That's exactly what you'd say if it_ was _drugged or poisoned! "Why don't you just relax? … Let's start with this."_

I could too-easily picture her working him out of his clothes, sliding her hands over his neck, easing his jacket off of his shoulders. Smoothing her hands down his sides, feeling the curve of his hips, following his waistline around to the front of his pants and pulling on his belt, and the irrational jealousy hit me again. _I really need to work on that._

 _"_ _What are you doing?"_ Neal asked warily, but not quite with the right voice of someone being intimately touched or unwillingly stripped of his pants.

With her words very definite and sounding like she'd won something, Mei Lin answered, _"Taking you off the clock."_ There was a loud and sudden smashing noise right in my ear that made my hands fly up to my headphones, but by the time I had gotten in a position to take them off, that noise had stopped. And so had every other noise. Even the quiet sounds in the background, like an air conditioner running on the other side of the hotel room.

I took it off, looked at my headphones, and then fitted them back on. Still nothing. Maybe mine were just broken. "Why'd it go quiet?"

I wasn't the only one who was having technical difficulties. Diana wound her headphones around her neck and let them rest while she looked across the table at Derek, who was monitoring the connection on his computer. He had kept his headset on, but looked up to Diana and shook his head.

"Looks like the signal was cut," he announced. "Seems like that happens a lot where Neal is concerned."

"It wasn't his fault." I was defending Neal before I even realized I had made the decision to do so. Neal wasn't here to defend himself, so someone ought to do it. _I'm taking you off the clock… off the watch, more like._ "Did you hear her tone? She caught on. She probably destroyed the watch."

Derek thought back and nodded doubtfully. He clearly didn't have the confidence in Neal that I was struggling to give. I was reasonably certain that he wouldn't sleep with another woman while we were still a thing – we had established that loyalty to each other – but after he took the portrait while I was only a few steps away from him, it was harder to believe that he wouldn't succumb to the temptation of another illicit affair of the financial or material kind.

Diana sighed. "Assuming he leaves the room-"

"He has to leave the room eventually," I interrupted.

"… Right." Looking away from me skeptically and giving Derek a look as if to ask what had gotten into me, Diana sardonically said, "I'll explain the situation to you when you're older, then." I sat back and glared. I didn't need the "sex talk," I needed them to give Neal a little more trust. "Anyway, we have people stationed as of four minutes ago. We can track him if he leaves the hotel."

* * *

I went from struggling to keep my eyes open to struggling to keep them closed in a time lapse I swear just made a real-life jump cut. My back was horribly slouched and my neck ached. My legs were crossed right over left, and my left leg had pins and needles so bad that it hurt to move the muscles even an inch. Wasn't I supposed to be too young for this kind of difficulty with taking naps in strange positions?

"Jesus," I complained, coughing to clear the scratchiness in my throat that made my voice sound rough. "That wasn't comfortable." It didn't look like Diana had budged an inch while I dozed off, although I wasn't sure I'd ever been deeply enough asleep for it to have constituted as actually being asleep. Her eyes were focused with a raptor-like intensity on her laptop screen, long lashes blinking occasionally. Derek's computer had been shut. "Where's Derek?"

The woman's eyes traveled to me, and her lips turned up in a smirk at how I held myself stiffly, waiting for the pain in my leg to subside. She was lucky I was still suffering. I might've smacked her otherwise. "He went into the hall to have some phone calls. Didn't want to wake you up, sleepyhead."

"Why didn't you?" Disgruntled, I contemplated whether or not I could blame _her_ for me sleeping on the job, rather than a tedious movie night. A one-percenter, a conman, a thief, and an FBI agent – it sounded like the start to a tasteless joke.

A slight move of her shoulders belied Diana's concern. "You needed the sleep," she remarked, roving her eyes back to her computer, no longer teasing me. _Damn. Nope, I can't blame her if she's being nice._ "It's not like you got much of it when you stayed with Neal."

That woke me up like nothing else could've. She might as well have thrown a bucket of ice water on me! _Oh, God, she knows,_ I repeated in my head in a terrified mantra, staring at her wide-eyed over the laptop. _How_ was I supposed to explain?! Neal is a criminal, Neal is my coworker, I have authority over Neal – I couldn't ask her to lie to our supervisors, that was asking way too much, people get demoted if not fired for things like this – what was she thinking? How did she find out? She was so _calm_ -

"Since you were teaching him the dominoes, you know," she finished her sentence after a pause, squinting at something on the screen and then rubbing her thumb over a spot on the monitor. That cleared up, she settled back in her chair and looked at me expectantly for a response.

My heart had catapulted up to my throat in the meantime and wasn't quite willing to come climbing back down yet. _God,_ I almost choked on air. That was the _worst_ possible timing for a pause that I had _ever_ heard.

Tentatively, I moved my leg, just shifting a little bit so my foot was pulled across the carpet in a slow drag. I tensed up immediately and clenched my teeth, the numbed sensation feeling weird and disconnected, but it had gone from painful to numb, and I knew I'd regain feeling within seconds.

"Your turn to take a nap," I announced, seeing where circles were beginning to show under her eyes, makeup worn off after a long day and what was becoming an even longer night. "I'll take over this, okay?" I made a general motion to the computer.

The blinding smile I got in response made being teased worth it. Sometimes I had to think that this was why Kate liked babysitting. She didn't live through the clients' children, but she adored them, felt for them; she was proud and happy when they achieved something, felt delighted with herself when she made them giggle, was angry on their behalf when their feelings were hurt, and sad when they were injured. I supposed it might be similar to what I felt for agents that I had the privilege of watching learn and grow, going from interns and probies to fully-fledged bureau employees.

"Thanks," the dark-skinned woman cheerfully thanked and stood up, picking up her jacket from the back of her chair. She left it pulled out and conveniently right in front of her laptop. Unwelcome heat rushed up through my leg as feeling returned, and I put more pressure on my ankle. No pins and no numbness. Before I stood up, Diana bent down in front of me and pressed her lips to my cheek friendlily. "Don't overdo it."

Diana wouldn't go very far, but she did go to the next room through the doorway and to the futon couch. The tenants both had their own bedrooms, but the agents here didn't, and for as long as Neal was undercover, we needed to be able to operate. Being able to operate meant having everything we needed to function, and a futon was still a step up from the floor of the surveillance van and a thick blanket.

I rose up to my feet after she left the room and I heard the soft creak of metal of the futon frame as she got settled in. A bone in my spine popped and I sighed, moving both hands to the small of my back and pressing against the curve while arching backwards. It forced another quiet pop while I straightened my vertebrae and yawned. I took my time striding over to Diana's vacated seat, and I sat down sideways on the chair, stretching my legs out to the side of the table. Her computer was displaying security footage. It looked like a live feed from in front of the hotel.

"If I knew she was working on security tapes, I probably wouldn't have volunteered," my muttering was low so that Diana wouldn't overhear. "Ah, at least I don't really have to do anything." Just watching the video was all it really took, but it was a very empty frame at the moment.

I pushed my feet hard into the carpet, stretching and relaxing my legs. Dimly, I felt a difference between the carpet under my right foot and the carpet under my left foot. I looked down to my feet and stared blankly for a moment, trying to work out what I was seeing. My Dalek-covered sock was pulled over my left foot. My right sock, however, was missing – I was bare-footed. Half of my Dalek army had been _stolen._

Suspiciously, I narrowed my eyes. _Who the hell wants to take someone's socks?_

A tiny, high-pitched giggle gave me my answer, and I looked up to the doorway Diana had disappeared through. Bai's dark hair swished over her shoulder, bound with a hair elastic while she looked at me stealthily and laughed at my reactions.

 _My right sock is missing because my legs were crossed – it was already off the ground,_ I reasoned, working out the crime swiftly. _Does a federal agent's sock count as federal property? Maybe? A little bit?_

"Wo de wazi?" I asked uncertainly. My excuse was that I didn't get a lot of practice with that language.

Bai laughed a little harder and covered her mouth with a dainty hand. I held out an arm and pointed at her with two fingers, then beckoned. Hughes isn't the only one who can do the authoritative double-finger-point. Looking down, Bai shuffled into the room, but was unable to fully quell her grin.

"Well, that's a bad habit," I began to patiently lecture, tone very mild. She was just a kid. "Lifting things from FBI agents is not a good path to go down, kiddo. It's how you get arrested." I tried to sound stern, I really did, but how much of what I was saying did she really understand? I pushed on the edges of the chair and sat up straight again, taller than the child even when sitting down, and leaned towards her. "It's how you end up like Caffrey, actually."

Her face brightened immediately and she looked hopeful.

"No, no, you do not want that," I corrected. Neal Caffrey, corrupting children. Wonderful. _Just what Katie needs: a daycare full of miniature Caffreys._ "The magic tricks were neat, but that is not something any sane person wants, do you understand?"

Her eyes flickered behind me for just a second, then back to me. By the time I was implying Neal was lacking mental soundness, she was doing it again. Since she didn't say anything or look worried, I assumed it was someone friendly, and she started to raise her hands to cover a secretive little smile. I gave her a conspiratorial one of my own and kept talking just a little louder. I'm not an idiot.

"I mean, he's such hard work," I sighed loudly. "Paperwork, trust issues, in some form of trouble every other day, and don't even get me started on the emotional part."

"Nice to know I'm appreciated," Neal cut in dryly from behind me, stopping me before I criticized any more.

"Of course." I rolled my eyes as I jumped up from the chair, crossing one ankle over the other and spinning around. "As long as you also know how much of a jerk you are!" I accused at normal volume because I still wanted Diana and Twan to get some sleep. It was way past the little girl's bedtime, but it wasn't really my place to enforce her father's rules. "What happened there?!" I gestured with one hand and pointed madly at the recording equipment that we'd turned off. "Making me worry about you is rude!"

Following my finger to the devices, Neal raised his arm and looked at the golden watch fastened around his wrist. "Oh," he said, sounding disappointed. "I must've banged it up during the chase." I was on my guard instantly. _During the chase?_ The chase was over by the time it had cut out. He got over it quickly and arched an eyebrow elegantly. "You also know that she speaks perfect English?"

Both of us looked down at Bai. She looked between us, hair getting dragged off of her shoulder and flowing down her back in a smooth raven ponytail. The girl giggled. "You're funny," she told me, clapping her hands once and then running forward and hugging my legs. I picked my arms up and held them out uselessly, not knowing what to do. Bai pressed her cheek to the side of my thighs while she squeezed my legs with her arms. "And your socks are weird," she added with another tinkle of giggles, letting go of me, looking up at Neal with pure admiration, and then scramming out of the room on short legs.

I felt kind of stupid now. Sure, I hadn't asked, but was it really my fault? Her father is Chinese, she is Chinese, they live in Chinatown, and she hadn't said a single word in English, despite seeming to understand me speaking in Chinese. It wasn't like I just decided she wasn't bilingual. Feeling stupid also make me feel agitated, and I crossed my arms defensively.

"I want my sock back," I called after the little girl. The pit-pat of her feet ended and was followed up by the snick of a door lock as she retreated, presumably to her own bedroom.

"When did it cut out, anyway?" Neal observed the watch and tapped a fingertip against the glass-covered time face, curiously trying to get it to work again.

"In the hotel," I answered cautiously, curious in a bad sort of way what he'd do with the information. He was in the hotel after the chase. Was he going to backpedal or amend what he'd said? Specify something?

"Oh, that's too bad." He dropped his hand and shoved both into the front pockets of his slacks. "Guess you missed all the good stuff." Shrugging his shoulders carelessly and acting like he wasn't too bothered was one thing, but the implication that went along with his words made me stare at him, prompting him to fix what he'd said. After that fuss he made with Dorsett and loyalty not very long ago, I'd have expected him to be more mindful of what he said. "I meant the conversation," he did clarify once he noticed that I was still looking at him very intently. Then he lowered his voice, glanced over towards the doorway to see that we were still alone, and quietly confessed, "I told her there was someone else."

Ignoring the rush that coursed through my body and the eager little jump my heartbeat made, I plowed through in full professionalism. "Can she make the meet happen?"

Taking a hint, he didn't say anything else on the subject – the enclosed hotel room _or_ his infatuation with someone who wasn't a gorgeous lady in a golden dress. "She'll contact me with the time and place," he assured.

"We have your anklet strap fixed." I picked it up from behind Diana's laptop. She liked to slide it over her slim wrist and feel the inside. She said she'd been testing to see if he was being serious all the times that he complained about it chafing his ankle, and the verdict was unclear. According to her, it depended on whether or not he was wearing socks; I assumed he was, because the only times I'd seen him without had been in bed or right after a shower. "It's a good thing the straps are replaceable, or you would be a very expensive CI," I commented, handing over the anklet. Neal made a face but acted like he was making the sacrifice, lifting his foot to the chair and bending over to pull up his trouser leg and fix it on.

While I was making sure he fastened it correctly until the blinking light turned on, Derek stepped through the door. He took less care than Neal had to shut it without it making a sound. I almost felt bad for the residents. Maybe the reason Bai was awake at this hour was because we were making too much noise.

"Hey, M-" Derek started to say my name, but he ended up seeing Neal's back as he pulled his sock up under the anklet. "Caffrey, nice to see you in one piece," he greeted as if Neal didn't seem to have some deux ex machina luck preventing him from ever being grievously injured. "NYPD got back to me on their anonymous tipster. They traced the call back to a cell phone registered to Mei Lin Won. And, as a bonus, they sent a picture from a traffic cam." Pulling it up on his phone, my partner presented me with an image of a black-haired Chinese girl, head bowed, one hand holding a phone while the other hand covered her other ear. She was even wearing the heels and shimmering dress. "It caught a girl on a cell phone at the same time, and it matches the location they followed the signal to."

"Guess we know who Neal almost had a sleepover with." As Neal took his foot off of the chair, I gave him a gentle dig with my elbow. He flinched and rubbed his side while taking a look at Derek's phone, then nodded unenthusiastically. "Why would she actually try to get Lao caught?" I thought aloud, intending to let Neal answer me if he had any information. _Which he would, right?_ "Especially if she wants to keep that deal she made."

Derek and I both looked at Neal. He took about two seconds to realize we were waiting on him to shed some light on the subject, but then he raised both hands and shook his head that he didn't know anything.

Rolling his eyes and probably making a jibe in his head at Neal's usefulness, Derek promised, "We'll find out." He was telling Neal as much as he was me, and there was probably something in his voice that assured the consultant that if he was withholding information, we would figure that out, too. Someone had to make it clear to him. "But, in the meantime, it's so late that it's early, and I think we're all ready to fall asleep in chairs." I cringed, but Derek didn't make it any more obvious that I had done exactly that. "So why don't we get some rest and pick this up in the morning?"

A warm bed with a soft mattress waiting for me had more appeal than half the luxuries in the world, and I would happily walk the entire way back to my house if it meant that I could collapse on my bed and not get up for ten hours afterwards (except maybe to put on smooth silk pajamas). Derek looked positively exhausted, circles under his eyes and his forehead creased, blinking a lot as he tried to stay awake with tired eyes that just wanted to close and stay closed. Only Neal managed to look impeccably sharp, both in alertness and in appearance.

"He's not wrong," he said towards me in reference to Derek. "You get cranky when you don't get your beauty sleep."

If Derek hadn't been there, he probably would've added _not that you need it_ or something equally sappy and ridiculous, but as it was, I just glowered at him until he realized it was not an Anderson-approved comment and looked suitably uneasy with the hostility being sent towards him.

"Let's get you back to June's," I said through my teeth, closing down the screen of Diana's laptop. With Neal back at my side, there was no need to keep monitoring the hotel for his safety. "The sooner you're back in your radius, the sooner I'll be able to sleep," I swore, thoughts now entertaining a king-sized bed with heavy downy comforters and a warm, firm body to hold through what remained of the night. The rewards of staying up a little later to have sex seemed like they'd be well worth losing a little bit of sleeping time. I mean, sex and a bed partner? Win-win for me.

While Derek went to go wake up Diana where she was contentedly lying down on the futon, in a sort of half-asleep daze where she heard Derek speaking but didn't quite have the wakefulness to command her body to rise, Neal gave me a sneaky little look with a sexy smirk and a wink. Yeah, we were thinking about the same thing; I just wondered (but wouldn't ask) if he'd gone straight to sex or if he had also taken the detour through cuddling first.

* * *

**I've officially broken two laws in one night: I got a fake ID and I went gambling.**

**I had to come with Dad because Mom had to travel for a reputational banquet. It was one she didn't think she could miss, but they're still upset about the… um… well, I'm not sure what anymore, but they're always upset with me about something. This time they just don't trust me to be alone.**

**I'm not technically allowed to say where I am or why I'm here this time. It's a secret thing. Has to do with politics. You know, since my parents are diplomats, that happens sometimes. But it's kind of a shadier place. Nice country, but shadier place. There wasn't security watching the people coming into the casino, and the dealer took a look at my fake ID, then my chest, and then dealt me in.**

**There are some games I'm better at than others, but I'm exceedingly apt at lying. I kicked ass at poker. That one was pretty easy. There were others where I lost some money (then won it back in poker), and while I'll cop to not being the best at something I'd never officially done before, I still think I might've done better at it if I was a local. There were some words that I didn't know. In hindsight, this was probably a dangerous place to go, what with being a young white woman in expensive clothes who learned the necessary phrases from a book, but, ah, I'm supposed to do dumb things. My parents expect it. Wouldn't want to disappoint them, would I?**

**As if I haven't done enough of that already.**

**I almost had my first hookup, too! The dealer started getting a little slick. I didn't really know what he was saying, but the body language was hard to misinterpret. If there wasn't a language barrier I might have even gone for it – a quickie in a closet or something – but at that time, I was tired and wanted to cash out and get back to the hotel before Dad realized I'd gone anywhere. I may have also had a slight epiphany that I didn't really want to use my body to spite my father's wishes with complete strangers who may or may not be safe and clean sexual partners. And another strike of clarity in which I decided I probably shouldn't sleep around for anyone but myself – and that means not hooking up with someone for any reason other than personally wanting to, and honestly, I wasn't in the mood.**

**I'm just a few months shy of eighteen. Just ninety-seven days to go until I can make my own life and go somewhere I want to be. And then I won't need a fake ID to play poker, and my parents won't be able to tell me what I should and shouldn't do.**

**Love (and lie sometimes, it can be fun),**

**Zarra L**


	12. You Pull That Line Like a Parachute

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The hits just keep coming for McKenna, but this time, Neal receives some of the backlash, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Lucy Hale's "Those Three Words."

**_Chapter Twelve – You Pull That Line Like a Parachute_ **

It turned out that I was forced to do the unforeseen ending of giving Neal a ride home in which I walked him to the porch, turned around, and then went to my own place of residence without a pit stop in the bedroom, thanks to June having a problem with a tool she bought. I'd thought that she was asking Neal to be a repairman and had laughed. Aside from how devastatingly handsome he'd be in a tank top pulled tight across his abs with grease and oil stains on his clothes and skin, he really wasn't into the whole "manual labor" thing (aside from running away from security guards). It turned out that he did, however, have the skills to translate the Spanish instruction manual that came with the malfunctioning laundry machine, and June just needed someone to read it to her.

It would've looked suspicious to hover around, and reading and translating was only a one person job anyway. I was still almost certain that June knew what we got up to in the privacy of the penthouse, but she kept her nose out of our business regardless of the odd hours at which I opened and closed her front door with the utmost quiet respectfulness to her property.

The biggest issue in all of this was that, now that I was having sex more frequently, my brain was rewiring itself. I felt like I was a teenager again; I knew mixing business and pleasure would have an effect, but I didn't think it would mean getting turned on when I heard the subject of my desire speaking in foreign tongues or smirking at Diana as she tried to guess where he'd hidden her car keys when she'd turned her back. I had never been more relieved to be female; if I were a guy, work would get a lot more awkward.

I probably got more sleep overall though, and that was what I needed to prioritize. I slept in later and took a hurried hot shower, leaving water for Katie. I brushed my teeth while I picked out clothes and brushed up my hair while I was trying to get my shoes on my feet. I fastened my belt around my waist, added the gun and its holster, and the handcuffs and badge, before looking at myself in the mirror. I picked up a tube of lip gloss for after I ate breakfast and proceeded to go downstairs. It was about the time that Kate got up to leave for the daycare, so she was already in the kitchen by the time I had come down, munching on a sugary bowl of Cocoa Puffs chocolate cereal.

"How did your sting go?" She asked when I came jogging into the room, bouncing from leg to leg in a lame attempt at energizing myself. Kate didn't look up from her phone, enraptured in whatever it was she was scrolling through.

"Not all that well," I sighed, and I stopped bouncing. Amazing the impact mood can have. Calmer, I pulled down a box of Captain Crunch (also known as The Cereal That Kills Back in a poorly-made joke between Katie and I), shook it to see how much was left, and took out a blue ceramic bowl. A look to my sister's side confirmed that she still had the gallon of milk.

She raised her eyes from her phone as soon as I set down the bowl on the other side of the table. I upended the Captain Crunch box and watched the cereal come spilling out of the bag. "What happened?" Setting her phone aside, Kate propped her elbow on the table and her head in her hand, her other hand lightly gripping her spoon. "Was it Neal?"

"No, Neal was great," I distractedly assured. I pointed at the milk. Kate gave it a push and made the jug slide over the table staggeringly. "NYPD did a raid, and it looks like the woman who called them may be a double agent." She blinked. I picked up the milk with one hand, tossed the now empty box at the recycling bin with the other, and brightly grinned as if to say _just another episode in the train wreck that is my life_. Double-crossing homicidal gamblers: the average weekday night. "Problem is, I'm not sure who she's actually working for."

I left the milk out, too, so that I could easily steal seconds from Kate's cereal box without having to retrieve the milk out of the fridge.

Once she heard that Neal was okay, both physically well and sheltered from my wrath, Katie lost about fifty percent of the interest she had showed and once again became ensnared in the Cocoa Puffs and her phone. "It would make for a great movie," she remarked offhandedly, obligated to say something in response.

"Sucky real life, though."

Two minutes passed in silence. I chomped my way through half of my cereal, resembling a vacuum more than a human. Kate finished off hers and then tilted the bowl to drink the milk that had turned into diluted chocolate milk from her cereal, made a contented 'ah,' and stood up to go take it to the sink. I narrowed my eyes and solved the maze on the back of her cereal box.

"Well, Neal was great." With the sound of someone drawing a conclusion, Kate reminded me of what I'd just said. "Remember that." As she walked behind me from the sink, she dropped down to two-thirds of her normal height so that she could hug me and press our faces cheek-to-cheek over my shoulder. "I'm going to go have an _awesome_ day with the kids, and I'm going to come back late tonight because I have a meeting with Alender's parents." She kissed my cheek, her mouth wet with a shining balm that darkened her lips.

Taken away from the maze on the box, I looked over my shoulder at her and returned the gesture, planting one on the side of her face and squeezing her wrist supportively. "Have a super awesome day, Katie. Make it awesome enough for both of us."

With a promise to try to do that, Kate picked up her keys, tugged on a sweater in case the weather dropped, and shouldered her purse to leave. I turned my head back to the Cocoa Puffs box, this time working out the word search. Interestingly, I found "T-R-I-X" in the grid. I wished that the most complicated thought I could have all day would be about whether that was deliberate or not.

* * *

Lao cleared his place out during the day to avoid being caught by cops or people who might have an interest in snooping around. I was all too willing to go do exactly that. The facility he had been using the night before had been left by the police when they didn't catch anyone worth keeping the bureau appraised of, and when we went back to it, we found ourselves in the heart of Chinatown, looking down the sidewalk at a small gaggle of women, none of whom looked like the woman in the gold dress.

And, right about now, Neal would have been flirting with them… if they weren't talking amongst themselves in rapid Chinese that our ears, much less our brains, had no hope of keeping up with.

"Don't we have anyone who speaks Chinese?" Neal asked Diana, tactfully avoiding complaining that there was nothing that he could do here, so why had he been brought back again?

Diana nodded quickly. Of course we had someone in the bureau who spoke Chinese. The problem wasn't existence, it was accessibility. She kept watching the women in front of the entry, all hanging out underneath the advertising sign above the door. One of them let in a man whom she apparently recognized. They all had dark and straight hair, skirts of varying lengths, and brightly-colored shirts that would be easy to spot in a crowd.

"Our translators aren't as immediately available as we'd sometimes like them to be," she answered with a shrug. Translators weren't the most important roles to Diana because she had practice getting by with communication without being able to form complex sentences in another language. Here, however, it would definitely be a problem – especially since we needed complex and specific information.

"Ideas?" I asked, aware that we couldn't just stand here staring at the women for much longer. One of them was bound to notice us at some point. When my CI failed to suggest anything, instead rubbing the back of his head and looking the other way, I looked at Diana. "Probie?" I prompted. She shrugged again. I rolled my eyes. _Good to know I'm surrounded by people who give their all._ "Great initiative," I muttered. "Neal, isn't this when you suggest you go over and hit on them?"

"I can't go in there," he protested. "It'll blow my cover."

 _Great initiative, however sarcastically it was said, might have been an understatement._ It wasn't that I was averse to doing my job, I just felt like maybe my colleagues weren't trying particularly hard to pull their weight. Resorting to the tactic I would have used if they had actually tried to be helpful and just weren't very clever before they had their morning coffee, I flipped out my phone, turned on the voice recorder, and slipped it back into my pocket with the microphone up.

"Diana, take notes, my devoted student," I said dryly. She could have been a bit more devoted just by acting semi-interested. Leaving her to babysit Neal at the corner by the crosswalk, I ventured over to the five Chinese women by the door and budged myself between two of them, forcing them to make room. "Hello," I greeted in clear English. "I'm Agent Anderson. FBI." I showed them my badge. "I want to ask you a few questions about someone you may have seen here last night? This tall, short dress, black hair, named Mei Lin?"

While demonstrating about how tall the woman had seemed, I decided to go for the height including her heels, which put her at almost Neal's height, hand over my head.

They listened, but they didn't respond to me. Well… not politely, anyway. All at once, the women started to talk at me in the language that I didn't understand. As they all wanted to make their voices heard, they spoke over each other, steadily raising their voices until they might as well have been yelling to someone across the street instead of right next to them. I caught an insult in there when one of them called me _yă_ , but, for the sake of my experiment, ignored it.

I put my hands up. They really were hurting my ears. I wasn't half a football field away. "One at a time, please," I requested, to which they started trying to interrupt me. Only one of them even shut up to listen to me when I opened my mouth. A couple were laughing in their pauses. "I can't – I can't really understand even one of you at once, much less all – does anyone know where she is right now?"

Judging by their tones, they probably knew what I was saying. If nothing else, they were probably making an educated guess from Mei Lin's name. Regardless of whether or not they understood English, they were making no attempts at using it.

"This is the same woman that caught me, right?" I heard Neal asking Diana underneath the loud proclaim of _something_ about – maybe the color red? I hoped she wasn't talking about blood.

"That – that's nice, thank you, do you know where she lives?"

"Officially, that's the same woman that caught you _twice,"_ Diana confirmed, happy to clear _that_ up. It was unclear if she was defending me or just enjoying the chance to tell Neal that he was losing his touch if someone making the scene I was could locate the runaway conman two times in a row.

I quailed. Two of the women started to disagree with each other, and instead of telling me whatever it was they wanted me to hear, they started to argue. "Do any of you speak English?" I offered to break them up. "Even a little bit? Please?"

The woman in a white skirt with an orange shirt tucked into the waistband raised a hand to me and I caught the words _nín_ and _Zhōngwén_ , which kind of spoke for itself.

"Okay, this isn't working, alright? Thank you anyway." I forced an uncomfortable smile and quickly started extracting myself from their close group, gesturing with my hands for them to stop. 'Thank you anyway," I repeated, backing up. They all looked pretty pleased with themselves for chasing me off. "Thank you for your time…"

When I rejoined Neal and Diana, my agent was grinning widely at me, maybe two seconds away from laughing at my difficulties, and Neal looked so smug I expected Diana to have hit him for it by now. "So that's how it's done, is it?" He asked laughingly.

To which I pulled out my phone from my pocket, hit the pause button, and pulled the scrubber bar to the halfway mark. It started to play, at full volume, the conversation I'd tried and failed miserably at having. Neal's smirk got wiped off of his face and I relished in the understanding on Diana's.

"Yeah, that's how it's done," I confirmed. For having just made a fool of myself, I also shared my smarts, which cancelled each other out. "I find it's interesting what someone will say when they don't think you can understand them." I paused the recording and then saved it under the name of the street we were standing on before storing my phone-slash-evidence in my pants pocket. "Hey, you and the little kleptomaniac gave me the idea. Let's get back to the bureau and see how quickly we can get a translator. Am I the only one who wants to know what they were saying about the stupid American agent?"

From one to the other, I smiled placidly before I walked between them, patting their shoulders as I went. It took time and practice to become _this_ awesome. They might get there someday.

"C'mon. Admit it," Diana challenged Neal while they followed me back to the car parked at the meter. "You admire her a little."

"Admire?" Neal repeated quietly in a vain attempt at keeping the secret that he was impressed. "If playing dumb had any part in catching me, I might have to admire her a lot."

* * *

The collection of voices all talking at once made even less sense on the recording than they had when I'd been hearing them all directed at me in person, if that was even possible. Diana and I played the uploaded version back on my laptop. I rubbed over my closed eyes while she made it play the entire loop again, from my bewildered voice to the excited Chinese that drowned me out towards the end.

"Where _is_ that translator?" I asked with annoyance. I didn't usually have to wait this long to get service.

Diana hovered the mouse down by the lower right corner of the screen. The date and time popped up on my laptop. "She won't be here for another two hours." Diana, at least, seemed to appreciate why I wasn't enjoying myself, and she too sounded annoyed by how long the translator intended on taking to get here.

I moaned and dragged my hands down my face with all the weariness of a teenager who was told she couldn't go to a party. "Where are linguists when you need them?" I found myself bitching. It would have been really nice to have someone handy who spoke fluent Chinese! "I should really learn some more languages…" It was always awesome to be able to do the job myself.

Diana canted her head. "How many fluency tests have you already passed?" She asked. Three fingers on her left hand were already held out as she tried to recall them on her own, but they weren't her experiences to draw from.

"I can't remember off the top of my head," I told her with a completely straight face. My joke did not achieve the intended result. Diana just dropped her hands and glared at me. I giggled, even though she didn't find it funny. "I'm kidding. I don't know so many I'm forgetting them," I admitted verbally so she didn't flog me. "I just might need to officially take Chinese after this." It seemed like it was going to be more useful than I had ever thought. I toed the carpet and pushed my chair to rotate side to side. "Run the tape," I instructed again. Diana's hands were still by the keyboard. "Maybe we can hear a name."

Diana clucked disbelievingly, but she did as she was asked and played it back from the beginning. The voices were loud, struggling to be heard over the others, and they were all jumbled together. It wasn't like everyone talking had a vastly different pitch, and the notes were all varying with inflection and volume, which made them even harder to isolate to the untrained ear. The syllables of one woman could just as easily be confused as part of the words of another.

When it ended, I just felt even _more_ dissatisfied with the lack of use we were getting from it right away. "Catch anything?" It was clear from her tone that Diana did not expect me to say I had.

Ruefully, I gestured in the negative. "Nothing useful." I tapped a pen against my knee, trying to consider alternative ways to telling the words apart. I was far from fluent, but I knew a couple of words, and maybe I could recognize a name? Possibly? If it was common enough? "You know, maybe if I ran it through a workstation, I could separate the pitches and we could listen to them one at a time?"

"Ha, ha!" An obnoxious snort and giggle made both of us look up. Then Diana had to lean to her side to see the little head of shiny black hair, blocked from her view by the table. Bai was so small that she hadn't registered in my periphery when she came to the door of the conference room and had peered inside, venturing a little bit further in when she deemed it worth interest. She pointed at me with a small hand. "Someone called you a bad name," she tattled.

Diana turned her head sharply to me. "Did you catch that?" She asked, almost ready to lecture me on withholding information if I said that I had.

 _Well, if I did notice, I'm definitely not gonna tell you now,_ I thought mutinously. "Didn't seem pertinent," I brushed it off.

Derek rushed past the mezzanine, head up and eyes sweeping. He almost went right on past the conference room before he heard Bai's hushed giggle, muffled by her own hand. Backtracking a few paces, he then robotically turned into the room and zoomed straight for her, making her throw her hand down and laugh loudly at the stiffness of his walk.

"There you are, sweetheart," he crowed victoriously, reaching down and scooping her up like she weighed as much as a stick. Bai shrilly cried out delightedly, waving her arms like an airplane. "Sorry about that," he said to Diana and I, a blush crawling up on his face, tucking Bai close to his torso. She pushed her hand on his chest to wiggle around in his arms enough to look at Diana and I. "We're taking Mike's statement and I guess she must've heard your voice."

 _Or the voices of many people speaking one of the two languages she knows,_ I said, shifting and looking up at Bai calculatingly. Diana recognized it as the look I got when I had an idea, and she whacked my shoulder. I smacked her hand.

Derek bounced the little girl, who was locking eyes with me and no longer had an interest in the silly agent who thought she was still amused by being carried. That was _so_ forty seconds ago. "Alright, let's get you back to your daddy, sweet girl," he told her.

"Hang on," I stopped him, motioning for him to put the kid down. Although not understanding what I wanted from a little girl who wasn't even old enough to stare curiously when a man took his shirt off on TV (and I had decided on the spot that the general age at which nudity became an interest was probably eight or nine), Derek listened and set her on her feet. "That gives me an idea."

I patted my lap. The girl looked up at Derek as if to demand why he had put her down (it had come back into style in the last two seconds). It was almost as if she knew she was going to be asked to do something that required effort and didn't involve anything of value that she could try to make off with.

* * *

Bai was happy to sit down and listen to the recordings. I was happy to get a translator. Really, I think the kid just wanted to have something to do and was bored out of her mind in the meantime, but she was still very cooperative. Diana got her a pen and a yellow notepad from my office while I pulled out a chair for her and angled my computer so she could see the screen. Derek was less sure about letting a kid hear anything we found in regards to an investigation, but Diana and I both pointed out that we has asked about Mei Lin to people who probably had no idea what she did in her spare time, and that time was still of the essence. I'd be watching what she wrote, so if it started to get graphic, violent, or otherwise inappropriate, I'd put a stop to it and find someone else in the building. The bureau likes to hire people who have foreign languages.

There was a pause after I asked them the second time about Mei Lin and used her name. Then the babbling of jumbled voices on the tape started up again. Bai did a double-take and stared at the laptop with wide eyes.

"The ladies are mean," she whispered, sounding shocked. " _Really_ mean."

I internally groaned. It was hard to tell how mean was "really mean" to a child; they could be calling me an idiot or they could be betting on whether or not my breasts were real or they could be calling me some much less savory names that I hoped Bai didn't even know the English words for.

"Yeah," I said softly in agreement. It was making me a little sad to expose her to this, but we had a missing, possibly dead agent. While possibly dead, if there was any chance he was still alive… wasn't saving a life worth a kid being a little bit offended? "Sometimes people are like that."

Bai tipped her head. Her silky hair was long enough to pile on the bottom edge of the legal pad. "They think you're stupid," she giggled, her face lighting up.

Quickly, I looked up to the doorway. No one was outside within hearing range. I pointed to the edge of the pad urgently. "You don't have to write that part down," I advised, chancing another glance out to the door. Neal had enough to bother me about already, thanks, and I don't need to hear it from Diana.

* * *

"Bai heard something about Mei Lin working on the night shift at a place called Red Lantern." My idea turned out to have quite a bit of merit to it, as, aside from a few words, Bai was able to do just as well as a translator would have. Our translator would, of course, review the tapes and confirm what the kid had given us, but at the moment, it was good enough to proceed with. I explained this to Derek and Neal in the conference room. "I should recognize the name, I know it sounds familiar."

Derek hauled a heavy box stuffed with the files Costa had generated while he was undercover and slammed it onto the desk, making the table vibrate. "Restaurant, bar, club…?" He suggested. Red Lantern didn't really seem like a store, but it did sound like something catchy that a social business might use.

"Or it could be a sunburnt superhero," Neal suggested, uncharacteristically pessimistic. He had been acting kind of sullen and tired for the last hour or so. I was about to tell him to go get some coffee, but he kept flipping the pen he was playing with between his fingers, relaxed back in the chair at the table and only glancing Derek's way to see what files he was looking at. "It's a waste of time, Kenna," he implored. "Following Mei Lin's not getting us any closer to Lao or Costa."

"Do you have any better ideas?" I asked him negatively. He could at least be helpful if he was going to be mean and shoot down our leads. We were working with a certain level of desperation, and as such, we had to clutch at straws if they were the only things we had.

"I found it!" Derek crowed. He dropped a folder back into the box, but it wasn't directly over the others, so it hit the side and the papers spilled out. I grimaced, and while he explained, I cleaned up. "Red Lantern Exports. It looks like Costa suspected it was one of Lao's shell companies, so he was already looking into it. In fact, it's one of his most recent files before he disappeared." Which explained why it was towards the top of the box.

Triumphantly, I smirked at Neal, shuffling the papers on the desk. "Still wasting our time, Neal?" Unhappy to admit that he was wrong, Neal shrugged his shoulders and looked away grouchily. I slipped the contents back into their folder and laid them neatly inside the box. "Google it to get the address, if it's not already there," I ordered Derek with a congratulatory pat on the back.

Finally, it was looking as if things were starting to swing our way. Just a little bit more luck and some speed, and we could get our agent back. At this point, if he wasn't dead already, he was likely a little worse for wear, but I'd rather a traumatized agent than a permanently lost one. Putting my hands on my hips, I dared to smile optimistically. Someone had to be the upbeat one to keep the group together, and if Neal wasn't up for the job…

Diana leaned up close to the window, peeking through the blinds. I noticed the color through the glass and saw her waving at me. If it were something she'd wanted to become general knowledge, she'd have just come inside. Neal had already noticed her, seeing the movement through the window and turning to watch her signal.

"Be right back," I told them both, leaving the conference room and closing the door carefully behind me in a very clear _do not follow, Neal_ message.

Diana moved away from the window. I joined her at the side of the railing over the edge of the mezzanine and both of us leaned sideways on the metal beams. Diana's hands were empty but her eyes were serious.

"The results on Mei Lin's facial scan came back," she said lowly, chancing a quick peek down below the elevated level to see if anyone was skulking around.

"Who is she?" I asked, taking the cue and hushing my own voice as well. The Chinese woman must not just be some known accomplice of Lao's if it was so imperative to my probie that it be kept on the down-low.

"I couldn't find out at first," she said, clearly frustrated and still frowning angrily at the system. "That's why it took so long. According to the results of our systems, she was a restricted file." The agitation on her face was on par with mine; I hated when our own side of the law obstructed us. It was ironic in a way I did not enjoy.

Restricted files were usually sealed for the protection of the person they were in regards to – for example, someone in Witness Protection might come back as classified or restricted if someone tried to analyze them. Other times, it was to protect the confidentiality of the person or their intention, but because you needed government access to seal files, that tended to only happen when someone was paranoid about an undercover agent being caught and having their cover blown. I assumed that Mei Lin fell under the latter case, since being Lao's accomplice would probably be a violation of a Wit-Sec condition.

"She's either another department's CI or she's working for another organization," I murmured, looking out over the bullpen. Things had calmed down now that we had a handle on how to approach the situation of the missing agent, but there were still outliers and agents that didn't belong in the WCCD. If Mei Lin was undercover for a department related to Lao, then shouldn't someone on this case with us know about her?

Diana nodded and touched my elbow to regain my full attention. "I'm way ahead of you, boss," she promised, troubled.

* * *

I would never get over how Katie had managed to pull together a business entirely on her own, starting from scratch and turning it into one of the most family-friendly child care facilities in Brooklyn. She had hiked her way through college to get her master's degree in teaching with the intention of becoming a high school teacher, but had taken a babysitting job for a large family with several toddlers to help pay her student expenses. She had decided that the rewards of seeing them prosper and come home from their first days of kindergarten with huge smiles and the positive impressions of schools and life were worth more to her than the sourness and poor behavior of teenagers.

The family she had babysat for hadn't been rich, but they had had enough money to spare to pay her pretty hefty rates, and she became a friend of the family. When she moved to New York, she got herself a one-bedroom apartment to save money and put the rest toward starting her business. She took a small venue of a former restaurant, had it renovated, and reopened it into her own small little daycare, marketing it herself and getting vouched for by her friends, whom spread the word to their other friends, and it went on from there. By the time I met Katie, she had a decently-sized regular clientele and raked in such an income that she was considering expanding her business to take on more children and hire assistants fresh from college who could use the hands-on experience.

It was always so fantastic when I heard the story or reflected on the progress that she had made since we had met that I was always underwhelmed when I went there in person and had kids running around, the dwarf-sized humans shrieking with laughter and getting glue and marker on their clothing and hands, hair messy and behavior uncontrolled. Their silliness ran rampant and their volume hit the roof, no matter how many times they were reminded by Kate and the other staff to use their "level three" voices. Level one was silence, level two was whispering, level three was indoors, and level four was outdoors – or shouting.

To Kate, seeing it all in practice just made her day. She was worn out from the little ones, but she truly loved her job and she adored the kids. Unlike other managers who hired their help so that they could relax, Katie still oversaw most of the things, planned activities, made worksheets, used the internet to create project ideas and outlines, and always kept the children busy – and on top of that, she played with them and helped them learn in person, too.

As for me, I just didn't enjoy being around children. If I didn't know them personally, they were loud, obnoxious, messy, and frustrating. Especially during their arts and crafts time. I went to Kate at work anyway because I had found myself on a lunch break that I didn't want to take and had chosen to go straight to her to talk. I wanted my sister's counseling and her comforting company.

She'd chosen to wear a skirt today, patterned with black and white with a long-sleeved navy turtleneck tucked into the hem, and her nylons went all the way down to cover her feet in the tennis shoes. Her ponytail had gotten adorably messy, she had a stain of water or juice on her shirt sleeve, a streak of glitter glue drying over one of her legs, and couldn't have looked happier if her favorite show had just been rebooted.

"So it turns out Mei Lin is actually an Interpol agent," I said to Kate, standing at the side of the room with her. She took a break from her kids, leaving a young woman she'd called Rachael in her place at the table she'd left to carefully supervise the kids' craft scissors her miniature clients were being permitted to use to make collages.

Technically speaking, I wasn't supposed to share this information with my sister. I wasn't really supposed to share it with anyone who wasn't involved in the case, but I had thrown that rule out the window. I knew Kate could keep a secret and was probably more trustworthy than half of the cops on the force, and would never jeopardize Costa's life by blurting out the case facts that I told her to anyone who wasn't authorized. Katie kept me sane and often thought about things with a more straightforward view than the agents. Not knowing all of the legal restrictions gave her a beeline view of what needed to happen, and not being quite so jaded by experience with bad people gave her a more optimistic insight into other humans.

"Wow," she remarked, not entirely sure what I expected her to do with that information. "That sounds, uh, important."

"It is," I promised glumly. I didn't want Interpol sticking their noses into my case. Interpol wasn't actually as useful to the bureau as they liked to think they were; in fact, in the experiences with them that I've had, my life would have been a lot simpler if they had just cooperated, but they were often interested more in global politics than the casualties of one or two innocent American officers. They had policies, of course, but everyone knew those could be skirted if you just knew how.

Katie paid attention to me, I knew that, but she also had her own responsibilities, and I had to permit her to handle her obligations to her job if I was going to show up uninvited to her workplace. "Sweetheart, remember how much glue we use!" She called across. A guilty-looking little boy quickly turned up a bottle of child-safe glue with a twist-lock cap that had been squirting out way too much. "A little dot will do a lot," she rhymed.

A blond youth with his hair spiked up with black-colored gel hurried to take paper towels and manage the mess, while the little boy giggled. The blond laughed with him, his voice making the kid's sound like a tinkling bell.

I rolled my eyes. "I don't know how you can use the cutesy phrases without gagging," I confessed. Even when I had been six or seven, I had hated when my babysitters and bodyguards talked to me like that. They sounded silly, and I had been trying to be grown-up so maybe my parents would take me places with them. I couldn't be a grown-up if I was talking silly.

Kate had long since grown used to the fact that I lacked the enjoyment for kids that she held. We were okay with that on the grounds that I was allowed to dislike the company of several children at once as long as I was a doting godmother to the child or children that Katie knew she eventually wanted to have, once she had met someone whom she trusted to be at her side and help her raise him or her – soulmate or not, Katie was not willing to be a single mom and manage her business at the same time.

As for me, I had never really intended to have children. I didn't enjoy my own childhood as a kid and didn't think I'd enjoy it from the other end of the age gap, either. I had never really put much thought into what would happen if I ever got into a long-term relationship with someone who wanted to be a parent. Since the horrific abdominal trauma had covered so much of my abdomen, the hospital physician I'd been seeing could only approximate at the effects, and he suggested carefully that I see an OB/GYN about how my injuries might impact my reproductive abilities, citing that he suspected I may be more likely to miscarry. I had been angry, bitter, and in a lot of pain when he'd done that, and I'd refused to let him refer me. In the time since, I'd regretted being quick to brush off a realistic concern, but because I didn't want to conceive, I had continued to put it off.

"It's called being patient and affectionate towards children," she retorted without any heat.

"Whatever," I brushed it off. Despite not having my plans ruined by my medical ramifications, it was still unsettling to recall that something that had been done to me had resulted in the odds rising that I couldn't carry a baby to term. I changed the subject. "I'm never going to share your affinity for miniature humans." I liked referring to children that way. It made me smile.

"What are the odds that Neal knows who she is?" Kate asked after sighing. It took me a minute to realize that we were back to talking about Mei Lin.

I rubbed my right cheek with my hand. "He didn't want us to investigate her. His story about how his watch was broken doesn't make the most sense." Instead of being tired, I was willing to bet Neal was being cranky because he didn't have a good enough reason to convince us to stop our search. This was like the portrait theft all over again. "He knows."

Kate was quiet for a minute before she tentatively offered, "Maybe he really just didn't see the point in investigating her."

It was nice of her to try to give Neal the benefit of the doubt, but there came a point when that stopped being fair and started being naïve. "He didn't see the point in looking into someone who double-crossed Lao?" I snorted. Just because she helped him didn't mean that she wasn't a suspect anymore. "Right."

"Okay, so he knows she's Interpol," Katie gave in, elbowing me for being sarcastic when she clearly didn't think that the situation called for it.

"Oh, you think?" I asked, just to be even more sarcastic, while I rubbed my side and pretended that Kate had a weak hit.

She turned to frown at me. "Don't be a-" she started to say, but then clearly opted into saying something else. She pursed her lips and then finished petulantly, "Meanie."

I stared at her with bemusement for a second before it clicked. "There's a kid behind me, isn't there?" I predicted. That was the only real reason for Katie to watch her mouth and replace it with an insult I probably hadn't been called since I was four.

"Yes, there is," she nodded quickly, looking ready to giggle at the disgruntled expression on my face. I'd rather be called a bitch than one of those mild schoolyard insults. At least "bitch" was more suitable to my age group. "I don't think you should be too hard on him."

 _Who, the kid?_ I twisted around to look at the child behind me. A little girl with hair in a ponytail, a Grosgrain-ribbon streamer fixed in a bow over her hair, had sat down on my other side on the edge of the rug with the alphabet in various colors of the rainbow. I pointed at the little one and turned back to Kate questioningly. _Wrong pronoun there, sis._

A laugh bubbled out of her. "No, on _Neal,"_ she stressed, glancing at the girl and grinning. "Of course he should be sharing information with you, but, I mean, think about it for a minute. You sent him back to prison after he escaped and he still respects you, praises you as an agent, and adores you as a person."

My eyebrows went up to my hairline. _"Adores_ me?" I repeated, making a face. "I think you're taking that a bit far." Sure, he might have thought that we were dating this time last month, but he was lonely. He had been alone in prison for four years.

"He has never once lied to you, has he?" She asked, connecting her hands behind her back and stretching up on her toes. She yawned, already getting low on energy, and the day was just past half-over. Some of the kids were picked up later than others, so Kate was generally here until six at the latest, and sometimes came home sooner.

"Well…" I squirmed on the carpet as if in intense scrutiny, or like I'd sworn into court on autopilot and was just now remembering. "Not _technically_ …" But while that was true, he had taken care to be vague and word things carefully so that he led me to believe things that weren't entirely true, especially when he snuck the Haustenberg out of Dorsett's hotel.

Kate probably guessed my qualm to agreeing with her and she shrugged as if I'd said it out loud, disregarding that part. "That's more than I think can be said for anyone else. He likes you, Kenzi." I sighed and crossed my arms. "And if you make a joke about your friends-with-benefits thing here, I swear I will make you go to the time out corner."

I snapped my head around to glare at her, affronted. "You realize I carry a gun, right?" I checked. She could _not_ send me to time-out; I'm older than her, damn it! I was not going to suffer the indignity of children so small they could be drop-kicked laughing at the adult in the tiny, child-sized plastic chair in the corner.

"Kenzi, we're in a room full of four- and five-year-olds!" Kate exclaimed, laughing at me. My scowl deepened. That was not the effect I had intended to have. "What are you going to do about it?"

Okay, so maybe it was an empty threat and I wouldn't actually shoot anyone in a room filled with impressionable and easily-frightened midgets, but _come on._ An adult can't be sent to a time out corner.

I took her transition back into our previous conversation. The flow and switch back and forth between the subject and the tangents was a practiced skill that I probably couldn't do with many people other than my sister. "I don't know," I confessed. I could have confronted Neal about it already, but I really wanted him to come to me. I wanted him to tell me what he knew instead of me intimidating him into feeling trapped. "This is kind of like the painting, isn't it? He hasn't exactly lied to me yet, but he hasn't told me the truth, either. I wonder how much of a catalyst he needs to be honest with me this time…"

* * *

The Red Lantern export company had a huge warehouse. Unlike Hagen's, these weren't very close to any sort of body of water, and were instead in a suburban district. The nearest neighbors were a local brewery that were slowly going bankrupt and an agricultural center that doubled as a flea market on some Sundays, both located several miles down the road. It was easy to get to, but, for a place in New York, it was also pretty remote.

I took Neal with me. Typically, agents are expected to have a partner with them when they do field work, for many reasons: report corroboration, someone to keep them in check, someone to call in an emergency, medical assistance, and general safety and the ensuring of individual welfare. Neal didn't carry a gun, but he was legally my working partner, so while I was more than welcome to ask another agent, Derek, Diana, or someone else, to come with me, it was acceptable for me to just have Neal as my companion. I was seasoned enough to be trusted to handle complex situations and not need a mentor or guide.

There were two sets of doors; one was at the front, not facing the road but rather looking further down, and the side doors, smaller and padlocked, were on the opposite side of the wall facing the street. I skipped the padlocks and went straight to the large doors that opened like those on a barn stall, but gave a weak kick at them when they wouldn't budge for the normal keyhole lock that was still in place.

Of course, it only occurred to me that I had a master lock pick after I started considering how much fun it would be to shoot the lock, but since that would draw attention and our warrant didn't really say "you can cause property damage when not necessitated by self-defense or probable cause," that was nixed, anyway.

"Hey, can you get the lock?" I asked, stepping to the side of the door and waving Neal up to it.

He kept his hands in his pockets and hesitated, eyeing the lock in boredom. "Don't we need a warrant?"

I almost scoffed. Then I realized there was no call for refraining and I sarcastically huffed. "Of course," I put my hands up in innocence. "I didn't mean to offend your sensibilities as a law-abiding citizen." Neal rolled his eyes and tilted his head back to look at the clouds while I had my fun. "Now that's something I never thought I would say to Neal Caffrey." Pointing at the lock more insistently, I added, "Costa already filed for one before he went off the grid."

My consultant took his hands out of his pockets and held them out, showing his empty palms. "I don't have my tools."

I smirked. He could drag his feet all he liked; I was going to get into that warehouse or he was going to tell me what he knew. "Luckily for you," I said smartly, taking a bureau lock kit out of the deep pockets of my slacks. "I have mine."

I motioned again to the doors.

* * *

The warehouse strangely reminded me of a Sams store with most of the merchandise missing or abandoned. Every version of the chain department store has had _huge_ industrial-sized racks in place of the shelves, climbing almost all the way to the high ceiling that makes Walmart's roof look like a cage in comparison. The warehouse had been plotted into a grid that was marked off and organized by these same kinds of racks, locked in place on the cement floor and too heavy to be moved. Several of them had miscellaneous accessories – furniture that I would think twice before moving, chests and trunks, suitcases that looked old and ratty and plastic-wrapped cardboard boxes that could have been either stuffed or empty. On the higher shelves, there were shipments of things in more of the wooden boxes, wrapped with so many layers of clinging plastic that I couldn't even read the marks on the containers.

The big place made me feel small, walking through ten-foot-wide aisles with Neal behind me, prepared to reach for my gun. There were way too many places where someone could be hiding and readying themselves to jump out and attack us. This was certainly an ideal place to get up to some naughty business, especially if you were trying to keep yourself defendable.

"I think I just saw the Ark of the Covenant back there," Neal stated, twisting his upper body around to look at a curious, old, archaic-looking trunk that I breezed right past.

"Good for you, Indiana Jones," I sarcastically clapped and continued without slowing down. My impatience with Neal was extending to include his jokes, too. The longer he took to come clean, the worse it would get. "If my face starts melting, inform me immediately."

Somewhat satisfied that no one else was going to attack us – surely they'd have done so by now, we'd been indoors for several minutes – I stopped looking around the corners and up at the vantage points on top of the storage racks. I cast my eyes to the floor and swept the smooth cement ground. A black mark dragged for a few inches. I almost stepped right over it until I saw it, then shifted to step sideways and avoid it.

I looked forward a little bit further. About seven or eight inches past the ending of that one, another trail picked up, with a fainter dark line next to it. The lines continued, never longer than a foot before they broke for a short length, only to continue. They went past another rack and then started to turn, leaving a wider scrape of polish on the floor, before going left down an aisle.

Neal saw what I was looking at and crouched down, almost to his knees. He touched his fingers to the black on the floor and rubbed his fingers. "Signs of a struggle," he observed.

"These are scuff marks." And, from the looks of them, they had come from the same kind of shoes I was wearing: the black loafer dress shoes that I wore when I wasn't exactly anticipating a high-speed chase.

I sped up and left Neal to jog to catch up with me. The trail continued down the aisle, to the right from the center. A rust-colored spot was dripped on the floor a few feet up from the turn.

"And blood," I said uneasily, wondering if it would be better to call in reinforcements before we continued our exploration. If someone was here, wouldn't they have heard us and called for help? But then, alternatively, what if they were already dead?

"It looks like someone was dragged right down that way." Neal followed the trail as it continued with his finger, pointing to a white trunk sitting against the wall on the far adjacent end of the warehouse. It was harder to see the details of the floor all the way over there, but it seemed like a pretty good bet.

I realized when we got closer to it that there was background noise we were getting closer to – the same hum from a running refrigerator that you didn't really notice unless everything else was quiet. It wasn't a trunk; it was a large freezer. No matter how ticked I was, I reached behind me and caught Neal's wrist, keeping a hand on him while I pulled him up the aisle, simultaneously sickened and hooked on a trail. How could I set this aside when we were so close to a break?

There wasn't much blood on the way up, but there was a forebodingly large puddle dried onto the floor by the side of the freezer that had started to make a trail down the very subtle incline of the building, built on ground that wasn't perfectly level to begin with.

"Oh, no," I murmured, years of investigating crime scenes coming back for on-demand comparisons. "It's a freezer. Christ." Freezers were good ways to conceal bodies and stave off the smell of decomposition for as long as possible.

Careful not to get my fingerprints on it, I bent my wrist back and pressed my inner wrist to the side of the white trunk. The chill seeped through the thin layer of my gloves. Definitely turned on and definitely working at one of the highest powers that it could reach. I let go of Neal's arm and tugged the sleeves of my jacket down over my hands, shucking it down off my shoulders so there was more material to cover my palms.

"You might want to avoid breathing in while I open this," I warned Neal, who looked up to me suddenly, about to demand why I would say such a thing. Not giving him the chance, I hooked my covered fingers under the crack between the lid and the body of the freezer and pushed. The grey polyurethane seal wanted to stick together, but came prying away with a noise like rubber being peeled away from something sticky.

I had been right about holding our breath. I had taken a deep inhale before I started, but even without breathing in immediately, the wash of the death stench hit me hard. The desensitization had clearly started to wear off since my lack of active body discoveries. Neal, however, turned his head away the instant he saw what the freezer held, looking revolted and nauseous. He covered his mouth and nose with a hand and coughed, moving further away.

By no means was I feeling particularly charitable towards him, but there was a big difference between being unreceptive to his humor and being callous about finding a dead body. It was never easy for anyone, and that went doubly so for Neal, who went out of his way to avoid physical altercations. There was no way he hadn't seen corpses in the past – I really didn't think there was a way to completely stay out of that messy business with a career in criminal activity – but he was more sensitive to death than I would ever be, and likely had ever been.

The body inside had brown hair that had started to stick firmly and frost over with miniscule ice crystals, green eyes that had long since glazed over with eyelashes similarly freezing, and a chilling pallor to his face that had little to do with being stuck into a small container at below-freezing temperatures. His legs were folded and knees bent, but his shoes were crammed against the sides, neck up uncomfortably. There would be vertebral damage in the skeleton, I was sure, and the arm underneath him looked oddly misaligned with the rest of his body, either broken close to the shoulder joint or badly dislocated. If it wasn't the eyes or the awkward arm that was the worst part for Neal, then it would have been the hole in the middle of his forehead, a bullet blasted through his brain execution-style, face bloodied and broken.

I sighed out deeply. "This is our missing agent." The entire purpose of putting Neal in danger had been to find a good man murdered and shoved inside a freezer, not even given the respect of a burial. The statistics had won; the odds had not played into our favor. This was the ending I met more often than not, but sometimes – just sometimes – there was a happier alternative, and the few times that happened were the times that made these worth it.

Just… sometimes it was hard to remember feeling the conviction that it was worth standing over the cadaver of an agent with a wife and a sister who would both miss him and never truly get over the pain of losing him.

I tried very hard not to feel like everything had been for nothing while I respectfully closed the freezer, knowing what I would be seeing in my dreams in the nights to follow. Neal heard the soft sound of the lining resealing and turned back around, his face gone flush.

A heavy door opened, the metal mechanism over it making enough noise to alert anyone else indoors. Neal and I both jumped, me moving protectively in front of him. The door was from one of the short sides of the warehouse, meaning that whoever it was hadn't necessarily seen my car parked outside. At least two pair of footsteps (but easily more) became audible as they went from soft ground to echoing concrete.

Acting evasively, I reached behind me for Neal's arm and pulled him over to the nearest tall rack. On these sides, there were metal ladders extending vertically up to the highest shelf. Thanks to the gaps between the shipments, we could look down the next several aisles, and if we were lucky, they wouldn't look at the right angle to see either of us.

Three men, all bulky and heavy-set, were walking up the side of the warehouse, getting closer and closer to us. All were Asian, as I could tell the next time I got a good look, and only one of them was wearing anything but a suit. Whatever they were, it paid to have deportment and it paid to look professional and in control. They were speaking in a language I didn't understand, so possibly a dialect of Chinese or another language that originated from near the same region of the world.

"Lao's men," Neal whispered, very quietly. There was no chance of them hearing from this distance. There was plenty of space between us – it was the lack of clutter on the racks that made me leery of them getting too close. There wasn't much to hide behind. "I didn't see an alarm system."

Neither had I, and mostly because there wasn't one. The locks were industrial and they were supposed to be the only thing that the warehouse needed to keep trespassers out. I didn't have to look back to the freezer to tell that it was the only thing of importance that they would be coming to get; if they somehow knew about the Americans inside, they wouldn't be taking their time at a stroll, and they wouldn't be unarmed.

"They're not here about us," I murmured back, feeling the warmth of his body close to my back and trusting that he was close enough to me to hear my words carry just over my shoulders.

"Then who-"

I interrupted. Neal sounded anxious. Of course he did, he just helped me find the body of a murdered agent, and for all he knew, we were next. "The missing FBI agent whom can be traced back to them," I spelled out, giving him a pass on not being quite as fast as he usually was at catching on. The circumstances were extenuating. I shifted backwards, reaching for the side holster carrying my glock.

I turned around to press my back to the ladder, the rungs crossing over my shoulder blades while I held up my gun and turned off the safety. I was just going to tell him to stay behind me and not make a sound when he went off on me. "No!" He whispered fiercely, grabbing onto the barrel of the gun and pushing it down, his hand covering up the end. "What are you doing? Do you want to get killed?"

 _Do you want to get shot in the hand?!_ I almost yelled back, frantically turning the safety back on as soon as he had started grabbing for the end of my weapon. I held up a hand very tensely, not at all impressed with his lack of sense, and waved my finger in his face to mark my words. "Don't you _ever_ grab someone's gun like that," I growled. "That's just _dumb._ "

"Wѐishéme shì tāsuŏ xūyào de shēntǐ?" One of the men loudly asked the others. Neal let go of my gun, dropping his hand down to his side, but his other came up on my shoulder, crowding close to me both to stop me and for protection. Everything else aside, at least I could still be proud that he trusted me to protect him. He just apparently didn't trust me with much else.

The response was mean like a reprimand. "Bùyào wѐn lăobăn!"

I didn't know what they were saying, but I could guess going by the second one's voice that none of them were friendlily selling white flags. "I'm a very good shot," I told Neal impatiently. "And there's only three of them."

He looked back at me like I'd just suggested we do something even more insane than keep secrets about an undercover operative from Interpol from our partners. "Kenna, you can't just start _shooting_ at people!"

I could have pointed out to him that those guys were probably armed and probably had no such reservations. Instead, I decided to be a smartass. "I don't appreciate the nominalization," I complained in my irritated little whisper. "You make it sound like I'm randomly invading a completely innocuous warehouse for the purpose of shooting the workers because I got bored."

Neal still looked very insistent that I not start blasting bullets through anyone while he was in my company. I grit my teeth. _He couldn't have chosen a different time to take the moral high road?_ His reservations or not, I wasn't going to just wait for them to find and execute us like they executed Mark Costa. He realized he was only annoying me and his face turned more pleading.

 _Don't make me watch more people become like that agent_ , his eyes seemed to be begging. _Don't make me watch you become a killer, too._

I didn't want it to get to me, but it did. I was no angel; I had taken lives before. I had never pulled the trigger when I had the option, but I used to track and apprehend serial murderers. Self-defense came before my morals. There were times I disliked myself enough for having ended peoples' lives, no matter how bad they were, and the idea of making my lover watch me do it again gave me more than a slight pause.

"Do you have a better idea that doesn't involve us coming to harm?" I asked, not expecting him to actually have one in his repertoire.

Looking relieved, Neal nodded and pointed upwards. I turned around to look up at the ladder. The racks were well over twenty feet tall, and the ladders weren't even at an angle – they were ninety degrees from the floor. The structures were very large and even Neal's and my weight combined (which was probably somewhere over three hundred pounds) wouldn't be enough to make its balance topple, but…

I rolled my eyes and motioned to the ladder quickly for Neal to start climbing. I would've been much happier just shooting the men and taking them into custody, but when I thought about it longer, I realized that there was no promise that there weren't more of them outside to come attack if they heard gunshots, and I wasn't willing to risk Neal's life in an unnecessary firefight. I also wasn't willing to give him post-traumatic stress syndrome or hurt his spirit by subjecting him to the role of a bystander in an event of a very violent confrontation.

The conman was always surprising me with how limber and acrobatic he could be – and considering how much of it I see pretty normally, it shouldn't come as much of a surprise anymore, yet there's a difference between lazily feeling the mold of his muscles in bed and seeing him scale a very tall ladder at an unnerving angle with ease. Neal probably kept in shape for the heists and getaways, and then in prison because there was little to do so he might as well have exercised. He didn't have a very large appetite and avoided eating lots of extra sugars and carbs, yet somehow, I had never really considered his eating habits as playing a practical role in his lifestyle until now. Although I did check out his rear as he climbed, I was paying more attention to how sure-footed he was and how much practice and experience he must have had with stunts to be so at ease with doing them.

I checked where the men were again as I holstered my gun and then jumped up onto the second rung, grabbing the sides of the ladder where my hands could quickly reach. It didn't come as easily to me as it did to Neal. Sure, the climbing was easy – it was just a ladder – but going up at such a dramatic angle felt weird and dangerous. Survival sense didn't let me slow down, having decided to flee rather than fight, but it felt unnatural. I had to pick up my legs higher than I normally did on ladders just to catch the upright rungs.

When Neal got to the top, he crawled on all fours and turned around, then offered me his hands to help me up. I smacked him away and told him to lay flat on his stomach to be less visible from the surrounding angles and pulled myself up. It wasn't very unlike some of the exercises at the FBI Academy to pull and roll over the edge of something, so that was easier than getting up the ladder had been. I grabbed onto the gridded thin bars on the top and flexibly turned around, rolling to my back, flipping to my stomach, and then army-crawling to the edge of the rack to look down to the floor.

We had gotten up in the nick of time. The men were just starting to come around the corner as I settled in next to Neal, close enough to fit his hip into the curve of my waist. He was out over the edge further than I deemed safe, so I pulled him by his coat and he wiggled backwards.

One of the men was wheeling a dolly. The three of them took the dolly, parked it at the middle of the left side of the freezer, and one of them stayed there to keep the mover in place while the other two went to the opposite side's corners to help do the heavy lifting.

"What the hell are they doing with the body?" I mumbled quietly, almost forgetting that Neal had ears and might actually reply. Had we done something to tip them off that we knew about their warehouse?

"I don't know," Neal said back, lips barely moving and peeking over the edge with wide eyes. "Maybe just moving it?"

It wasn't something we had done – it was something Costa had done. He had found the warehouse and blown his cover around the same time. They were moving their things out in case there were more like him coming. As one of the men picked up the freezer, shoes sliding in their efforts to push it onto the dolly, I saw an automatic pistol tucked into the back of his pants.

"Yeah, or cremating it to destroy evidence," I countered, equally softly.

For the hassle that they caused, the men were getting the freezer quickly and they were leaving with it less than a minute after parking the dolly by it. It looked very heavy, but the man wheeling it seemed to be the strongest of the three. Every scrap of my civil responsibility screamed at me to just snipe at them from where I was lying, to stop them from taking the body of someone who deserved to be returned to his loved ones and buried with respect and doing God-knows-what with it. Only Neal being with me stopped me from acting on the impulse and shooting at them while their backs were turned. I could've shot them non-fatally and gotten in minimal trouble for the underhanded move, but at least one of them was carrying a very dangerous firearm and wouldn't hesitate to kill.

We waited until we heard the thick door closing on the other side, the uncontrolled slam echoing in the entire structure. "Fuck!" I exclaimed once I knew they were out of earshot, bringing my fist down hard on the gridded top we laid on. It felt necessary.

I was already beating myself up for hiding from them when I descended the ladder, looking down to my side to see how far away from the ground I was. When I was just a few feet up, I pushed off the rungs and jumped, landing with bent knees in a crouch on the concrete and standing up. Neal was already following after me, more subdued and a lot less hasty.

"I can't believe this," I seethed. "They just walked right out the front door!" Venting, I kicked at a trunk on the floor as hard as I could and swore again, hopping up and down on the foot that didn't feel like I'd just broken several toes.

Neal brought himself all the way to the floor gracefully. "Would you rather be dead?" He snapped at me, not taking much joy in my tantrum.

I turned on him, put my foot down, and advanced. My physical pain was nothing compared to the anger I felt, and by bringing my attention back to him, he centered it all on himself. "I could have shot them at any time if it wasn't for your pacifism and we would've been fine!" I reminded. I had been nice, I had let them get away, out of compassion for _him._ And now he thought he could bitch at me about being upset? "This isn't a _game,_ idiot. It's not a white-collar con where you can flirt with some women, drink some wine, and twist around words to walk out with a few million dollars! An agent is _dead_ and because I'm catering to you for some reason that even escapes _me,_ I just let criminals take his body – which counts as both evidence and, you know, _a person_ – to God knows where to cover their own asses, and in the meantime you're not even being honest with me about things I need to know!"

"What am I not being honest about, Kenna?!" Neal threw his arms out, riled up as I insinuated that he didn't grasp quite how serious it was, that I thought he was treating the death of a human being as a little consequence in a trivial escapade. "I haven't lied to you about anything!"

"No?" I couldn't hold it anymore. "How about you start with your friend in Interpol?!"

I was panting for breath by the time I was done yelling, and Neal's fight left him when I revealed that I knew what he'd been neglecting to say. My consultant looked like he'd been slapped, and his jaw worked at air for a moment, not knowing how to recover. For once, I had truly left him, the master of playing with words, speechless.

* * *

I paced, and then I paced some more because I didn't know what else I could do. That disobedient dog in the movie that eventually died – Marley – whichever trainers had been calling that puppy 'incorrigible' had never met Neal Caffrey, because if they had, they would have known better than to use that word on a mutt when it was clearly reserved for the most infuriating person on the entire planet.

Neal and Katie were both on the living room couch while I paced anxiously in front of the television. Neal had sunk into the cushions like a child waiting to be scolded, anticipation making the dread worse and worse, hands folded politely in his lap and his head down demurely. _Good,_ I snarled mentally, turning around and stalking in the other direction. He needed to be a little guilty. _He should be._

Katie was seated on the couch next to Neal, close enough for her knees to be touching his legs as she sat with her legs drawn up and facing him. Her phone was out and she was the epitome of comfort. She wasn't the one that I was angry with, and she knew that the reason I was making Neal sit and wait with growing nervousness was because the alternative was exploding before I had had a chance to figure out what I wanted to say. For this case, I needed to make mental index cards of everything I had to cover and construct a few nice topic sentences to make him feel appropriately ashamed.

Neal looked to the woman at his side. "I never lied to her, I swear," he gave his word to her pleadingly, wanting someone to understand and for at least one of his friends not to be completely up-the-wall with him. The liar kept his voice down so he stayed quiet, but didn't try muttering or sharing secrets, which would have only made me angrier.

"You know that, I know that, she knows that." Kate assured, briefly touching Neal's shoulder. She liked him a lot more than I remember ever giving her permission to. Not that she needs my permission to have an opinion, but it would be nice if there weren't conflicting messages of the level of hospitality in my household. "But there's a difference between not lying and being honest," she added pointedly, because she had been filled in on the situation from both of our sides and knew that he had omitted some very important details.

I turned a heated eye to him while I turned around to pace some more after running out of room in one direction. Neal squirmed. "You don't understand," he begged Katie. He wanted her sympathy, wanted her to defend him to me, wanted my sister to involve herself in what wasn't her responsibility to get caught up in. Normally I would content myself with realizing that he would never do it if it were a topic that could actually get her hurt, but at the moment I was just pissed that he couldn't be an adult and face me on his own without asking for a shield to deflect onto. "I _need_ to find my sister. She's in danger."

"I _do_ understand, Neal. You think I don't get it?" Katie nodded her head towards me, reminding him that she had a sister, too – one who was, more often than not, in some kind of danger, either potential or immediate. "But the problem is, McKenna really, _really_ wants to trust you, and she keeps putting herself out there for you, but you keep giving her reasons why she can't rely on you, and it's hurting you both. You're a smart guy, Neal, and I know you knew it was wrong. Sorry, but I'm not going to try to protect you on this one." Shrugging, she sadly rubbed his arm before standing up from the furniture. "An agent is dead. That's a much bigger deal than some old painting."

"Please, no, stay, she won't kill me with witnesses," Neal pled. Kate pretended not to hear him, picked up her laptop from the coffee table, and took it with her out of the living room. Twenty seconds later, her footsteps were on the stairs.

My sister was always patient with people – unlike me in the extreme in that respect. Even she knew when she had to draw a line, and Neal had reached that boundary in the sand. He just kept hurting all of us by doing these things to me, hurting his own friendship in the process, and then forcing Katie to live with the drama coming home to her every day. She liked to be a helping hand sometimes, but occasionally she saw that if it couldn't be resolved without her, then it wasn't a partnership that would last, and she moved out of the way.

I had stalked all the way into the dining room and I parked myself by the table, wrapping my fingers around the edge of a wooden chair's back and leaning heavily down on it. So this was what it would have to come to, wasn't it? Whether Neal's and my partnership was one that I thought could survive. Would this keep happening? The portrait and now his secret-keeping with a self-concerned woman who didn't think I needed to know what he was involved with.

She had dangled Kate in front of him like bait and he had bitten – predictably, unsurprisingly, and inevitably. Just like he would always invariably be willing to give up _everything_ for Kate Moreau and seemingly always had, he would give up his deal, his safety, the task of getting the kind of man he abhorred locked away. He would give up the honor and trust and respect between _us_ that I couldn't have a relationship of any sort without, just at the faintest whisper of _her_ name.

Neal wasn't the one being hurt by his decisions because _I_ was constantly covering for him, making up stories and lying and bending the facts until they fit a convenient alternative that kept him safe. I compromised myself and my integrity trying to protect him, and he couldn't even do me the favor of telling me when my case was being threatened. He knew someone's life was in the balance and he still thought it was a good time to be dishonest.

Kate Moreau was his everything, and I was his pastime. You can prioritize a person over a toy and go back to that toy like nothing happened – you just replace the batteries or brush off the dust or repaint over the scratch. He kept throwing me to the side for this girl who mysteriously knew my name and refused to tell him how he could help her without harming himself. _There's just one problem: I don't want to be a pastime._

I don't need to be his everything, I don't expect to be anyone's _most important person_ , but I _do_ need to be more to him than some trinket he can kill time with and then disregard when something better comes along. I care too much and I fall too fast to risk being in the position where I'll settle for being in love with someone who won't prioritize me enough to think of how his actions might hurt me. I would _never_ be his Kate. I can't compete with her, not when he idealizes and idolizes her so much that I would never stand a chance, and I don't want to compete with his sister. I don't want to be in a fight for his affection, I want to have it by being McKenna, not by being the champion of his attention.

Not for the first time, I darkly glowered at my glove-covered wrist and hatefully whispered in my mind that the wing painted in my skin should be on Kate, not on me. It was just stupid of the universe to think that the perfect person who complimented me in any and every way was the man behind me, who would just as soon run to the European continent at a whiff of Kate's trail and leave me to pick up the pieces of a broken heart and a messy career that only got worse when he clipped his anklet and ran.

"So…" His voice broke me out of it, the soft timbre that could just as easily lull me to sleep or coax me into waking up to answer a ringing phone, or drive me to talk to a suspect or consider a new angle. He was in every aspect of my life. He was in my home when I relaxed with Katie, he was in my office when I played the role of a dedicated agent, he was who I went to my lunch hour with, and he was whose bed I laid in when I wasn't in my own. I would be nursing a lot more than just hurt feelings if I passed him to another agent – I'd be trying to fill a hole that hadn't even existed before Neal. "What now?"

I turned back with a huff. My low morale and hatred for my soulmark – which I had never felt before, never as such detestation that I just completely wished I didn't have it – burnt out a lot of my fire, so maybe the index cards weren't really a necessity, but I had to address my consultant and I would've preferred it if he'd just slipped out the front door while my back was turned.

"Now?" I said roughly, rolling my shoulders back and stopping at the edge of the couch. "Now you see your deal with Miss Interpol through. This is still an ongoing operation."

He nodded slightly and paused, second-guessing himself. "I wasn't talking about the case," he went through with it anyway, looking down to his thighs.

I threw my arms out to both sides. What did he _want_ me to say? What was next with us? I didn't know. That depended on him. He could keep doing this and he could run me into the ground or he could start treating me like I matter. "I don't know!" I said as much but prevented the rest of it from leaving my mouth. "Part of me wants to wring your neck and the other just wants to know what in the world you were thinking! What did Interpol promise you?"

 _How much did it cost to buy you away from me? How hard was it for them to convince you to double-cross me?_ I could have sobbed.

"Information? Immunity? Freedom?" All things that Neal would want, I was sure. Who wouldn't want to be at their own liberty to go three miles away from their house without a team of elite agents descending? " _Kate?"_ Because surely that would've cinched it. Neal would put Kate over me in a heartbeat.

"What was I supposed to do?" Neal whispered, looking up at me with sparkling eyes. He couldn't be tearing up. That wasn't like him. I was upset, not him, and I was about as much use as a plaything, so why would he care if my feelings had been hurt? He blinked, and the illusion of water was gone. "She said she could find her."

"Interpol doesn't _do_ favors, and especially not for felons working in the FBI," I snarled meanly. "We don't really do the whole 'friendly competition' thing." Mei Lin just wanted something and she didn't give a damn about Kate, but why would Neal think it through? He heard his sister's name and asked how high to jump.

I turned around and was about to start pacing again, but a pull in my stomach that felt annoyingly close to queasiness had me staying where I was. I raked my hands through long, loose hair and then turned back to Neal.

"What does she want in return?"

"They want Lao to walk," he answered, forthcoming now that the cat was out of the bag.

I just stared at him, not horrified, but truly disappointed. Let down. I had such high expectations for him. Neal was someone I was honored to call my friend because, for all his faults, he had _never_ gotten so low as to condone the horrendous, inhuman behavior that led to missing agents and threatened children and dead husbands. Now, just because Kate's name was dropped, he was willing to let someone like that off the hook? No questions asked, just a "give me information?"

"And you're actually on board with that?" I demanded, voice raising to a shriek. How could _my soulmate_ be _okay_ with someone so completely repulsive just getting away from everything he'd done completely unscathed? "You're cool with letting this bastard walk on the charges, keep laundering money, threatening and killing his victims into silence?" I'd thought he wasn't like the other criminals. That was what made him special to me – the one criminal I wanted _out_ of cuffs. "You know, that little girl you showed magic tricks to, he had a bullet fired into the wall right behind her. Just to make sure he'd get the money he didn't even have a right to!"

The felon bristled. "They're after his boss," he furthered the explanation, tensed up on my couch at the reminders. _Good, you need to be reminded of who you're trying to help._ "Once they get his boss, they can get Lao, too."

I hesitated. That was all sorts of wrong, but was it… was it too much to hope that maybe Neal didn't realize that? It would mean he wasn't just turning a blind eye to murder. It would mean he wasn't letting a killer escape, he was just delaying it slightly for the sake of catching another. Or, at least… that's what he thought.

How could he have known better, anyway? Everyone in the office is so careful about not letting Neal have much insider information on what the bureau knows about the suspects we keep tabs on – he only knows what he's given, unless Mozzie uncovers it – but Lao is someone that even Mozzie would make a point to stay well away from, and we'd certainly not had so much time on our hands as to run down everything we knew about Shen.

"Lao doesn't _have_ a boss," I corrected, and with a perverse glee, I delighted in the way his head snapped up, jaw slack for a second, eyes wide and wanting to have misheard. I rubbed my hands together. "I hate to tell you, Neal, but the conman has been conned." I declared, laughing sarcastically and roughly. It was poetic and ironic… and such a huge weight off of my back that Neal had been acting under misinformation.

The way he looked at me, I might as well have laid him on the ground and started kicking at him. "What?" He asked, appearing to be sick to his stomach as he realized he'd been lied to. Long, dexterous fingers curled tightly into the loose folds of fabric at his knees.

"Oh, yeah," I nodded knowingly. "Do you want to know what their game is really about?" I was going to tell him whether he wanted to know or not. He was so insistent that he was capable of handling an entirely new plan without collaboration? Well, he was going to be capable of handling the repercussions, including the guilt. I was _not_ going to take the blame, and Mei Lin was not going to be fault-free, but she was also not the sole person responsible. Neal could have come to me at any time. He chose to cut me out. Now I was cutting him off from his daydream. "It's about jurisdiction and finances. If Lao walks out of America, he arrives in China. And if Interpol manages to arrest him on Chinese soil, they get additional funding from China's government."

Crossing a hand over his stomach, despair settling over his pretty face, Neal looked truly abhorred. "Additional funding?" He asked quietly, barely louder than a whisper, unable to believe that everything he'd been led to believe was false, and that he'd contributed to conspiracy against me, against the bureau, against an agent kidnapped and possibly tortured, for the sake of another organization getting a pat on the back and a deeper lining in their pockets.

His sensitivity was the complete antithesis of the apathy that I had been terrified might come, yet it was hard to let up. I could see in his face as it was hitting him, but it didn't seem like enough. Feeling more in control of myself and of the situation as I watched his face crumple, I sat myself down on the arm of the couch right next to him, elevated about a foot higher.

"So, if you're ever asked what the price of a dead FBI agent is, it's apparently half a million dollars. It's a lot of money, but somehow I don't think that'll be much consolation to his family," I conversationally said, giving him a mocking congratulatory pat on the shoulder.

Neal squeezed his eyes shut and turned his head away. "Please… stop," his voice came out dry.

I wasn't done and I let my voice express my disgust. "You actually think you can trust her? She doesn't have an investment in _you."_

It was mean and it was supposed to sound cruel. I wanted him to realize who he was choosing to repeatedly break trusts with. I was the one with the investments in him. Mei Lin and whoever she was working for didn't give a flying fuck if he was a sophisticated white-collar criminal or a classless brute arrested for first-degree homicide. It was just getting Lao out of the FBI's hands.

"She probably doesn't give a damn what's happening to Kate, either."

 _I care,_ I vowed, despite how hard it was to keep caring when I just wanted nothing more to do with her. My life would be so much easier if she had never existed. If Kate Moreau hadn't made that final visit to the prison, Neal would have finished his sentence in peace and then gotten the hell out of Dodge, likely never to meet me. More favorably, Neal would have found another reason to break out, but he wouldn't have _Kate this, Kate that, Kate's just fucking perfect_ constantly driving a wedge between us that I wanted to throw in the fireplace.

"She's using you as a tool in an effort to divert the bureau and get the extra money," I summarized harshly. "So you can either be her tool, or you can be my partner and take down Lao before anyone else gets hurt. It's kind of sad, really," I reminisced pityingly. "You're so good at running schemes yourself that I'd have thought you'd be better at identifying when you're the one being tricked."

Neal surreptitiously wiped his eyes with the inside of his left wrist, and suddenly my vindictiveness left a hollow spot in my chest that burned with its emptiness. Being a bitch wasn't even making me feel good anymore. He got the point, why was I still tormenting him? I was making my friend cry. Maybe that didn't mean much of anything to him, but it meant something to me. Even more than I had wanted to be proud of my soulmate, I had wanted to be someone my soulmate could be proud of.

Beating a man when he's down and hissing, spitting, and clawing at injuries wasn't something to be proud of. I was ashamed of myself.

"I didn't know…" he muttered, sounding like he was loathing either himself for being tricked or Mei Lin for using him. What mattered to me was that there was an aspect to his voice, an almost unnoticeable shake, the pain layered underneath default petulance when he was accused of doing something wrong.

If I spent another few minutes the way I had been going at him, I'd have probably made my darling start to full-on cry. Deflating, I was unsure about touching him, if it would be welcome, but I decided to be comforting first and just have him push me away if he didn't want it. I lifted my hand to his collar, and instead of condescendingly petting, I slid my hand behind his neck, feeling my fingers along the firm column of his throat, warm with his life, ends of his hair tickling my hand.

I used that hand to pull him towards me and slouched my back to reach. He let me move him like a Raggedy Andy doll. Tenderly, I touched my lips to his face.

"I know," I murmured against his forehead, kissing him again. "I know you didn't intend for Costa to be killed, and realistically, he was probably going to be dead before we found him regardless of your withholding of information."

As Neal didn't object, just slumped his shoulders and let me take care of him, I picked up my other arm and turned myself around to sit sideways, draping my legs over his lap and tugging him to my breasts, holding my arms around his throat in as loving a hug as I could. The subtle five o'clock shadow of hair on his face tickled my collar and chest. I rubbed his back with one hand and combed the other through his thick hair calmingly, the way I knew he liked when he had more trouble falling asleep.

"I can believe that you really did get led around by the nose for a while," I mumbled, pressing my cheek to the side of his head, massaging his scalp with my nails. "We do stupid things for the people we love. … The problem is knowing when enough is enough.

"You have to trust me. I'm doing what I can to find Kate, but I don't think you understand how much I have to do just to take care of _you._ Especially when you do things like this." I stilled my hands and just held him. _Should've gone straight to this part,_ I decided ruefully. "I have no idea how I'm going to justify it, but I'm already thinking of lies to feed to the rest of the division about how you never knew Interpol was involved. I really want you to be safe, Neal, and I want to find Kate so you can be happy."

I wasn't going to be happy when he found Kate and lost interest in me and inevitably left with her for their perfect fantasy life in France the moment his sentence was up, but I could hate him quietly for leaving me in ruins when the time came and take my gratitude in that he would be safe.

"As far as I'm concerned, she's a kidnapping victim, whether or not I have evidence. But this isn't going to work – none of it, not your deal, not our partnership, not even our personal relationship – if you're prepared to keep betraying me at the promises of people you don't even know."

Neal started to take himself out of my arms. I released him and let my hands stay on his shoulders until I saw his face. Even in the limited lighting from the overhead which I was partially blocking, I could see the redness on his face. Not crying, but he'd come close. My heart cried for him. I cupped his face and stroked my thumbs over his cheekbones.

"We're partners?" He asked me with a plainly forced quirk of his lips and a clear, uncertain question in his vulnerable face.

I held my hands on his cheeks, looking into his eyes thoughtfully. The universe thought we were supposed to be lifelong partners of some sort, but I wasn't about to tell him that on top of everything else that was going on. Besides, soulmates were overrated. I had always thought so. Why should I stop just because I started to really, really like mine?

"I guess you'll have to tell me," I said eventually, giving him the decision. I would step away from him for myself. I truly doubted he would ever intend me any harm, but a relationship where I was hurting more than I was happy was a toxic one, bordering on abusive, no matter what the intentions were. And I had promised myself not to let anyone else drag me down that road. Maybe this would serve as a wake-up call to him so I wouldn't have to follow through with that choice. "I'm in a version of your situation… you keep doing stupid things for Kate and I keep doing stupid things for you. But evidently unlike you, I have the sense to stop if I'm not getting anywhere."

He nodded soundlessly, dislodging my hands. Neal seemed to come alive, body reawakening into motion, and he wound his right arm behind me and maneuvered the other under my knees, picking up my legs and pulling me down off of the arm of the sofa and into his lap. He spread his legs for me to sit between his thighs and then just kept holding me like that, arms around my legs and my upper body, pressing his nose down against my tropic-scented hair.

"We're partners," he swore with quiet vehemence, kissing at my temple with the same protectiveness and unspoken adoration. "Professionally and personally, I promise I won't do something like this to you again. This wasn't supposed to happen." _Maybe not, but you made it happen. … Learn from your mistakes, sweetheart._ "I'm so sorry, Kenna," he apologized again into my hair.

I took it for what it was. Neither of us were in any sort of shape to be fussing over the legitimacy of heartfelt apologies. I nestled into his chest like I belonged there, fitting my shoulder under his arm and listening to the thumping of his heart underneath my ear, raking through his hair at the back of his neck with one hand, forearm pressed tight between his back and the couch, and lazily mapped out the planes of his abdomen and side with my free hand.

I missed this intimacy. It had been almost a month since I'd last stayed the entire night at his house, feeling like I was getting too close and not wanting to risk giving the wrong idea again. I would come running back home and find something of "urgent importance" to do. We had a new bookshelf…

It meant I hadn't been waking up and deliberately tangling our legs, hadn't been just enjoying touching him in places and moods other people weren't allowed to without the rush or haze of sex, hadn't been playing with his soft hair while he dreamed or entertaining myself by seeing how many sleepy, closed-mouth kisses I could give him before he woke up. The tactile and sweet things of gentler natures that I thrived on doing that could possibly give the wrong impression had me avoiding them like the plague. I was sexually sated but in a draught otherwise.

 _Sweet, precious Neal._ Kate really didn't know what she had if she was asking him to give up his insurance policy. I couldn't imagine this teddy bear going back to prison. I rubbed his neck and kissed the underside of his throat, licking my lips for a taste of his skin and unique flavor and a hint of salty sweat.

One of us fell asleep first; I didn't know who, but when Katie woke me up in the morning around seven to tell me she was leaving for work and wanted to make sure we were up in case we didn't have an alarm, I had been so content and loose-limbed that I just asked her to call Derek and tell him I was going to come in an hour later. I'd looked admiringly up at the serene face of my Neal Caffrey, then tucked my head back under his chin. I slept better folded up in his lap with one of my arms falling asleep behind him than I had in my bed on any other day.

* * *

Neal and I were left alone in the surveillance van for a while as we set up outside of the business Mei Lin wanted Neal to go to. Neal was sitting in a chair side-by-side with me, both of us turned sideways on the seats so that we were facing each other, and he was telling me exactly how he knew Mei Lin wanted him to be here.

"I don't like that she went to June's," I voiced my complaint levelly, but my dislike for the Chinese woman was increasing by the hour.

Lying to Neal, misleading him, breaking bureau equipment, convincing him to lie to me, possibly even knowing Costa was in danger and still letting her show go on, all because she wanted to get some money for her organization. That was really slimy behavior. My thief wasn't absolved of all of the blame, but a majority of it laid with the Interpol agent. Then she crossed an entirely new line by invading June's property, telling her that she was a friend of Neal's and getting herself let into the penthouse. The thought of her near Neal's living quarters, much less around kind and trusting June, made my skin crawl.

"She shouldn't be in your home at all, and June shouldn't be involved in the situation."

"I agree," Neal established. I had no doubt. There was a firm edge to his tone that suggested Mei Lin was coming dangerously close to unforgivable slights against him. One more strike and she was out. "I think she's going to have me use a different bank account to make the transfer."

"If you use a different account, then we can't pin it on him," I warned, retrieving a golden wristwatch from where it was laid out flat to the left of our listening equipment. I picked it up by one end and held it out over my other hand, rotating it back to face Neal.

He put his hand out compliantly and rolled his sleeve up. "Yeah, I know, but don't you think she'll stop me if I keep helping the bureau?"

I hummed my disapproval while I fastened the watch around Neal's wrist, the gold complimenting the black of his suit jacket. I fixed the watch face on the center of his wrist, lining up with his middle finger, and patted the side of his hand.

"Don't worry, though. I've got a plan." Neal's somewhat keen words rang with pride and a little bit of a taste for revenge. He was not going to forgive Mei Lin for leading him on with lies. At least I wasn't in any doubt as to whether or not he meant for anything too bad to come of keeping secrets this time. And he had technically been under the impression that he was obeying international legal agencies, so it was a little bit better than when he'd stolen the painting. "Thanks for the watch."

The watch was another attempt at our original first plan. If our tech team had anything to say about how quickly we went through equipment – be it the straps of ankle monitors or the pricey-looking revamped timepieces – they kept it to themselves.

"If you get something incriminating on the audio, in Lao's voice, that could be enough grounds to arrest him and hold him until we find more evidence against him." He was staring at the watch, just like he'd been admiring it a moment ago, but now there was something distant in his expression and his lips were pulling down. "What is it?"

My conman looked up at me a little guiltily. "Do you think maybe she really does know something about Kate?" He asked, looking down right after like he should have known better than to ask.

I quietly exhaled and folded my hands in my lap. Neal was still concerned about his sister, and that was understandable; it had been foolish to think he'd give up on the possibility just because it turned out that Mei Lin wasn't acting for the reasons she said she was. No matter how much we hated her character, it was hard to deny that she was potentially in a position to have information that we wanted. This constant distraction of Kate Moreau was really getting on my nerves, but he was learning. Neal wasn't keen on pissing me off again.

"I don't know," I admitted freely, rewarding him with the honesty which I expected in return. I wasn't in the mood to be particularly hypocritical and I wanted him to go into this knowing what was up for grabs. This was a perfect time to test the strength of his loyalties, as underhanded as that sounded – he could turn on Interpol and prove his ties laid with me, or he could flip on the bureau and hope for the best on the off chance that she wasn't lying about that, too. "Interpol maybe has better resources in some areas, but they're also more spread out and far less likely to focus on a missing persons case. No offense to you or Kate, but she's not exactly the kind of person any government will make their first priority." If I was going to treat this as a fair reflection of his reliability, I wanted him to know the facts. "I think it's fairly unlikely that they'll know anything more than we already do.

"Come on, anklet off." I shifted on my hips and straightened my legs out to the right side of Neal's, making room on my lap. I patted my thigh and picked up some large scissors. Neal lifted his left foot onto my legs while being careful not to leave footprints or marks on my pants. "This one has a transmitter," I said in reference to the watch, "But when they scan for bugs, you can deactivate it by the knob twisting thing." I pushed the pant leg up his calf, touching the hot flesh as I did, and slid the blade of the scissors underneath the anklet, pulling the strap as far as I could away from his ankle so I didn't accidentally cut him, too.

While I removed the tracker that gave me the security of knowing where he was, Neal pressed down on said "knob twisting thing." The actual name of it was escaping me, but aside from an unimpressed glance that said more than his vocabulary could possibly hope to convey, he got what I meant. And then he pressed it and turned off the signal. Of course.

"Press it again, and the signal comes back online," I said with a hint of a command, pushing his leg off of me and moving the scissors and anklet aside.

Neal depressed the thin little button on the right side of the watch. "I won't forget to turn it back on," he assured confidently. I looked up and locked eyes with him dully. Just because the instruction wouldn't slip his mind didn't mean that he would obey it. "I _will_ turn it back on," he rephrased.

"That's reassuring," I said, only half sarcastic. It would have been nice if I hadn't had to stare at him for him to correct himself, but so far he had been holding true to the promise that he wouldn't lie, not to me. "If you can sneak the bureau's account number past Mei Lin, do it. If not, don't risk letting her pull you." I hated essentially telling him to let Interpol track the money, but that wouldn't matter if we could just get something, too. "A voice recording is still a lot, and juries have convicted for much, much less."

Neal placed his hands on his knees, about to get up. "Anything else?" He checked, his eyes darting down to my mouth.

I flatly answered, "You're not getting a kiss goodbye." Wasn't he pushing his luck enough?

Neal pouted, but it had no effect when it was ruined by the cute giggle spurred on by my exasperation. Well, I had _thought_ he was learning; I may have to reconsider that one, because apparently my wrath wasn't as scary as it was supposed to be. He was supposed to be less cheeky for at least another week.

* * *

Neal met Mei Lin inside. We heard them greet each other and got to be privy to their conversation in the elevator as they rose to another floor to meet Lao. Neal and I had been right – Mei Lin tried to get around the FBI by giving Neal the bank number of an Interpol account we didn't have access to. She made him repeat it, which he did to prove that he memorized it, and then caustically promised that he knew what he was doing.

If Mei Lin could tell that there was a rift between the two of them that there hadn't been before, she didn't comment about it. Neal didn't tell her that he knew he'd been lied to and she didn't seem to care enough about clearing the air to explain herself anyway. She was just satisfied that Neal, for all intents and purposes, planned to do as she instructed and give her agency the dirt they needed to make the arrest and get the funding from the Chinese.

Before they stepped out of the elevator, though, the entire audio line went dead silent right after the buzz announcing that they had arrived at the right floor of the building. Derek shot upright on high alert. "He's cut the signal!"

"That's okay," I calmed him, reminding him that we had built that feature into the watch for a reason. "What's important is when it comes back online… and I really believe he will turn it on." _I also really believed he wouldn't steal the portrait… but, like the bonds, I can't hold that over his head forever._ "Diana, watch the bank account. Neal and I are pretty sure Interpol's gonna beat us out, but just in case."

* * *

I checked my analog watch twenty-one minutes later, increasingly impatient. This was supposed to be a quick in-and-out thing and the signal should have come back on almost as long ago as it had been turned off.

"Anything on the account?" I asked, wondering why we had nothing when we were supposed to have beat Mei Lin and the International Police on at least one piece of evidence.

Diana shook her head, eyes fixed on the laptop with a dullness that had only grown as the time passed with inactivity. "Nothing."

I scratched behind my ear, poking my thumb with the back of my earring, and stared at the second hand on my watch as it ticked. Even a single minute felt like it should have been five. We knew that Neal was still inside because none of our teams had seen him leave, but what was keeping him in Lao's company for such an extended time?

"The signal's back!" Derek positively yelled in excitement.

The enthusiasm was contagious. Diana and I couldn't get our headsets back on fast enough. Instead of Lao and Neal confirming the bank number of congratulating each other on a deal well-made, there was just rattling – loud, right next to Neal's watch, and preceding another round of Pai Gow.

"What is that?" Diana asked.

I laughed. "It sounds like dominoes." That was not what Neal was supposed to be doing. I'd have liked to see Mei Lin's face when he accepted a challenge of another game and broke away from her script.

 _"_ _You look worried,"_ Lao observed politely as the rattling stopped and both of them arranged their hands.

 _"_ _Do I?"_ Deceptively calm, Neal toasted. _"Yum Seng."_

 _"_ _Yum Seng."_ The table became much quieter as they played, broken only by the slap of tiles onto the table. Lao sighed sympathetically. _"Some days, the tiles don't fall the way we want."_

 _"_ _Some days, they do."_ Neal also allowed, being polite to what was apparently Lao's victory. _"At least I lost my watch to a worthy adversary."_

"Yes!" I shouted, the entire van brightening as we cheered and high-fived, me jumping up and throwing my fists in the air over my head. _I knew it! My clever Neal._ Mei Lin couldn't pull him from the mission if he gave them Interpol's bank, and she couldn't stop him from gambling away the watch that would record every incriminating thing Lao said in its presence.

Speaking of… _"It appears luck was not on your side today,"_ Mei Lin stated to Neal, disapproval clear.

 _"_ _A strange thing."_ Lao mused. His volume to the watch increased while he took it from the betting pool and strapped it around his wrist. _"Even though my profits are one hundred fold in business, a victory with the tiles is supremely more satisfying."_

 _Just give it a couple hours,_ I laughed. He had no idea how hard he was about to hit, and it was because he got too comfy playing the game.

* * *

Hours later, we were taking turns listening to the live audio being broadcasted straight to us. Derek and Diana left me in the van for a little while so that one of them could get coffee and the other ice cream sundaes. Shen had absolutely no clue that he was wrapping a noose around his own neck; he talked about _everything_ we had on him, the threats he made, the leeching of Twan's business, the way he manipulated "Nick," the murder of the missing agent (which had made us all sober up in respect), and it turned out that there were stolen Chinese artifacts en route to Taiwan. He was surprisingly loose-lipped when playing dominoes with his henchmen, and I contently sat with my chin in my hand, elbow on the back of the chair while I straddled my seat, listening in with a headset and a grin.

 _"_ _The American had no talent,"_ one of the henchmen remarked to Lao in a thickly accented brogue. I bit back a laugh. _Oh, if only they knew!_

_"_ _They rarely do."_

_"_ _The parcels have been delivered."_

_"_ _And the body?"_

_"_ _Officially disposed of, sir."_

_"_ _Good. It's dirty business. … I will be relieved to be back home."_

_Sorry, pal, but you won't be making it that far,_ I thought shamelessly, unable to stop smiling. This was a great win. Someone knocked on the door to the van and pulled one of them open without waiting to be let in. I stood up from my chair and backed up in alarm, but Neal just looked up and grinned, sunlight from outside making his hair shine and his tanned skin glow with health. He stepped up onto the back edge and helped himself into the car.

"Anything good on the radio?" He asked, looking pointedly over at the recording equipment as he leaned back and pulled the door shut behind him.

I let out a long breath, trying to calm myself down, but I couldn't help but be completely taken with him. For the moment, there was nothing I wanted more than to grab the lapels of his suit and drag him down the few inches necessary so I could kiss him – scold him a bit for making me worry – but kiss him and apologize for being deliberately mean in reinterpreting Interpol lies to realistic translations. Except I couldn't do the kissy thing, because even though we were alone in the van, we're not a couple; outside of one location, I couldn't kiss him at all, and I had those rules in place for a reason and I knew I would remember it eventually, but damn, it physically _hurt_ to resist.

"I'm back to being very happy with you," I gleefully and slightly breathlessly informed, taking off my headset and shaking out my hair, looking up at the pleased artist, who laughed with me victoriously.

* * *

Neal and I were very quick to return to Twan's restaurant, but this time we stayed on the first floor, ordered some food, and delivered the wonderful news while we stuffed ourselves with authentic-tasting Asian cuisine, flavored brilliantly and cooked just long enough. For someone as lithe as Neal, I guess he can really pack away a meal. Or two.

"I swear," I said joyfully between tastes of seasoned boiled pork and fresh-baked dumplings. Derek wasn't kidding about the dumplings. "He might as well have hanged himself!" Twan wasn't eating, but he had pulled a third chair up to sit between Neal and I on an adjacent edge of the table, straddling it backwards and resting his forearms on the edge, smiling as we told him the outline of exactly how we'd gotten so much on Shen – enough information so he knew, but with few enough details so we weren't breaking rules. "We have hours and hours of incriminating voice recordings on not just him, but several of his henchmen, as well."

"I just want to thank you, and let you know that you are welcome back here any time," Twan said generously, eyes shining and for the first time looking happy with his eyes, not just his smile. "The neighborhood is better off without Lao."

 _Does that mean we can get free refills?_ I was about to ask, but then nearly slapped myself for free food being my first thought as I was being gratefully acknowledged for doing my job.

"I think civilization in general will be better off without Lao," I agreed wholeheartedly, nodding emphatically. "He's going to be put right where he belongs." In a super-max prison, where he might be hailed highly for being a cop killer, but where he would also be living poorly with all of his riches stripped from him.

Lao actually deserved to be in that sort of hostile, dirty environment, as long as the prison guards actually did their jobs and prevented inmate-on-inmate violence. Underneath the table, I pushed my foot out towards Neal's and rested my left leg against his right, leaning my knee against his calf. He stealthily bumped my leg back but then pressed ours together.

"You know," Neal said thoughtfully, swallowing and dabbing at his mouth with a napkin. "I think these are the best dumplings I've ever had."

Despite not actually having asked, Twan was quick to get up and he plucked the plate from in front of the conman. I looked up at the ceiling in mock exasperation. _Way to go for the hospitality, Neal,_ I jeered friendlily in my head. "I'll get you some more," the restaurant owner volunteered, leaving his chair where it was and carrying the plate to the kitchen.

Neal set the napkin down neatly on top of the tablecloth, to the right of where his plate used to be, and leaned back in his chair with a satisfied grin at me, licking his lips.

I huffed under my breath but held my leg close to his out of sight. I wasn't really annoyed. In fact, I was just really, really glad to have him back – not glad enough to jump him the second we were alone, but glad enough to forgive the transgressions (for the most part) and secretively touch under the table. Not only was it a relief to have him away from Lao and his men for good, but it was almost even better to have his heart back with me. I felt much better having his confidence lay with me than some Interpol operative I never personally met, even though part of the reason that was more concrete now was because Mei Lin had lied to him.

 _Her loss,_ I mused, smiling sincerely across the table, for a second feeling like we were the only couple present. _It's her loss if she can't see what a mistake she made by using this man._ I couldn't say I had all of him – didn't really want to have all of him, because that's not very healthy, and even if I loved him then he wouldn't have all of me; I have other people to love, too – but I had more of him than Mei Lin ever would, and if she didn't recognize what a prize he was all on his own, then…

"Will you tell me what was on the flash drive she gave you?" I asked curiously. Part of me thought it was none of my business, it was between he and Mei Lin, but another nosier part wanted to know if the girl had been true to her word in anything she'd told him.

Neal's smile fell. I winced. Not a good reaction. Comfortingly, I stretched out my other leg and crossed my ankle across his, feeling the strap of the anklet underneath the hem of his pants and choosing to pretend I couldn't.

"You were right," he stated despondently. "It was empty."

"I'm sorry," I murmured sympathetically, smiling sadly at him. I knew how desperate he was to find his sister. Constantly getting these new leads and then getting them ripped away from him – the apartment, the bottle, Grand Central, and now this – had to hurt worse than even her initial disappearance. "I usually love being told I'm right, but… I'm sorry."

He shrugged as if he didn't care. I knew better. "You warned me," he reminded, like he thought that cleared me of all emotional repercussion from the incident.

Maybe it meant I wasn't guilty of deceit or of intentionally letting him be led around by the nose, but it didn't make me feel any better. I was happy to have Neal's trust, but would let it go if it made him happy – and I supposed that was what friendship actually was, was caring about the other person enough to value them over your own want of possession or claim. "Doesn't mean I'm not still sympathizing."

His eyes softened. I leaned back in my chair, too, but both of our legs kept touching, symbolically just as together as we were before. Interestingly, the symbolism was hidden by the long, draping tablecloth, which made it eerily representative of the hidden physical affair, too.

Pitter-pattering feet pounded up to the table. I could tell it was a kid, so I wasn't too alarmed or urgent when I looked to my left to see who was running up to our table. Then, theatrically, I groaned back to Neal. "Oh, no."

Bai, with a wide, uncontrolled smile, held her arms behind her back and rocked forward excitedly, only wearing socks. Did she normally do that? I know she didn't have to leave the building to get between her home and this restaurant, but I'd have thought her father would enforce the whole 'shoes in public' thing, at least in America. Then again, Chinatown mirrors another culture entirely.

"Close your eyes!" She giggled at me.

I eyed her nervously. She was already a Caffrey in the making. First she took my sock – now what was she up to? "Why?" I questioned suspiciously, narrowing my eyes without any of the heat I used on adults.

Neal scolded me jokingly across the table. "Would you just close them?" He asked lightheartedly, crossing his arms over his chest comfortably and watching.

I made sure that Neal saw me rolling my eyes very obviously before I looked back to Bai and shut my eyes, keeping them closed for several seconds while I kept my hands in my lap and let her see that I wasn't peeking. When I hit the five-second mark, I started to wonder with paranoia if this was about stealing another item from my person.

She squeaked happily, "Open!"

My eyes opened on command. Neal's shoulders were quaking as he sniggered behind his hand. Bai proudly presented me with my missing sock, the colorful Dalek army swinging and suspended by her small fist.

"There it is!" I delightedly took it from her and she relinquished it without a battle. I held it like she did and showed Neal, who just looked at me like I'd joined the little girl's age group. Grinning at my sock, I put it down on my lap. "She's not exactly David Copperfield," I added to Neal, then looked back down at the girl. If she were one of Kate's kids, I'd have ruffled my hand over her hair, but I didn't know how she liked her personal space and didn't spend as much time at Twan's as I did at Kate's daycare. "I was wondering if I'd ever see it again," I said dramatically, laying it out over my thigh and staring admiringly.

"You were heartbroken, I'm sure," Neal dryly remarked.

"Not entirely," I denied, sticking my tongue out at him with a giggle rising and forcing me to stop. "I have Cybermen on my socks today!" Neal just made a face. _Seriously, if I keep wearing Doctor Who merchandise, he might take them all and hide or burn them while I'm sleeping._ I looked back at Bai and smiled kindly. "Thank you, kiddo." Raising my hands respectfully, I turned my hands so my fingers pointed towards her and I bowed half-over in my chair. " _Xiexie ni._ "

Bai giggled again. I think I'd made a new friend. " _Xiexie ni!"_ She chirped after me, bowing with her long hair sweeping her back as it was dragged over her shoulders when she ducked forward. I started to smile affectionately at the child before I caught myself and looked up at my glass, ignoring Neal's knowing expression.

* * *

Neal and I went into the office next day after I picked him up early and we got breakfast out at a local diner, and then, with huge smiles to equal our success, we walked with linked arms into the WCCD, me giggling at a story about how "a friend of a friend" got past a guard in Reykjavik. This "friend of a friend" was either Neal himself or Mozzie, but considering how uncomfortably awkward the story was, I was guessing the latter, and Neal would've been the one doing the stealth work.

Neal tightened his arm to keep me at his side and I hid my face in his shoulder, hand against his forearm and snickering. Oh, what I _wouldn't_ do to see some of Neal's and Mozzie's earlier and wilder work was a short list. He chuckled, pleased with the positive reaction. He liked regaling Katie with stories of mischief and misadventure but had only recently started feeling comfortable enough with his federal agent handler to start telling them to me – with lots of "alleged"s involved.

We got several looks as we came inside and Hughes was out on the mezzanine with another agent. I raised a hand to him in a wave from Neal's side and he shook his head and went back to ignoring us. Neal and I had just gotten a large victory for the bureau – he'd let us act like kids for a little bit.

"So, what's next, partner?" My conman asked, much more upbeat now that he'd had another day to move on from the disappointment of Mei Lin's lacking information.

His question made me giggle some more. "Oh, you're not going to like it," I promised.

Neal groaned loudly. "Paperwork!" We said at the same time, he with dread and me with excitement. Paper was just part of the job, but it had gotten infinitely more entertaining since I could look up from my desk and see Neal looking like he'd rather be drawing tallies on prison walls or coming up with any possible excuse to take an uncalled-for break.

I gave his elbow a tug and untangled my arm, patting his back gleefully while I departed near his desk. My office up on the mezzanine had most of the files that I would have to look over, clarify, and sign off on, and I might as well get those done before I started to make my official report, since they wouldn't take as long.

Humming happily, I flipped on the light and looked around. Someone had been in here since, because there was a post-it stuck to the desktop monitor that said _nice job!_ with a cartoony smile and a noose. A little morbid humor, but I could guess exactly which of the agents it had been. Gathering up the papers I'd need from my desk, and my desk drawer where I had shoved what I wasn't finished with, I balanced them in one arm and leaned the bottoms of the pages against my body while I used my free arm to pick up some pens.

One of the pens I was picking up fell. It hit the mouse and made it jerk. The screen of my computer came to life, color glowing through the post-it note. I had an email notification in the corner of the screen flagged as urgent. _That would be my luck._ By the time I had put everything in my arms down, gave my password, and responded to the email, I had been in my office long enough to start sweating and wish I'd turned on the air conditioner. I was just leaving in a second, so it would've been silly to do so right then.

I pulled myself back together again, logged out of the computer, and left the office with everything I was carrying back to Neal's desk. I tugged the door shut without dropping any of my pens this time and looked around to see how much calmer the bullpen was now that the Shen case was closed.

My division was back in order. No chaos, now scrambling of boxes and evidence, no demanding officers from other specialized units mingling around with mine and distracting them from their run-of-the-mill cases that had to seem relaxing after the terrible last few days. We hadn't gotten to rescue our missing agent, but we had closed a case and gotten his killer behind such intense personal guard that it made Neal's prison situation, even in the same facility, look like a kid's playpen. Diana was out, probably getting coffee or just not in yet, and Derek was at his desk, spinning his chair around distractedly while he read on his phone.

And then there was Neal, his desk closer to my office than Derek's so that I could just look up from my desk and keep an eye on him. Except Neal wasn't back to normal – his arms were down but tense and he was looking around, zeroing in on everyone he could see from his vantage point, unsure where to focus but looking distressed.

I bounded on over to him, fully intending on checking in without making it obvious that I was concerned. "You look like you've seen a ghost," I quipped, leaning down to drop everything on top of his desk, scattering the pens on top of the papers.

Neal tore his eyes away from the poor victims of his scrutiny and gave me a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Just thinking." I recognized that act – Neal didn't think I was easily convinced nothing was wrong, but he didn't think I should worry about it.

"Well, careful, don't hurt yourself," I said dryly. If he wasn't going to give me a serious answer, then I wasn't going to bother biting my tongue. Turning around a chair from the wall, I dragged it over to the side of his desk so I could bother him. If it happened to be at a good angle to play discreet footsie when I got bored, well… let's just say that Hughes' office wasn't at a good place to be able to tell. "Normally I would prefer the seclusion of my office, but if we get enough of this done together, then we can probably skip out and hit a Redbox, teach Mozzie what good movies are."

And Mozzie definitely needed it if he still thought that _Tiles of Fire_ parts one through five were the climax of cinematic achievement. I had had a nightmare that we'd just finished part five and then Moz and June had announced that there had been a director's edition version that we were going to watch, too, and considering how many nightmarish things I had seen, a dream like that should _not_ make me wake up crying.

"Kenna?" Neal asked hesitatingly.

I looked up at him, pushed my fringe out of my eyes, and blinked. "Yeah?"

He sat down in his chair slowly and picked up one of my pens. He held it between his fingers and twirled it like a baton with nonchalance. "How safe do you think the bureau really is?" He inquired calmly, looking down intently at the pen and not meeting my eyes.

I sank down next to him and put my elbow up on the table, resting my cheek on my fist. "Well… we have security," I said slowly, worried that he'd been telling me lively stories ten minutes ago and now seemed like he thought a killer might be hiding in the shadows of the room. I had been there, I knew what it was like to feel unsettled in public territory, so I went ahead and answered him rationally before I asked why the hell he felt the need to ask such a thing. "All field agents have some mandated training before they can go out, part of which is physical fitness and usually involves a form of hand-to-hand combat. Most of us are armed, so if a threat comes in we can take care of it ourselves. Bomb squad is on pretty much every line's speed dial. The windows aren't covered, but the glass is thick and bulletproof, and-"

He interrupted me with a shake of his head. "That wasn't what I meant," he denied.

Pursing my lips, I dropped my arm into my lap and fixed him with a stern look. "Then what _did_ you mean?"

Neal sighed. His hand stopped moving and he slipped the pen down onto the table. He seemed reluctant to answer me with the kind of answer he'd wanted. "How well do you know the other agents?" He ventured, dropping his voice down so that even Derek wouldn't hear.

I sat up straight. "What kind of question is that?"

At first, I was affronted at the idea that someone I worked with on a regular basis couldn't be trusted. Then it struck me how uneasy he had seemed and how I had left him alone for several minutes – anything could have happened then and I wasn't paying attention. Neal had been working here… maybe not _contently,_ but semi-peacefully for months now, and this was the first time he had ever expressed that maybe the bureau wasn't safe.

"Are you okay?" I searched him for an injury but I'd have noticed if he was hurt. Needing to tactilely reaffirm that he was unharmed, I reached out and pressed my palm over his thigh. Neal glanced down to his leg and then looked up again, biting his lip. "Did someone say something to you?" If _anyone_ had threatened Neal, then they were going to have hell to pay. You just _don't_ threaten innocent people and get away with it. Neal may not be innocent in the eyes of the law, but he didn't provoke anyone into scaring him in what was theoretically the safest place he'd ever be.

It was just plain stupid to go after my friend while I was in the same vicinity. I'd put whoever had done anything on desk duty and then in front of a review board on charges of harassment, if I could get Neal to give a statement.

My face got a little stormier, and Neal must've seen that I was taking his lack of a response as one all on its own. He covered up my hand on his leg with his and smiled at me. "It's nothing. Forget about it."

I stared at him, not wanting to let the subject go. If he'd been bullied and let it go once, then it was plausible that it would happen again. If he didn't tell me now, who was to say he ever would? This wasn't something that hurt me, it was something that would hurt him. Technically, it wasn't illegal to be a bitch, but it was workplace harassment if he was so disturbed by it that he had to ask me if he was safe.

Moving on from the topic that I wasn't ready to brush aside, Neal took a deep breath as he faced the paperwork. "So, which of these are going to be the least painful?" He asked determinedly.

An affirmation that he would rather do the dreaded paperwork was all I needed to hear to know that I wasn't going to get any more out of him – at least, not then or there.

* * *

**One of the few students who are actually nice to me was being bullied by a transfer brat. I asked him politely to leave her alone, and when he didn't comply, I may have… gotten violent.**

**This wasn't entirely unprovoked – he was grabbing at her arms. I grabbed at his hand. I then proceeded to twist his fingers in an unnatural way until he fell to his knees, shrieking. I didn't break anything, just made sure he got the message. You don't touch people after they tell you not to touch them, no matter how cute you think they are.**

**She seems pretty thankful. I may've just solidified my alliance with my impromptu Italian tutor. Whatever happens, I'm going to have to face some sort of disciplinary action. I doubt it'll be more than a smack on the wrists, since this kid has a record and several students saw what happened, but I'm still not looking forward to the call to my parents.**

**The bottom line here is that you should always stand up for your friends, McKenna. I may get in some trouble, but no one can take away how good it feels to take a stand. She helped me, so helping her was the least I could do in return. Not to mention that most of the time, when stands need to be taken, it's rewarding enough just to push someone back in their place, regardless of any favors or debts.**

**However, in the future, you may want to exercise other means of sticking up for yourself and others. Threatening to break someone's bones is apparently frowned upon.**

**Love (and protect),**

**Zarra L**


	13. The Road to Love is Paved With Good Intentions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When an exotic diamond is swapped out for a forgery, all eyes go to Neal. The new arrival from OPR only makes matters worse. McKenna's desperation to keep Neal out of prison drives her to call upon Peter and Elizabeth Burke for assistance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Lucy Hale's "Road Between."
> 
> As of this chapter, AO3 has as much of "Lie a Little Better" as any of my other pages. Updates will be posted every Friday afternoon/evening.

**_Chapter Thirteen – The Road to Love is Paved with Good Intentions_ **

The smell of cooking bacon told me that Katie was already awake, so I didn't waste time trying to be quiet when I got up. I took a quick, hot shower with music playing on my portable speakers, thoroughly washing and rinsing off. When I stepped out, it was onto a plush throw rug. I wiggled my toes into the fuzz, giggling happily while I grabbed a towel off of the rack and wrapped it around my body and under my arms, holding it tight enough to tuck the corner in so it held itself.

In my towel, I dried off my feet on the carpet so I wouldn't slip on the linoleum bathroom floor, then enjoyed having an en suite. I took care of my hygiene and then wandered into my bedroom, taking a newly dry-cleaned pantsuit out of my closet and carrying it back into the bathroom with me. Body dry, I took off the towel, hung it on the rack, and put on my undergarments, then went at my hair with a hair dryer. Once it was no longer damp, I brushed it out, used some styling oil to smooth it out and reduce frizz, and brushed it again before I put on my pantsuit, then applied some light make-up and smacked my lips after blotting the lipstick.

I chose some decorative socks with bright, neon colors, slipped on my loafers, grabbed my phone and bag, and then ran out, pounding down the stairs towards the kitchen and the bacon, rushing like a whirlwind into the same room Katie was already in.

My sister was sitting at the table with bacon, eggs, chocolate milk, and her tablet in front of her, propped up against the gallon of chocolate goodness. She didn't look up when I came running in, but I backed up, stole a piece of bacon from her plate, and popped it into my mouth before I resumed my sprint to the fridge.

"Look at you, up and moving around before seven AM on a Sunday morning," she tried to cheer, but, not a morning person, she sounded a little grouchy. Or maybe it was just because I took some of her bacon. "Either someone hid a spider in your bedroom or you're excited about something."

I grabbed a box of cereal off the top of the fridge and jumped around to face her, spreading my legs and throwing my hands up. The cereal in the box rattled around. I couldn't care less, with how excited I was.

"A _case,_ Katie!" I burst, feeling like I could vibrate into pieces if I heard any more good news. "We have an actual _case!_ I have been bored out of my _mind-"_

Still not a morning person (or bitter about the bacon thing), Katie huffed and eyed me. "More like bored out of your pants," she crankily remarked on the couple of days that I hadn't been home.

I made the entirely mature decision to ignore her. "I have a case now and it's not a mortgage fraud one, it's not paperwork, it's legwork and investigating and _fun!_ "

It had been longer than usual since I'd had something out of the ordinary to focus my attentions on, and as if I needed to be any more bored, the Wi-Fi at our house had been really spotty until a few days ago, when we'd finally found the loose wire and managed to fix the problem. With nothing challenging to do at work and only mindless tasks and trivial hobbies to do at home, I was running out of ways to stay occupied, so of course I went for sex. It was either sex or working ahead on mortgage fraud paperwork. _Who wouldn't go for the sex?!_

"And guess what!" It wasn't just having a task to attend to that was making me so thrilled. It was the kind of case. "It's a heist!" I blurted out, putting the cereal on the table and clapping my hands together, thrumming in thrill. Not only would I have something to _do,_ but I could pull Neal away from the desk he used in the bullpen and we could actually work together on interesting things!

Kate rolled her eyes as she understood the significance. "Which means you get to call in your very own bond forger."

"Bingo!" I ran across the kitchen to get a bowl, then stopped off at the fridge on my way back to the table to pick up the white milk to go with my cereal. "Hey, you like him, too," I reminded her when her lack of enthusiasm registered. Kate had liked him before I did, so at the very least, she could pretend to understand why I was keen to go to work.

"I'm just hoping this good mood lasts," she said, looking up from her tablet and letting it fall to sleep, screen turning dark. She scooped up scrambled eggs with chopped up onions and shredded cheddar cheese on her fork. "I'm glad you have something to do. If you tried helping me with my daycare planning again, I may have to pick up the phone and smack you with it."

"Oh! Phone! Great idea!" Ignoring that her actual idea had been to begin physical abuse, I left my chair pulled out to run and get the landline phone from the charger and voicemail recorder and carried it back to the table with me, dialing Neal's phone number from memory.

Pouring my cereal while the tone rang, I waited impatiently for my consultant to pick up. Apparently he was bored, too, because he answered on the third ring, and I stopped and put my cereal box down, throwing myself into the chair and waiting on adding the milk until after I'd talked.

 _"_ _Morning, Kenna!"_ He chirped like a happy morning bird. Kate could take lessons from him.

"Where're you right now?" I asked, forgetting for a second about the case when I heard the telltale sounds of traffic through the phone line in the background. It wasn't even seven yet. Why wasn't he home?

 _"_ _I'm within my two-mile radius,"_ he flippantly answered, evading a direct answer. I just decided to dismiss it. _"Where are you?"_

"Um, I'm in my kitchen. With Katie." I moved the phone from my face and stretched across the table, trying to reach it to Kate, who looked up from her plate and stared at the device. "Say hi, Katie!"

She sighed. "Good morning, Neal," she indulged, and I grinned at her while I pulled the phone back to my ear.

 _"_ _Good morning, Katie,"_ Neal was saying back to her, amused.

"He says good morning, too," I informed her pleasantly, happy to be their mediator for the time being. Then I jumped forward headfirst into the reason I was so happy. "We have got a good one today," I promised, leaning back in my chair and crossing my legs. "Suspected jewelry heist, which means that you know if it's the real thing, it's a really good one!"

 _"_ _I'm intrigued,"_ he said, sounding like it was sincere.

I grinned. That was what I wanted to hear! "Fourteenth and ninth in forty-five minutes, Neal. That's seven thirty, please."

 _"_ _That's at Le Joyau Precieux!"_ Neal's voice went up in surprise. _Le Joyau_ wasn't the largest shop, but it was one of the fanciest and most expensive stores – excuse me, boutiques – in the Garment District. _"I'm even more intrigued."_

"Oh, of course," I rolled my eyes, playfully mocking. "The classiest and most expensive boutique in Manhattan. You _would_ know the exact street address." My CI was probably shrugging wherever he was, thinking that it was sad that I _didn't._ "You're gonna love this one, Neal," I promised, smile pulling at my cheeks and affection clearly ringing in my voice.

_"_ _Just one thing, Kenna."_

I canted my head before I realized he wouldn't be able to see. "What?"

 _"_ _How much coffee have you had?"_ He laughed.

I took the phone away from my cheek and glared at it before I moved it back. "None." _Yet._ "Shut up!" Shaking my head, I chuckled a little bit with him. I could take a joke. "See you later."

He agreed and hung up his phone, which cut off the line on my end. I put the landline down on top of the table and unscrewed the top on the gallon of milk, poured it into the bowl with the rest of my cereal, and picked up my spoon.

I had two full spoons of my breakfast eaten before Katie cleared her throat and I looked up to finally notice that she was staring at me expectantly. 'So, what happened at _Le Joyau_?" I blinked. I was supposed to tell her about my cases now? I suppose I had made a habit of it in the past, but she usually waited until I told her about them myself. "I was going to stop by later today, but I guess those plans have changed."

I swallowed and then wished I'd thought to pick a glass out of the cabinets to have a drink, so I went to get one. "Well, they called this morning complaining that they thought they were robbed." When I opened the cupboard, I picked out an actual glass instead of the usual coffee mug and took it back with me.

"And they decided that it was a matter for the FBI without police intervention first?" She stated cynically while I served myself some chocolate milk and then sat back down.

"NYPD must feel appreciated," I sarcastically joked, but I didn't have an actual answer for her. They had insisted it was important enough for the FBI, so now I was being told to look into it. Not that I was complaining. "I don't get what's so great at a clothing store," I mumbled through a mouthful of Captain Crunch before swallowing again. "I don't get why you were going to go there. It's not like they have clothes you can't get things similar to for half or quarter price elsewhere."

Kate didn't answer me, either, so I guess we were even on the whole 'not having sufficient replies' field. "Knowing your history with prolific cases, it probably has something to do with the promotional piece," she thoughtfully murmured.

Not being someone who kept up with _Le Joyau_ or similar shops, I just cocked my head at her. "What's that?"

She looked surprised that I didn't know. "They're supposed to be putting the world's most exotic pink diamond on display, starting today, to promote their sales," she explained, probably having seen it in a magazine or something. I would bet checking out an exotic diamond might have had something to do with her sudden desire to walk through the store. If it was going to be worth so much as a promotional decoration, then it had to at least be pretty.

 _That. That sounds like something FBI worthy._ Well, I supposed she had just answered my question about why they had skipped the part where they took it to the local police.

"Hm. Yeah. That does seem like something that might be a target for a thief."

* * *

 _Le Joyau_ apparently was so overpriced that they could actually afford to pay actual people to stand around the store, modelling their outfits and pretending to be still like mannequins in various poses, and still make profits.

I walked in the front doors with Neal just behind me, having waited for me outside on the sidewalk. I stopped in front of one of the women and balked. One leg was straight, the other bent with her knee pointed to her right, her foot up on her toes in ballerina flats. With one hand on her hip and the other arm up and out, she showed off a snug black top with layers of black leather tassels and a light pink wrap skirt down to her knees.

"This is something you don't see every day," I marveled, stepping closer to the model. Her long black hair was straightened and pinned so that it all fell down behind her shoulders. Her eyes followed me, but no other part of her moved. I waved my hand a few inches in front of her face to see if she flinched. She stayed statuesque.

Neal took my upper arm and pushed it back down to my side. "Kenna, come on," he lectured patiently, taking me by my shoulders and steering me away from the model I was trying to scrutinize. "Don't do that, it's rude."

"They're like the Buckingham Palace guards," I marveled. It was unnatural how still they could be.

"I've been to Buckingham Palace. This is better." Neal grinned and winked over at a girl with curled blonde locks showing off thin red teddy lingerie further into the store and away from the windows.

A little bit jealously, I wanted him to stop looking at her. She was sexy, yeah, but _I'm_ taking care of his sexual needs, so he can skip the part where he ogles the pretty girls, thank you very much. "That opinion wouldn't have anything to do with the sheer material, would it?" I asked huffily.

"Agent Anderson?" Another blonde asked, but this one was in professional dress and was wearing a clip-on tag with the store's name and _manager_ written in red italics underneath. She was not trying to compete with the models for Most Stationary Person. Her strawberry-blonde hair was straightened out and pinned out of her face. She stepped out from behind a display that she'd been organizing, turning items on hangers so they faced people walking past.

"Yes," I answered, and beckoned for Neal to stay with me. "Neal, come." I walked across the floor towards her.

"This is a delicate situation," she worried, looking over my shoulders and then glancing over Neal. She saw that he was with me and then didn't seem as concerned that he was listening. She worried her hands together and fussed with her fingernails. "I would appreciate if we could keep this discreet."

"Keep _what_ discreet, exactly? Your phone call was particularly vague." I tried to sound suitably scolding. Vagueness is not appreciated in a phone call to law enforcement. At all. At least not by me. I want to know what I'm dealing with.

She exhaled deeply and looked at both of us intently. "You're aware of this promotion?" She asked in a whisper.

"Um, something about a pink diamond?" I recalled, expecting to be told if I was right.

Instead of a simple yes or a no and an explanation, I was graced with the perturbed uncertainty from the manager and the startled disapproval of Neal for not being more educated on the topic. I sighed heavily, feeling my shoulders fall. _If only my consultant could just be a little less high-maintenance and sophisticated, that would be wonderful._ Some of us common folk didn't give a damn about the specifics. A diamond's a diamond regardless of whether or not it's fucking _pink_.

"A forty-two carat Steinmetz pink set in platinum, the most exotic pink diamond in the entire _world,"_ Neal stressed, as if those words strung together in that particular order was supposed to be particularly meaningful to me.

I didn't show any sudden understanding, instead just sighed audibly and gestured for the manager to get on with her explanations of why we'd been called.

The manager dropped her hands to her thighs. "It may have been stolen," she confessed.

"You're worried it's a forgery?" I mentally thanked Neal for stepping in, because now I felt too exasperated to sound adequately concerned for the diamond's whereabouts.

"Yes!"

"And what makes you think that?" I asked, trying to recover that fervor and excitement that I'd had before I'd realized just how early it was and tripped over a chair on my way out of the kitchen and burned my tongue on a pot of coffee.

She bit her tongue, looked between Neal and I, and then turned to lead us out of the showroom. "Follow me, please," she indicated, and my eyes found her four-inch stiletto heels while we did as she asked. I stared in horror at her shoes for the entire walk back.

* * *

"When I arrived this morning, everything was as it should be. We removed the necklace from the vault, opened the show as planned, and later, when we were doing our mandatory review of last night's security tapes, we saw this."

The manager had the security footage pulled up but it wasn't doing anything. Each frame looked exactly the same. It wasn't paused, because the timestamps were progressing by the second. I didn't know what I was supposed to be looking at, and since she apparently was allergic to straight answers, I wasn't sure she would tell me when I should be noticing something. The black-and-white camera covered the vault; it was a small room without ceiling lights, instead with lit panels in each corner, two on either side of each wall. The wall that the camera was focused on had a dark wall safe. Nothing else was in there.

"Saw what?" Neal asked, settling my worry that I was particularly out of the loop today.

Right after he asked, something in the image onscreen changed. In the bottom of the camera lens, a little black head poked up, clad in a ski mask. The man advanced into the room, dressed all in black fabric, and then… turned around to the camera and brazenly waved hello.

"That's your vault?" I clarified. The man – I made the assumption since his chest was flat – turned away from the camera to the wall and took a stethoscope to the safe. Looking over his shoulder, he held up one hand in an A-OK sign to the camera again.

She nodded confirmation anxiously. "Yes."

He ripped the stethoscope out of his ears and then threw it on the floor without cracking the safe. I got the feeling that that, just as much as the waving, had been part of showmanship. Turning back, he raised his arms to advertise his presence before taking a homemade laser and blinding the lens. The recording went to static.

"The necklace was stored there for ten hours between its arrival last night and the opening of the show this morning."

"This was your first clue something was wrong?" I asked sarcastically. Yeah, sure, it could be an elaborate prank. There wasn't video evidence that the safe had ever been opened. Causing a panic might be funny to some people. Problem was, this was very high-profile, and they could get in a lot of trouble for trying, even if they didn't actually take the diamond, so why bother only going halfway? "Why is the possibly fake necklace still around someone's neck?"

"It's opening day," she protested to my incredulous tone. "This is the promotional event of the _year,_ Agent Anderson!"

I wish I cared. I really did. I'd have seemed much nicer if I could sympathize, but to me, her justification for going on with the show just sounded superficial. Did she have any idea how much heat she could bring to her own business if someone, especially someone in the press, had found out that the hugely promoted and advertised exotic diamond being displayed was actually a fake?

"I really don't care," I said as patiently as I could. To be honest, there wasn't much patience. "You have a video of a stranger sneaking into your vault and screwing around with your safe. Your store is officially closed."

* * *

It was faster to shoo the customers out of the store than it was for my agents to arrive at the scene. The storefront was marked off with crime scene tape, leaving only the manager, the cashier, the hired models, and the floor staff still inside, as well as Neal, myself, and my favorite agents. Derek sent Cruz to run a perimeter while Diana kept the staff shepherded in one part of the store, away from the windows and the sights of nosy pedestrians.

There were too many employees to question them all on our own, so there was a second team on their way out to take statements and contact information. I gathered from a tan-skinned model with hair dyed silver with grey highlights that the models weren't employed by the store as much as they were by their agency. They just followed the store staff's instructions.

If anyone on the inside was involved, it would probably someone who worked at the store regularly and was in a position to have administrative info, in order to know the details of the arrival of the diamond. "Diana," I called, raising my voice across the store. Most everyone fell quieter. "I want all of the models over here. Tell the incoming crew to get the staff first. No one leaves until they're all questioned."

Diana held her hand up in a short wave of acknowledgment. "Got it, boss!" She started to pick out the models' eye-catching outfits from the blue shirts of the store workers.

The manager had spent the last fifteen minutes or so following me like she'd gotten lost. She tapped her fingers together. "We're not positive it's a counterfeit. Our appraiser's still on the plane." I didn't really care to prioritize the store's reputation over a diamond stealer, so I walked on over to Neal, who was inching his way back to the women and hoping Diana wouldn't notice. The long-haired woman pursued. "If it turns out to be a mistake, the amount of money we would lose – not to mention our credibility, which would be-"

"Don't worry about your appraiser," I informed, thinking she wasn't going to listen to me. She could have her expert look at it, but I wasn't going to trust someone I didn't know over Neal, who was a professional that was earning back my trust. "I've got my own guy."

I pointed Neal out to her and checked out her reaction to the handsome partner being a diamond aficionado. She just looked disgruntled. I turned back to my consultant invading the personal space of the ebony-haired model with the necklace presented against her chest. Just like that, I flipped from proud to embarrassed.

"Hello again," he greeted her, bending forward so far that he had to look up through his lashes at her. She smirked as he breathed over her chest. "Is it fake?"

_How would she – oh._

The spectacle was attention-grabbing. Diana crossed her arms and complained to Derek, "He _is_ talking about the necklace, right?"

"It's beautiful work," Neal whispered admiringly. I was not convinced that he wasn't staring at her supple breasts. Luckily, misconduct was an acceptable excuse for aggravation, because I really did not enjoy the blatant regard, nor did the woman's confident smirk make me any happier with them.

"Thank you," she said politely, looking down into his soft hair.

Derek huffed. I would've guessed that he was jealous, although probably because only Neal had the disposition and the disarming looks to be able to get away with things like this. "Does that answer your question?" He asked Diana grumpily.

The conman looked up to the girl's face in complete seriousness. "I need a closer look." He informed empirically.

 _What are you going to need next, a texture analysis?_ I could be rather possessive. "Neal," I snapped, making the man look up questioningly, not batting an eye at being called out. "I don't know if this has occurred to you," I growled, "But necklaces can be taken off."

"I'm trying to preserve the crime scene!" He tried to justify, grinning shamelessly.

"Consider it preserved," I deadpanned impatiently.

Wordlessly, the model helped him out of the pit he had practically jumped into. Gathering up her hair, she pulled it all over her left shoulder and then unclasped the hook on the chain. She lifted the necklace ends away from her hair and let the diamond in the middle swing right into Neal's waiting hand.

"Thank you," he winked. Neal produced some glasses from an inside pocket in his jacket while the girl left him with the necklace and crossed between sales racks to join the other models from her agency. My consultant unfolded the glasses against his shoulder and then pushed them up his nose, holding the diamond close to his face, turning to shine the nearest light source through the mineral.

The manager and I looked at each other for a long few seconds, she more cynical than ever of my methods of approaching the investigation and myself very apologetic for Neal's bad behavior. Ultimately, I won, what with having legal authority and all.

"Nope." Neal drew out with increasing certainty. Both of us turned back to him. He spun around and offered the diamond necklace to me. The glasses emphasized his striking eyes and flattered the structure of his face. I wondered why he didn't wear them more often. "Nope, it's synthetic."

I turned the diamond over. I could believe that it was expensive because of what it was made out of, but honestly, I wouldn't want to wear it around my neck. It was too large for a pendant and would then become the focus of an entire outfit.

"There is no such thing as a synthetic pink of that size. It simply doesn't exist," the manager argued, not wanting to believe it. I thought that seemed silly. Synthetics are manmade, so why couldn't humans forge a synthetic pink diamond?

Yet I respected that I was by no means an intellectual authority on the topic, and deferred to Neal. I was about to ask what her qualifications were to back up that claim, but Neal beat me to it. Disappointingly for me, he wasn't as rude as I would have been. "Yes, the pink is difficult to match," he agreed. "It's only achieved using radiation, which creates and extremely fine inclusion within the stone that's virtually impossible to detect." Taking off his glasses, Neal pressed his lips. "Unless, of course… You're looking for it."

Neal turned his eyes on me expectantly, a thrilled, boasting expression on his face that I liked to call his _look what I did, Kenna!_ look. _My CI wins again,_ I proudly thought, nodding to him in approval.

In denial, the manager rotated to face me and stuttered. "I – I have no idea how that could have happened," she insisted, eyes wide and face flustered. She was not going to have a pleasant report to whoever it was she answered to. "No one knew when the necklace was going to arrive, or where it was going to be stored!"

"I need alibis from everyone who worked here and everyone who could have known the diamond was in the vault." I commanded Derek and Diana. The first thing Derek did was try to take off to the side of the store with the women from the modeling agency. Diana snorted, blocked his way with an arm, and took his place. "Do you have any idea how the masked perpetrator could have gotten inside?" I chose to act like I hadn't seen evidence of my agents' immaturity.

"Um…" The woman covered her mouth with her hand and looked like she was really struggling not to be sick. "Our security cameras only record what happens on the floor and in the vault itself. We don't record the hallways." I sighed deeply and looked up at the ceiling. If people would stop considering their security so foolproof as to dismiss extra, simple precautions, things like this wouldn't happen. "We have a backdoor, but the alarm was never triggered. He must've tampered with the system."

I shook my head again. Alarms weren't always the hardest to gloss over and get through, but sometimes they were. Someone with the resources to convincingly forge a diamond was probably tech-savvy enough to do so, or at least get someone to help them. "Do you think he hacked the alarm?"

I got no response and I looked to Neal to prompt some more active engagement. He was exchanging smiles with another model waiting to talk to Diana.

"Hey!" I barked at him, glaring. The thief looked legitimately startled. Had he seriously gotten so distracted by the pretty girls that he forgot that he was supposed to be working? "Hacked the alarm?"

"Oh." Neal shrugged noncommittally. "Yeah, it's possible, if you can find the cameras' blind spots and sneak past." _You'd know all about that, wouldn't you?_ I turned back to the manager and smiled. At this point I was just choosing who I wanted to be around less, and the manager was still winning. Neal was coming very close to overtaking her.

"Al- _right,"_ I clapped, glad to be wrapping it up. "Hear that? Your surveillance video is confiscated now. The necklace is also ours, and we'll study it for any leads on how it was forged and who made it." I held it up at eye level and tried to look through it. What were you going to do with it once you stole it, anyway? Pawn it for the money? It was an awfully big piece for a necklace.

"And we will need you for further questioning," Neal's charming voice made me take in a deep breath before I turned around. Keeping tabs on him was getting exhausting. He was speaking to the girl in the red teddy underwear, who was twisting her ankle and pushing her sandal's toe into the floor, twirling her hair with her hands nervously.

"Um," I objected intelligently, groaning. Sometimes he really did need a leash. "That's _my_ call," I reminded him, meeting the model's eyes and nixing Neal's statement with a hand across my throat.

"What's it like to be a model?" Neal asked, disregarding that I had said anything to protest his repetitive lack of attention. I'd thought that a heist in a store like this would have his attention, but maybe I should have known better. He's as flirtatious as he is classy. I cleared my throat. He didn't react. "I bet it's fun, right? Walking around catwalks-"

The woman started to giggle, blushing heavily. I huffed and loudly called his name. _"Neal!"_ Startled, both looked at me. I was happy to break them out of their own little world and assist them in their return to reality. "Leave the models alone!"

Neal rolled his tongue in his mouth and apologized quietly to his new friend as he slunk back to my side. _Nice try, Caffrey, but just discrediting a diamond is not all I want from you._ "It's legit," he attempted to clear himself.

"Sure it is," I agreed sarcastically.

Neal frowned at me. "I'm going to be sucking up to you for the rest of the day, aren't I?"

 _Wow, it's like you can see the future!_ "Depends on how much paperwork you want to be doing after this," I answered with a bright grin as I once again exercised my right to stick him behind a desk and drive him insane with mundane tasks.

* * *

By the time we'd gotten back to the FBI offices, I was feeling a lot less like shoving Neal behind a desk all day, and after a light cuff to his shoulder, I dragged him into the elevator to get to the White-Collar Crime Division. We tended to do our best work when we were talking alone, at one of our homes or in my office. It was both because we could concentrate without distraction and because Neal was a lot more relaxed about admitting his experience to me than he was to the other agents. It would be a lie to say I didn't want his attention to myself, too. Despite not having any claim on him, I sure am possessive.

"I have a team working the alarm system," I said, taking our back-and-forth banter away from the logistics of the _Le Joyau_ pricings and whether or not shopping there was worth the extra money. They'd had nice lingerie, but I'd seen variations of almost everything else before in other stores that looked just as nice – the lingerie probably wasn't exactly unique, except I didn't do a lot of lingerie shopping, so I wouldn't really know, and therefore wasn't quite willing to commit to that. "You're experienced with this." The elevator dinged and the doors started to slide open. I breached his personal space and placed a hand on his lower back to guide. "If the guy's smart enough to get past cameras and alarms, do you think we'll find prints?"

"No chance," Neal flatly answered, shaking his head. I sighed. I'd kind of expected it, but it would still be easier if it were a case as simple as lifting prints. He chanced a smile at me. "But then, not everyone is as good as I allegedly was." I swore that he was showing off. The man was practically preening his feathers.

"Allegedly," I repeated, amused. My hand dropped from his back so that I could open the big glass doors to the unit's offices.

"Allegedly," he confirmed, eyes sparkling in mischief. I smiled at him and bit my lip, trying not to encourage him, but it was hard when his happiness was so contagious. It always felt like pulling one over on the bureau when I took advantage of the edge of criminal perspective and expertise that my consultant brought. His crimes had become a joke. He got away with them and I used them to solve my own cases. 'Allegedly' might as well be Neal's favorite word.

Catching myself and remembering where we were, I coughed to clear my throat and tore my eyes away from Neal's. We couldn't be having "moments" in the middle of the FBI. _No, scratch that – we can't be having "moments," period._ I'm his supervising agent, his sister is God-knows-where, and he has no idea about the tattoo-esque artwork on the inside of my wrist. And it had to stay that way. He could mean as much as he wanted to me, but I couldn't let it on. The situation was too complicated, and there were so many ways that it could go wrong that it made me physically nauseous.

My cheeks flushed as I stared at the ground. Suddenly, taking Neal up to my office for a chat in solitude wasn't seeming like such a great idea, because I was embarrassed at how I'd been obviously bothered by the emotional closeness and I wasn't sure I trusted myself not to kiss him. I wanted to; God, did I want to. I just had to keep lying to myself. I had to tell myself over and over again, until I believed it, that I didn't want to be hugged and nuzzled and touched during the day when I had my actual life to attend to.

"Who's that?" His tone had changed a few seconds later and I withheld a soft sigh of relief. I could've kissed him for letting go of what had just happened, but that would have kind of defeated the purpose.

I looked up and willed the blush in my face away. Through the glass window of the conference room up on the mezzanine, I could see Hughes sitting on one side of the long table. On the other side and facing him was another broad-shouldered, short-haired blond man in a suit, something on the table in front of him. I didn't recognize his form and I couldn't think of who it might've been that would require Hughes taking him into the conference room for a private talk rather than his own office, so I understood why it got Neal's attention. It certainly piqued my interest.

"I don't know." I crossed my arms and looked up through the window curiously. Hughes nodded briefly and started to say something, then cut himself off. He looked annoyed. Whatever was going on, I was glad I wasn't a part of that discussion. "Never seen him before. Hughes doesn't look very impressed, though," I added the obvious when Hughes narrowed his eyes, proverbial hackles raising as he quickly said something back. _Yikes._ Not many people got him that aggravated and then failed to flee with their tails between their legs.

Derek spotted Neal and I standing by the doors and he jumped up from behind his desk, looked fearfully over his shoulder at the conference room, and then hustled to us. He pointed behind him and ignored Neal in favor of rushing to say, "OPR's here."

"OPR is involved," I relayed to Neal, understanding now what put Hughes in such a bad mood. "That's why."

"OPR?" The conman prompted.

"Office of Professional Responsibility," I elaborated. Sometimes I forgot that even though he may be on my team, he wasn't an FBI agent. There were a lot of things about the bureau that he didn't know. I considered him as my equal to the point that it sometimes slipped my mind that we didn't have the same playing fields.

The OPR offices were a very secure job. Mostly administration, they were fairly safe in their offices behind computer screens. On the times that they did venture out to other branches for investigations, they didn't chase criminals, typically just performed interviews. To the other divisions, however, OPR was like the Hammer of Thor. Cool and powerful, and very dangerous. OPR had more control over any single agent than any of those agents' direct supervisors. It was an unfair balance of power, but usually the investigations were handled by collected professionals, and any final rulings were made by a judge when they would result in suspension or criminal charges. "The police have got IA, Internal Affairs, but the bureau has OPR."

Neal nodded, understanding the situation, and I looked past Derek up towards the office with more sympathy for my boss. Anything involving OPR was just a headache waiting to happen, if he wasn't already wishing for the aspirin.

"Um…" Derek looked uncomfortable. "Hughes… wants you in the office…" Grimacing, he looked displeased to be the messenger of such bad news. I rolled my eyes at how shifty he looked.

"Of course he does," I rolled my eyes. _That would be my luck._ I patted Neal's arm, a sort of _stay here_ command, and passed Derek, walking towards the mezzanine at a reasonable pace. I wasn't going to sprint to one of the most unpleasant meetings of the month, but I knew better than to loiter or stall. It was one thing to be absent when I wasn't even on the right floor.

I took the stairs one at a time, unlike my usual speed. With each step over the walkway, nerves increased until it felt like something was bubbling in my stomach. There's no such thing as a "routine" visit from OPR. What could they want with my division? Was it something with one of the agents I supervised? Something about me? – Had they somehow found out about my inappropriate relationship with Neal?

 _No, of course not._ I told myself sternly, scolding myself. If I started thinking like that, I'd get anxious, and that would be suspicious. _I'm very careful at hiding the aforementioned relationship._ _Neal is never at my house at unreasonable hours and there is no way that they could know that I spend entire nights at his house at least once a week._

I knocked on the door and then, without waiting to be told to come in, I entered. For a second I heard the OPR agent's voice before it cut off when he heard the door. Hughes looked relieved for a microsecond, and then his face went from annoyance to resignation.

"Agent Anderson," he said wearily, holding out a hand towards the man across from him. "This is Garrett Fowler."

Fowler turned to look at me, pushing his chair out slightly so he could turn towards the door. I pushed it shut behind me, but then chose to hover. If all they wanted from me was a statement, I wouldn't be here long. Fowler had to be in his thirties. He didn't look very old, but his eyes were world-weary. His hair was kept very short, maybe two inches long, and combed to the side. His teeth were white and his eyes were dark brown, his official-looking blazer black and the buttoned shirt underneath light blue.

"OPR," I acknowledged with a polite nod, cataloguing his face for future reference.

He chuckled. There was a small dimple in his chin when he smiled. "News travels fast," he observed lightly.

"You have no idea," I agreed with a guarded smile. There were a few agents, like Derek and Diana, that didn't really believe there was a firm line between home and work. They didn't think you could strictly separate the two worlds, so they would talk about their personal lives in the office. Being the closest agents to the division's leader (me), their attitude sort of set the atmosphere.

"As far as anyone knows, he's here for a standard review." Hughes raised his head to me and then he rolled his eyes subtly while Fowler was looking away from him.

"It's a good thing that line's just for the record, because no one is ever really buying it." Then I realized that could be kind of rude, and I offered Fowler a tight smile. "Just so you know." Sure, standard reviews were a thing, but they weren't usually done in person, and there was also usually advance notice. That and the apprehension of having OPR looking into us tends to make agents a little skittish and paranoid of having them around.

That thing that Fowler had on the desk in front of him drew my attention next. It was a folder. Actually, to be more precise, it was a government dossier. I saw a name written on the tab. _Anderson, M-_ the rest of the first name was covered up by Fowler's hand as it rested on top of the pale yellow paper.

That was concerning. "Is that my file?" I queried, almost certain that it was. Anderson wasn't exactly a rare name, but I was the only WCCD agent in this branch that had it.

"Yes, it is." At least he had the respect to be honest with me. Furthermore, Fowler moved his hand out of the way so that I could see _McKenna_ on the second half of the tab. "It's very impressive work," he praised secondly, and then leaned back in his chair, picking up a leg and crossing it over the opposite. "I wanted to talk to you about the case that you're currently investigating."

"The jewelry heist?" When I asked to clarify, he nodded. I couldn't help but be surprised. I'd only taken it this morning. "Why?"

"Well, the only people that knew that diamond was going to be placed in the vault the night before the show were a few NYPD brass and a handful of FBI agents." He tried to go for casual, and tonally he succeeded, but in implication, he utterly failed.

I took a deep breath and thought. _Well._ "And you think it's an inside job." That may be a reasonable assumption, whether it was a job done by law enforcement or by the staff of the boutique. What worried me was that I had absolutely no idea that the diamond even existed before this morning, and yet he was reviewing my dossier. "You must have had whoever it was under suspicion before today, or there's no way you would've gotten here so quickly. Which means you already have a suspect, and you're meeting with me for… what, formality?"

Fowler's smile started to fade. The question was if it was because I was getting down to business or if it was something else. "Sharp as always, agent." It sounded like it was a commendation, but it fell flat on my ears. It didn't really mean anything from someone who may be about to implicate one of my people. He stopped smiling, looked down to his shoes, and cleared his throat. Raising his head again, he locked eyes with me. "Do you know where Neal Caffrey was last night?"

 _Neal._ I could have punched myself in the face. _Why didn't I think of that?_ Neal, alleged jewel thief and forger, would obviously be one of the first suspects, regardless of whether or not it was most likely an inside operation.

I tried to consider what cards I had. I knew Neal enough to know that he wouldn't have done this… at least, I really thought I knew, and until I had reason to suspect otherwise, I was going to say that he was innocent. Pleading the fifth, however, was only supposed to be used to prevent me from incriminating myself. It had no clauses about the 'right not to incriminate one's convicted soulmate in the event of a jewelry heist.'

I didn't have to answer, did I? Was I legally bound to? "Is this an interrogation?" I asked, my eyes darting over to Hughes. If it was an interrogation, I knew exactly where I'd stand. I deserved to be shown the respect of being consulted, not questioned, and if my own agency wouldn't give me that much, well, then I'm not too sure I want to pledge allegiance to Fowler over Neal anyway. Neal did a lot of things I wasn't happy with him for, but he had never shown me anything but the respect I deserved.

"No," Hughes very quickly asserted, and I relaxed my shoulders slightly when he glared at Fowler.

I swallowed and forced myself to calm down. "You don't even have to ask me," I informed, making a lame shrug. "Caffrey wears a tracking anklet. It records everywhere he goes for every length of time. Just pull that up and you won't have to rely on words." Tracking anklets are much more damning than the testimony of someone notorious for bending rules and utilizing loopholes for her loyalties to her principles. Honestly, that reputation was going to come back and bite me in the ass sooner or later, and if there was ever a time for it to do so…

"Yeah." Pointedly, Fowler's eyes caught mine. I felt like I was being soul-searched where I stood, and it was not a welcome feeling. "We did that."

Indignantly, I held my ground. What, did he think that the GPS was conspiring against the bureau? "So why are you asking around?" I demanded at the risk of sounding belligerent.

"Some of Caffrey's data is missing from last night," he promptly answered.

The answer stunned me enough that I lowered my defensively half-raised arms. "Missing?" I echoed in confusion, looking over at Hughes for confirmation or further explanation. It's an electronic, tamperproof tracker. It's not supposed to be possible for information from it to go missing; it's not supposed to be possible for it to black out for any length of time.

Instead of Hughes answering me, when he tried, Fowler cut him off preemptively. "It went dark for six hours." Was it my imagination, or did the OPR agent sound irritatingly imperious?

I scoffed, although by now I was starting to have my doubts. I needed to talk to Neal immediately – if he was responsible, then… I don't know what I would do, but if he wasn't, then I needed to know if he or Mozzie had considered any means of trying to break the signal. If either of them had come up with something, then maybe someone else had, too.

"That's impossible," I denied, pulling up the side of my blazer to get into my pocket. I pulled out my iPhone and unlocked it, going to one of the most easily-accessible apps that had been designed specifically for agents who were taking advantage of the US Marshals' offices' technology. "It was working perfectly yesterday."

The phone loaded it quickly and it gave me the GPS coordinates to this very building, as Neal was currently down by the doors with Derek. I went to select the history, expecting a full, comprehensive map. Instead, there was a break in the trail. I bit down on the inside of my cheek to stop from reacting as obviously, but when I looked at the last place it had and then the first place it picked up again, there was a time lapse of more than six hours.

"I don't believe it," I said, looking up, mind whirring. "The anklet is supposed to be tamperproof."

Fowler raised his eyebrows at me. "Evidently, the database where the information is stored is not," he smoothly informed. I rubbed my forehead. That was pretty damning, even without the coordinates to _Le Joyau_. What the hell was I supposed to do to keep him off of Neal's ass? He made the trip out here – he intended to get answers, or the people he answered to would not be all too happy about it.

I exhaled deeply. When my priorities had shifted to revolve around Neal, I couldn't say, but now was not the time to debate between courses of action.

"You should look around the Marshals' office, because they monitor that anklet." I said definitively, like I was closing out the argument. I sounded a little flat, but at least I was a far cry from defeated. "If data was corrupted, that's where you should be looking, not into a reformed criminal convicted of bond forgery." Bond forgery, after all, is a lot different from gem forgery, and while Neal definitely had the talent and know-how for both, there was no proof of that in the form of legal court documentation. "I mean," I half-laughed, still playing the part of a protective, but reasonable, agent. "If he had a technological background, that would be one thing, but as it is, I don't believe he would have the skills to hack into the Marshals' database."

Mozzie, however, was a completely different story. Fowler didn't know he existed, though, and I assumed that both criminals would appreciate it if it stayed that way.

Hughes gave me a very stern look from where he sat, and I recognized what he was trying to say. _You're hurting yourself if you continue._ As much as I wanted to defend Neal, as much as I wanted to hit Fowler for suggesting Neal had committed this crime, I knew that if I ruined my own credit, then I would be of very little help to my consultant.

"As much as I appreciate your loyalty to your bargain with him, Agent Anderson," Hughes drew out, casting a sideways look at Fowler. He was reminding Fowler of a very good reason for why I was trying to protect my CI that didn't make me immediately suspect for refusing to leap on the opportunity to arrest the infamous Neal Caffrey. "Caffrey belongs to you, and therefore to the bureau. That makes him _our_ problem."

I made eye contact with Hughes. He was looking at me knowingly. _He's offering to absolve me of my responsibility,_ I realized with a sinking feeling. _If it comes to it, he's saying he won't force me to arrest my own friend._ I had to, of course. I had a professional obligation to do so, and a personal obligation to remain on the case rather than to be kicked off from a conflict of interest, but while it made me thankful to have such a sympathetic boss, it also scared me that even Hughes was apprehensive that it might come down to Neal being charged once again.

* * *

Neal's coordinates stayed the same in the current map and he himself loitered around by the doors to the unit. I left the office, walking without raising alarm. How could going at a moderate pace feel like it was taking forever to move? I hopped down the stairs to the mezzanine, which wasn't exactly unusual for me, and made a beeline across the room, keeping my demeanor as typical as I could.

Until I reached Neal, that is, and put out my hand to his side, pushing him backwards to the doors. "Come on," I murmured, interrupting him before he could ask what was going on. He had brightened up when I'd left the conference room, only to grow worried when he saw my expression be less than pleased. "Turn around. Walk out." I shepherded him with my arm across his back.

"What?" _But we'd just gotten here!_ Was what I imagined he would follow it up with. "What's wrong? Is it the OPR guy?" Neal tried to twist to look over his shoulder up to the conference room. If Fowler was still watching, he would know it was very clear I was getting Neal as far away from him as fast as I could. There was nothing punishable about being quick to investigate my own case, so try as he might, he couldn't make me look bad for that.

"My car," I instructed, not wanting to talk about it where someone could overhear. "Now."

"Where are we going?" He asked again, looking down at me and allowing himself to be led in the direction of the elevators without squirming to look back into the bullpen.

"Out of here. Now." I dropped my arm and trusted him not to wander off back into the division while we waited for the elevator to arrive. I pushed the button to go downstairs and then folded my arms over my chest, looking up at the lit-up downwards arrow over the top of the metal doorframe.

"… Okay," Neal decided to go along with it, understanding that there was more to the situation that I wasn't saying. "Look, there's a list of suspects capable of pulling this off. Between the guys who are incarcerated and dead, and then narrowed down by those that are currently in the area, I think our best bet is Adrian Tulane."

Hm. _Where have I heard that?_ I was equally surprised that Neal could draw up a list of suspects and do the entire process of elimination all in his head, but forgers probably had to stick together. Cons before cops or something like that. "I've heard that name," I told him.

"You probably have," he nodded seriously. "It's a top-notch forgery." The elevator dinged annoyingly and opened up the doors. I took Neal by the sleeve of his jacket and pulled him inside after me. "Not many people are capable of this kind of work."

Inside the elevator, I turned my back to the far wall and pulled Neal a little to the side with my left arm so that he was facing me with his back to the command panel instead of coming all the way to the back like we usually did in case other people got on. I reached behind him to order the elevator to take us to the ground floor before I stepped back and looked up at Neal. I could have told him to stay where he was, except for that the camera recording us would have caught it. We probably had people who could read our lips, which was why I had deliberately stationed Neal with his back to it.

"Would you be capable?" I asked, taking the direct route into the alarming conversation that I had to have.

Neal cocked his head to the side. It hadn't quite escaped his notice that I was questioning his abilities before any of the other suspects'. "If I were legally allowed within fifty feet of the right equipment, maybe." He shrugged like he didn't really know. I took that as a _yes, I could._ "Tulane's smart, and a showman," he added to his former thought. "Cameras don't scare him, and he has the facilities to pull this off. It's got his signature all over it."

I swallowed. That was not a reassuring response. If he _could_ do it, then without the proof of someone else's guilt, Neal's was going to be taken for granted. "Then let's go talk to him and hope to God you're right," I mumbled, falling to the side to lean on the wall.

Neal's frown deepened. "What did that guy want?" He asked again. This time he sounded more determined, like I wasn't going to be able to easily deter him from badgering me until he got the answer to his question. I shook my head and looked past him. "Kenna, you're acting shifty. You don't _do_ shifty."

"Just stop asking, okay?" I dropped my voice to avoid an argument. I didn't want this to become bigger than it was, and it was obviously pretty big, but an elevator was not the place to talk about it, especially not with a camera mounted in the corner. _Does he even know it's there?_ Maybe if I told him, he'd be less likely to push. "I'm just worried about my Big Brother," I said as a covert excuse.

Neal raised his chin, understanding. His tongue wet his lips and he took a deep breath. "Is he okay?" He asked with feigned nonchalance. My code seemed to have worked.

I hesitated, then shook my head. He _should_ be alarmed. Neal had the right to know when his security was in question. "He's disagreeing with Katie and I on something," I informed him casually. I knew that there was no way Katie would think without some serious evidence that Neal was guilty, not after how much he'd already paid for crimes, and not after she saw how relentlessly he worked to win back the trust he'd broken by stealing a painting. Including her assured him that he wasn't alone.

He slipped his hands into his pockets, keeping his back to the camera either intentionally or unintentionally. "Anything I can do to help?" He offered, eyes cutting through as if to look at my soul.

I exhaled deeply, meeting his gaze intently. _Honesty. Honesty really is difficult._ "Thanks for the offer, but I think you getting involved would actually make it worse," I grimaced. Defending himself would be like denying something to a bunch of ten-year-olds: if you say it's not true, it's instantly decided that you're lying. It was much more serious than that example, however, because while ten-year-olds lose interest if you confirm it, it would be catastrophic if Neal confessed to a crime, even one he didn't do. I shrugged lightly and smiled nervously. I wanted help, but I had no idea where I could get it from. Who in the bureau would help me? Who would believe Neal over a malfunctioning anklet? "It's one of those family things, you know?"

* * *

Tulane lived in a loft on the top floor of an expensive residence. It wasn't as luxurious as June's, but it was getting up there on the price scale. It helped that it was a lot closer to Times Square than June's, which automatically put it in the middle of a tourist hotspot all year round. There wasn't an elevator in the building, which meant Neal and I were stuck going up several flights of stairs. The entire time, he was humming the tune to an orchestral Vivaldi.

"What's going on with you?" I asked, walking up in front of him both as the agent and as his protector. "I haven't heard you humming like that since you got the credit score commercial stuck in your head." After he heard an advertisement on the radio, the catchy jingle had haunted me everywhere – everywhere Neal happened to be, that is. Diana even threatened to break his fingers if he didn't stop singing along to it where she could hear. The entire WCCD went from finding it funny to considering it a crime worse than the initial bond forgeries.

"You don't _understand,_ " Neal sounded like he was exaggerating, but his whine sounded very realistic. "Tulane is a _legend!_ "

"Yeah. Sure." I shook my head. Neal had odd fascinations. "He's only human."

A hand grabbed at my wrist. On instinct I started to yank my arm away and turn around on the stairwell, grabbing tight to the railing at the side. Get attacked on the stairs one time and it's a lesson you never forget. Neal held his arms out, hands open, when he realized his mistake, and he looked up at me for once, lower thanks to the inclination. "This is like you meeting Ellison Ness," he tried to compare.

My jaw dropped indignantly. He can identify every piece of artwork in The Louvre (or so he likes to think), but he doesn't know the name of one of the most prolific officers in _history?!_ And he calls himself cultured! "It's _Eliot-"_ I was heatedly retorting before I realized what I was doing. He looked far too smug for his own good and I reluctantly sighed. "Oh. Okay, so I get your point a little bit." I admired an officer and he admired a forger. Made sense… in a not-morally-condonable way.

* * *

We let ourselves in through the unlocked door. The penthouse was sparsely decorated for someone who liked to live expensively, but then I realized that most of what he considered décor was on the floor – two models clad only in silken lingerie were on the hardwood flooring in front of him, working on a huge thousand-piece jigsaw puzzle. All of the pieces were maybe half as big as my palm, but the entire puzzle stretched out really wide and long, so it was just as difficult as a puzzle with smaller pieces and dimensions. Tulane himself was lying back on a purple velvet couch with a champagne glass of grape-colored wine.

"Well, that puzzle's going to take a while," I said archly. All of the pieces were pure white. I tried not to look at the women, who ignored Neal and I when we stepped to the right of the sofa. I have no problems with dressing however you like in the privacy of your own home, but something about the situation – or maybe it was just Tulane's blatant visual appreciation of the women who weren't even comfortable enough to look straight at him – rubbed me the wrong way. "Where's the popcorn?"

Tulane was a handsome man about Neal's age with short brown hair (not styled) and a shadow of stubble over his jaw from choosing not to shave. Unlike Neal, he didn't wear dressy suits, instead content to lounge with his selected company in denim jeans and a dark beige Henley. He had an attractive look like Andrew Leeds but held himself with the arrogance of said man's character on _Bones._

He rolled his eyes melodramatically at the burden of our presence and graced us with the respect of sitting up on the couch. Tulane scraped his eyes over Neal as if he was some intruder barely worth noticing, and he dragged his gaze over me, focusing on my body rather than my face. I glowered darkly. Neal actually liked this creep?

"How can I help you, Agent…?" He trailed off in a semblance of politeness. I wondered how he knew I was an agent.

"Anderson, FBI." I didn't bother asking. I had learned a long time ago that people with a history with law enforcement got pretty good at identifying law enforcement. "Adrian Tulane-"

"You know who I am," he acknowledged, interrupting me to do so. It seemed unnecessary.

I nodded briefly. "Obviously, I do." I saw Neal's shadow over the white pieces of the puzzle and made a note to keep that shadow in my periphery. I didn't want him wandering off. I'd prefer to leave Tulane's company as soon as possible, not search the penthouse for my curious consultant. "I'd like to ask a few questions about-"

Again, he cut me off before I could finish saying what I meant to say. "The diamond necklace stolen from _Le Joyau Precieux?"_ He asked knowingly.

 _What the hell. Really, what the hell._ I forced a plastic smile on my face to cover up how much I already wanted to wrap my hands around his throat. "That hasn't been made public knowledge." Even the media hadn't gotten their hands on that yet, and sometimes I could swear they have Rita Skeeter's tricks of turning into bugs on the walls. "What makes you so sure that that's why the store was-"

"Whenever something like this happens, I get a visit from someone like you." The jackass just sounded so bored, like I was a nuisance rather than a person. A dumb animal that needed attending to, or a chore that his luxuries necessitated. He stopped looking at me and went back to observing the models fitting pieces of puzzle together, their long hair as soft-looking as the wraps barely covering their supple chests and shining as much as the glossy puzzle pieces underneath the ceiling light. I _hated_ the disrespect. I get shot at to protect citizens like him, and this was how he treated me? "That's why I try to be prepared."

He disinterestedly produced a folder in a manila envelope, a string wound around the tabs to keep it closed. He held it indolently over the edge of the couch and waited for someone to take it from him. I snatched it away rudely, giving him the same respect he showed me.

Unbothered, Tulane just switched his wine to his other hand and stretched his free arm over the back of the furniture. "You'll find plane tickets confirming that I arrived in the country just this morning." Smarmily, he smiled at me. I felt dirty just from the sensation. "Oh, and you're going to love the photos from my trip to Madrid last week. Anything else?"

I set my jaw tightly. "If I ask," I started to say, intentionally slow to take up more of his time. "Will you let me finish my-"

"Sentence?" He said, finishing for me and answering my question at the same time with one smug word. "No, probably not." I grit my teeth together and breathed deeply. I hadn't been this personally incensed by a suspect in _months._ And I'd shared a room with him for under five minutes! "You're so cute when your face goes all red, Agent Anderson," he chuckled.

_It's Special Agent, you little fuck._

"Alright, listen up, you little creep," I snarled, losing patience entirely. The women on the floor docilely didn't even look up when I raised my voice threateningly. Tulane just looked amused by my temper, which only made it flare higher. "If you call me cute again, I will take you by your collar, drag you to the balcony, and dangle you over the edge by your ankles so that _your_ pretty face can go all red, too. And if you interrupt me again, then I'm going to-"

He opened his mouth, probably to challenge me by cutting in to ask what exactly I was going to do, but this time, instead of ceding my right to speech, I threw the pretenses of civility out the window I wanted to drop him out of and just talked even louder, right over him, and he clicked his mouth shut.

"- _Arrest_ you!" I hissed. "Now, I'm not sure what for, but I can hold you for quite a while without pressing charges just to be a pain in your ass, and that's assuming I'm not crafty enough to find something to stick you with, and believe me, I am one conniving bitch when I'm annoyed, and you, sir, are very, _very_ aggravating, so be careful who you screw with, punk."

Speaking to a suspect like that was very strongly discouraged within the bureau. For not the first time since falling to Neal's influence, I huffed and decided to screw the bureau's policies. I held my head high with pride and straightened my blazer. Tulane could be as much of an ass as he wanted, but I wasn't going to feel bad for putting him in his place. Sticking up for my own rights as a human being came before upholding a false reputation for concern for others. I'm not very selfish in my job, have risked my life protecting others countless times, so I'm allowed to demand the rewards of such behavior. I _deserve_ to be shown consideration for the efforts I go to to protect people. Maybe my work doesn't get me "cappuccino in the clouds," but it sure does get me the right to finish a fucking sentence.

 _Whew!_ I felt a lot better now that I'd gotten that off my chest. "Stop grinning," I told Neal automatically, knowing exactly what expression he was wearing. I waved the folder he'd given me at Tulane, assuring him I was going to look into it very closely, and turned around to step out of the room and leave the building. And get very far away from him as a result.

"The guy is slick!" Neal protested, looking at Tulane with admiration shining in his eyes.

"He's also in danger of being dangled off of the balcony, so come on. I want to have these tickets authenticated." I didn't wait for Neal to join me, instead just went ahead on my own and trusted him to follow.

Which was apparently an unfounded belief, because a few seconds later, Neal's quiet voice was enthusiastically questioning Tulane about a completely unrelated crime. "Hey, man, I'm just curious. The Afitzi job, did you-?"

I turned around to see what he was doing. Neal was on his knees, arms up on the edge of the couch, grinning brightly as if Tulane was Superman in the flesh. I covered my eyes with my hand, but the irritated stare that the forger was giving to Neal was seared into my brain. Exasperatingly, Neal wasn't even offended at the way he was being looked down upon – he just took it as a cover and stood up, waving and unwilling to turn his back and leave.

"Right, right," he agreed with the silence, interpreting it as a refusal to cop to anything with an agent in the room. "I love your _alleged_ work," my CI swore, patting his chest over his heart. "Big fan."

 _"_ _Neal!"_ I called, beckoning him impatiently. "This isn't Comic-Con!"

Clearly, I was going to have to work harder to keep him from mooning after rude, entitled criminals who would rather ogle innocent women than treat him like he was an actual person.

* * *

"I was hoping that would be more successful."

If we had been at one of our homes, I would have been dejectedly sitting down and sulking like a kid who hadn't gotten her way. I'm very good at that; I used to do it a _lot_ , but not for the usual reasons. I wrung my hands in front of me while we walked, keeping close to Neal's side. It was like if I got too far away from him, then he would suddenly be unsafe. As if my mere presence was keeping him shielded from the injustices in the world. I wasn't naïve enough to think like that, but lord, there was very little that could happen to make this a worse day, short of murder. I felt like I was twisting myself in knots at the fear of having to accuse him of something he'd promised me he wouldn't do while he was in my custody.

"Why are you disappointed?" The lofty way he held himself, with a playful bounce in his step and an excited note in his voice, reminded me that Neal probably didn't even know how close he was to being arrested… _again._ I felt guilty for keeping it from him, even for this long. "This is the part you _like,"_ he prodded, poking my side to try to get a more upbeat reaction.

I shrugged my shoulders and batted his hand away from my ribcage, crossing my arms to protect myself from further attempted tickling. I stared at the sidewalk and trusted him to pull me to the side if our paths crossed a large group or any oncoming bicyclists.

Not content to let me walk sullenly, the next thing I knew, he'd wrapped his arm warmly around my shoulders, dragging me into his side. I looked up while I stumbled against him, but he kept me upright without blinking, turning his head to nuzzle his nose against my hair. "Moving the pieces," he prompted, sounding like he was grinning. "Solving the puzzle…"

"What do you think I'm doing?" I asked, giving him the reaction he wanted by sounding livelier. Instead of being happy, though, I sounded incredulous. I was questioning suspects, dragging him along with me, pushing the conversation back into something about the case if it ever strayed off-topic, and he thought I was doing anything other than solving the puzzle?

 _He doesn't realize why this is so important._ I melted into his half-embrace and practically felt the satisfied vibes rolling off of him. I would've thought a con artist would be far less accustomed to friendliness, but Neal thrives on it, and he seems to enjoy invading my personal space while he's at it. I didn't usually let him pull me into PDA like this, except for that feeling the solidity of his frame was comforting.

"Neal…" I said his name slowly, and he hummed, his fingers gently beating out a melody on my upper arm. I felt the tapping but didn't know the song; he liked older music that I didn't usually listen to. "What were you doing the night of the heist?"

"I went over some case files," he answered casually, like it was no big deal, but to me it kind of was. I wished that he would've gone to a cinema or a restaurant or a store; anywhere that might have security cameras or people that could attest to an alibi or issue tickets that he might have kept for one reason or another.

"That's it?" I had the bad feeling that it was. Neal was no stranger to half-truths, but for an innocent question like _what were you up to,_ he was usually pretty straightforward – with me, anyway. "You didn't hang out with anyone? June? Moz?"

He sighed so deeply that even I felt it. "I don't have an alibi," he said, almost apologetic. _I'm the last person he should be apologizing to; I might end up arresting him._ I was determined not to let anything stick, but I kept having to think that if Fowler got one piece of even circumstantial evidence, then I would be obligated to cuff and Mirandize my own lover. Which may seem like interesting roleplay, but I can guarantee it would be zero fun in the real world. "Look, I get it." He laughed a little, probably just to let me know that he wasn't offended by the question. "It's an inside job, a diamond forgery, OPR is in town, and I'm sure I'm at the top of the list."

I didn't reply for a few seconds.

"I _am_ the list, aren't I?" He guessed, not sounding particularly bothered, which just made me want to slap him. I was having a really awful day because I was scared for him, and he was just acting like the barista got his coffee order wrong.

"I have to ask if you did it," I said, quiet and regretful.

His arm around my shoulders tightened. If I were him, I would have pulled away. I wasn't sure what to make of his opposite response. "Come on, darling, you know me," he protested. "Probably better than anyone," he added, a little more humbly, and my heart skipped a beat, both at the cute pet name and the earnest admission.

"Neal," I sighed his name. There were so many inflections, ways that I said his name; this one was my 'please understand' version. "I'm not asking to offend you."

We were passing right by the same water fountain that we'd had a heart-to-heart by on the Dutchman case. I pulled myself away from him, but reached across his abdomen to stop him from walking forward. I turned around so I was facing him and I picked up his hands. Without even pausing to think, he held on.

"I have to ask because it's my job," I stressed, pleading with him to understand. Oh, if I'd known that I'd have been in this position, I'd have kicked my own ass for ever thinking that it was a good idea to agree to take his custody. I couldn't very well say that I would have disagreed to it, because the alternative – that I had never gotten him out of jail – hurt to think about, but I could have definitely kicked my own ass for thinking _this could work, what could it hurt, what harm could it do?_ "If you can look me in the eyes and _tell me_ that you had nothing to do with this, then I'll believe you."

My heart was beating faster, and it was definitely not in thrill. I looked into gorgeous, sharp blue eyes, and tried to remind myself that I trusted him; that ninety-five percent of the signals he was sending indicated nothing less than adoration for me, so why would he lie to me? It was always scary to meet his eyes to one degree or another. Most times it wasn't a big deal, just an _oh, pretty_ or a _you've got to be kidding me_ , and others it was a huge deal but in a much different and more positive way, but this?

"I didn't do it," Neal promised very clearly, not breaking eye contact with me. He squeezed my hands, and held ours up between us. "I'm telling you the truth, Kenna," he breathed, searching my face. "I'm a good liar, but I don't think I could lie to you."

Either it was stark honesty or the best lie he'd ever told. It was very repetitive, too, and I truly _wanted_ to believe him, but it seemed like flattery half of the time and manipulation another quarter of it.

But, he'd done what I'd asked, and I've always been one to both keep my promises and say "fuck it" and be irrational when the pressure came to be too much for me to handle, so I'd made a vow that I would stick to.

"How good?" I asked, mostly rhetorically, because I didn't think I'd want to know the answer. I went from being a confident woman to being a second-guessing, self-conscious idiot enough around him to have any more room to worry about his truthfulness any more than I already did. "Because, starting now, you're lying to OPR." His expression went completely confused. "His name is Agent Fowler, and if he asks, you _do_ have an alibi."

The confusion cleared up in less than three seconds as he realized what I was trying to do. I held onto his hands tightly and hoped that it wasn't obvious that I was more nervous than I'd been to go on the rip cord at the amusement park with Katie and Derek. I'd been holding so tightly to Derek's arm that he lost circulation, and I'd been visibly trembling ten minutes after I'd gotten well away from the ride.

"Kenna-" he started to say, maybe to try to dissuade me.

" _I_ was with you," I interrupted firmly. Once I devote myself to something, you practically need a chisel to get me off of it. "That tape was timestamped. We're gonna contradict it." I knew it was dangerous. If I stuck to my story and Fowler was convinced that Neal was the culprit, then he'd be left with no conclusion but that I was lying. That's obstruction, abetting, accessory, and even possibly aiding. "I was with you at June's from around ten to midnight. We went over some case files and played cards. There isn't any way you could have been at the boutique."

He looked at me in amazement and he rubbed his thumbs over the backs of my hands. I liked holding hands with him. He made me feel small, but he also made me feel safe. I loved it when he touched me or held me. I loved when he pushed my hair out of my face or pulled it back for me, snatched my brush out of my hand when I got impatient and started pulling too hard at the snarls and instead carefully took his time combing out my hair.

"Do you realize what you're about to do?" He asked seriously.

"Protect you," I said, quiet but stubborn already. "I told you I'd trust you." He still seemed amazed that I would actually do something like this. It wasn't the first stupid thing I'd done for him, and God help me, it probably wasn't the last, either. "Your anklet was hacked," I told him. "The database where the information is stored was violated and part of it was deleted, and Fowler thinks you did it. The first chance he gets, he's going to arrest you."

Neal let me have the honor of seeing what he felt rather than hiding behind a façade. There was no shock value, but he did go through spells of apprehension, anxiety, skepticism, and worry before he settled on the last.

"You're my responsibility, so I can probably do the arresting and stay on your defense." I hurried to add the last part to my sentence, lest he thought I actually wanted to arrest him. _No way. Salt to the wounds._ "But if giving you an alibi will deter that at all, then I'll do it. No one can say it's unreasonable, because I was at the post office sometime after nine thirty. There are cameras. I was already out. June was asleep or out, and it's a big house either way, so she didn't see me. Katie was asleep by the time I got home, so she wouldn't know what time I got back anyway." And that was at least one thing that panned out well. If she couldn't testify one way or the other, then not only was she safe, but she wouldn't be put on the spot against me if I was caught out in the lie.

"You _really_ want to do that?" Neal switched back to nervousness. His thumbs were still smoothing over my knuckles, repeating the motion over and over. "Lie to OPR to protect me?"

"Yes," I said firmly. _Want to? No._ But he would have put up more of a fight if he had heard me say that out loud, and I had enough people to fight already. "If he manages to get you sentenced again, there's no way I can get you out on another deal." The government would never allow it. "It's not worth risking it. You say you're innocent, and I'm not going to let you go to prison again."

Oh. I knew that look. That was the look that he tended to take on before he swept me up in his arms, turned me against the nearest wall or piece of furniture, and kissed me until my lips were red and swollen and I couldn't stand up straight. Hence the furniture. Which usually devolved to another activity, but thanks to not actually owning said furniture, we were much pickier about the furniture involved in the other activity.

And, sure enough, "I want to kiss you," he whispered to me, and it was a miracle I heard him in the middle of the New York crowd – the sound of the city and everyone living in it had never seemed romantic to me before I met Neal, but now it was like I could see the beauty in a hundred things I used to take for granted.

_I want to kiss you, too._

"Refrain," I said instead, although I looked longingly to his lips for half a second before I corrected my focus. "No sleepovers, nothing that can be misconstrued or convoluted into something more than friendly." This was going to hurt me a little, too, but not very badly. I find that my libido is typically easy to control, especially when suffocated with stress. _Luckily for me, stress is what I'm currently being swamped with._ It would just be kind of disappointing that, for the first time in a few months, I couldn't turn frustration with a case into a good roll in the hay.

"Especially no kissing," I added with a little sigh. Kissing was arguably one of the best parts. I loved kissing. Always had. "The more reason they have to think I'm attached to you, the less credible my argument becomes."

He allowed himself a second to look grave and comprehending before he became an adorable, pouting puppy dog.

* * *

We brainstormed in my office to find another lead to pursue while we waited for the assessment of Tulane's plane tickets and photographs. "If we can't figure out how he stole it," Neal changed courses after we exhausted our ideas on how to slip through the security. "We can try to grab him when he goes to fence it."

It had its merit, but it would take too long to see progress. With OPR sticking their noses in where they didn't belong, we needed a fast solution to this case, not one that involved biding our time. If he's smart enough to steal it, he should be smart enough not to make it easy to catch up to it. "I'm sure we have notes somewhere on all the known fences around the area, but it's such an exotic piece, there's no way he's dumb enough to get rid of it this fast. It would only draw attention."

We both played with whatever toys we could get ourselves. I had a pen that I was practicing my baton twirling with, dropping it into my lap more times than I would care to admit to, and Neal was playing with a rubber band he took off of my desk, stretching it out between his fingers and testing the elasticity. So far it hadn't snapped yet. It was either going to sting him or he was going to start using it as a slingshot and sling it out of his reach.

"Alberni is an interesting angle, because the market there is less rigid…" Neal suggested, holding the fingers of his left hand together, wrapping the rubber band around them, and trying to stretch it enough to splay his hand.

"No," I dismissed, tossing my pen up, catching it between two of my fingers, and waving it at him in spite of the awkward hold. "Forget the fences. We need something that'll work sooner. Fowler is going to want to resolve this quickly, and soon enough, Hughes will start getting cranky if we have to handle being the reason the store isn't open."

"Hm…" Neal casted his eyes around the office thoughtfully. "We need another angle," he stated, pursing his lips.

If identification from the tape, maneuvering the limited security, and trading the diamond were all off of the table as means of tracing down the thief, then there had to be something else. "What if, instead of looking at how the replacement was done, we looked into how the forgery was made?" I proposed, my chair rocking back behind my desk. I kicked up one leg over the other knee. "You said yourself that special equipment would have been necessary. We can see if that leads anywhere."

Neal looked indecisive. "It… _could_ work. Of course, there's no way of telling how far in advance this was planned, so he could have had it made as close as possible last week or he could have had it done halfway across the world last month."

Admittedly we didn't have the most precise information to go off of, but we needed a place to start. "It's still better than anything else we have," I reminded him, and he nodded to agree to that, at the very least.

The handle to my door being turned very quickly produced an unpleasantly loud metallic noise that made Neal wince and made me turn an expectant glare on the doorway, prepared to greet whoever was rudely and forcibly assaulting an unlocked door without invitation with a look that would send probies (other than fiery and unimpressed Diana) scurrying in the other direction. It was thrown open by none other than the agent I was worried about, followed closely by Hughes, who was only just making it past the windows covered by the wide blinds.

The blond-haired man stalked right into my office, breathing a little bit off like he'd come sprinting. Fowler looked between Neal and I with a look of odd triumph tempered by physical exertion that he wasn't as used to now that he was a desk agent. I raised one eyebrow in irritation. This office is the property of the government, and anyone – OPR or Hughes – has the right to entry at any time. However, I am a hardworking agent who occupies this office very frequently, and if I've earned the respect of being publicly commended for my services, then I have also damn well earned the respect of having my personal workspace recognized as personal before it's intruded upon. Especially while in a private meeting with an informant, seeing as how many confidential informants are uncomfortable relating questionably-attained knowledge to someone other than the agent who they regularly work with.

"Why yes, of course, Agent Fowler, please, come right in," I sarcastically mocked, rolling my eyes disrespectfully. I didn't like the way he was glaring at Neal with a curve to his mouth, like he had just beaten my consultant at something harrowing.

Hughes stepped into the office behind Fowler and cast an apologetic look to me over the other's shoulder. I shrugged to him. He wasn't responsible for anyone else's poor manners. I knew he tried to defend me, both because he knows I have had plenty of difficulties in the past and because I have a lot more of it now that I've "compromised" myself by taking on Neal, but I was an adult and was more than capable of handling it myself. Hughes shook his head slightly and nodded to Fowler again. I looked back. Obviously there was something I wasn't aware of, because the blundering in wasn't what my supervisor was sorry about.

Lifting his arm very triumphantly and pointing square at Neal's chest (who made an insolently feigned surprised point at himself, which didn't really help matters) and declared, rather boldly, "Neal Caffrey, you're under arrest."

Instantly, the unconcerned front fell away. Neal uncrossed his legs and sat straight in my chair, grabbing tightly to the armrests on either side. "What?!" He almost shouted, panic flashing over his face and holding tighter, as if Fowler _wasn't_ capable of ripping him out of the chair.

Not that he would get very far if he tried, because an assault on a nonviolent person, no matter how suspect they were, was uncalled for and I would jump on him without hesitation. The fear in his face, although it was disguised in seconds, ignited a protective spark in my chest that made me rock my chair forward and jump up behind my desk, rolling my shoulders back and clenching my fists. I left my workspace unattended to move challengingly right between Neal and Fowler and parked my heels into the carpet stubbornly.

 _You aren't doing this to him,_ I said with my eyes. "Explain!" I commanded stonily, while Hughes tiredly rubbed his eyes at the melodrama rapidly unfolding. Sometimes I felt bad. He had been briefly retired and then had accepted an offer to come back as head of the division, only to end up trying to overlook "one of the most relentless agents he'd ever seen," unquote, and whether or not that was a good thing depended heavily on the context.

Fowler stared down at me contemptuously. I resented him for being taller than me, and yet didn't budge so much as a centimeter. If he wanted to terrorize my lover, he needed some irrefutable proof to fit with his claims, and try as I might to play devil's advocate, I couldn't think of anything pertaining to the heist that could incriminate Neal. He hadn't done anything wrong here, and on the cases where he had, I had been meticulous in sweeping certain inconsistencies far under the rug.

"We found the signature _NC_ micro-printed on the fake diamond," Fowler might as well have been taunting me, whipping out something from the hand behind his back. It was a printed image of the diamond, blown-up wide, on top of what looked like a section of an official-looking document. _A bond,_ I realized. "It matches the signature we found on the counterfeit bonds he made. See?"

He shoved them at me. I glared testily and took my time taking them to look at, turning them so they faced me. Neal stayed absolutely silent, although whether it was because he didn't know what to say or because he trusted me to handle it, I wasn't sure. Looking at the images, digitally analyzed to compare the marks, which were indeed Neal's initials, I hoped it was the former, because I couldn't think of anything to discredit this evidence. _But how did they know his signature was on the bonds?_

The thing about those was that Neal had signed them to take credit for his work, but was intelligent enough not to do so in a way that was noticeable unless you went looking very intentionally. I had been incredulous that a forger would actually own up to work that would come under legal scrutiny, and Neal had told me (albeit sarcastically) to look at his bonds under polarized lighting. I hadn't actually done so because I hadn't felt the need. Whether he'd signed them or not, he'd already done his time for them, and he turned out to be correct about the Dutchman's initials anyway. As far as I knew, I was the only person he had told.

I turned just enough to look at Neal, sitting in his chair, knuckles going white, the only indication that he wasn't just uncomfortably in the middle of another jurisdictional dispute, looking up to me in concern melded with disbelief and hurt. _I really was the only one he told,_ I interpreted that look. _He thinks I ratted._

I grit my teeth and turned back to Fowler, mind racing and heart thumping. I couldn't disprove this. I could have my own trusted connections compare the evidence, but… it was evidence. And while I still clung to the belief that Neal wouldn't do something so dumb, much less lie to me about it (not after trusting me to tell me about the portrait), until I could identify who _had_ put his initials into the synthetic jewelry, I had nothing concrete. Nothing that would hold up against an alleged signature with physical proof. Convincing Neal that I hadn't gone behind his back to look for something to hold against him and my hurt feelings at his quickness to believe I had aside, I stared back at Fowler.

In a gesture that spoke volumes for my opinion about he and the worth of his word and police work, I rudely dropped both printed-off photographs into the trash bin by the side of my desk and put my hands on my hips confrontationally. Hughes muttered something that sounded like _"for God's sake."_

"This isn't possible," I chose to argue instead of stepping aside. I could stall, I could defend, I could make my stance perfectly clear. If nothing else, I could buy myself time to steel myself against taking Neal by the arm and leading him out in custody. _I have to, don't I? If I don't, my judgment is too conflicted to work honestly._ Neal knew this, but that was before he thought I'd turned on him. I might accept that I would have to do the last thing that I had ever wanted to do, but I wasn't going to do it willingly. "Neal didn't make the switch, he was with me!"

"Which is still up for debate, thanks to the blackout in his activities." Imperiously, Fowler looked at Neal over my shoulder and stared him down with a sardonically polite grin. I stepped to the side so he was looking at me instead.

 _How dare he,_ I seethed. "Are you questioning the validity of my statement?" I snarled, taking an aggressive step forward into his personal space, an intimidation tactic that I was never too averse to using. _I mean, sure, my statement's a lie, but I'm really offended he'd accuse me of lying!_

"I'm questioning the integrity of a convicted felon," the blonde corrected patronizingly. "Something which I thought _all_ agents were meant to do." Even Hughes stared to glare at Fowler then for implying that I was selectively choosing which of my responsibilities to think of. "There's a reason he has that accessory on his leg, Agent." He went on to say, motioning to Neal yet again. I wanted to fly at him every time he opened his mouth. "This is no longer circumstantial, Anderson. It's evidence. He signed his work on the forgery. Even if he wasn't involved in the theft, he still forged the new diamond."

 _He didn't!_ Tons of people probably had Neal's initials. If he had never been convicted before, I could've worked the circumstantial evidence angle – but if the diamond had been compared to bonds that he had already been punished for creating, then no agent or jury would be convinced that it wasn't his work.

I kept my eyes locked on his, conveying exactly how much I detested him, but I recognized when a battle was lost. With a bad taste in my mouth, I kept staring in that direction, even as Fowler moved around me to get to my consultant. I bit the inside of my cheek while my eyes were fixed on the wall.

"Let's go," Fowler snapped cruelly, handcuffs jingling.

How much he was enjoying this was almost as bad as that he was doing it at all. Why was I the only one who seemed able to see how little Neal deserved another prison sentence? And he certainly didn't deserve the dangers of a super-max. I unwittingly pictured Fowler grabbing Neal by the collar, yanking him out of the chair, twisting his arms around behind his back and tightening the handcuffs until they bruised his wrists; marching him down the mezzanine, pushing his arms at a painful angle, loudly crowing and publicly ruining the little favor that my darling had managed to get within the office. The complete indignity of being manhandled and the threat of physical abuse disguised as justice and the embarrassment he would force Neal through was revolting.

Ultimately, it was that which gave me the emotional push I needed to turn around to them and put an end to it. No matter what he thought of me now – until I could clear the air, at least… I couldn't let Fowler boot me out of the case on my ass, and I especially couldn't let him make Neal's nightmare-come-true any worse than it was already going to be. If nothing else, I could make sure that he wasn't physically hurt, and I wasn't going to make a big deal of it in the middle of the FBI.

"Stop," I said with forced calm, just as fake as the diamond Neal was being accused of creating. Fowler paused and looked up at me like I was just pathetically reaching for straws now. "He's my consultant." I stepped closer, ignoring the warning glare Neal was shooting me, and placed my hand on his shoulder before Fowler could grab at him. "That makes him my responsibility, right?"

Fowler shook his head, twisting sympathies into condescension. "I wouldn't ask you to do this to yourself, Agent Anderson. I know how closely you've been working with."

 _No, actually, you really don't,_ I disagreed privately, keeping my hand gently over Neal's shoulder possessively. As if I would fall for that – he might want to give me an out, but it was only so that he could later remind everyone that, despite being faced with evidence, I hadn't been able to overcome emotional conflict to objectively evaluate the case.

"He's my responsibility," I said firmly. "If he's implicated in this crime, then I have the right to be fully involved in every step of the investigation." _And I will be._ Neal's glare faltered, turning into dismay as he realized that I was volunteering to _arrest_ him, not defend him.

He looked at me, those beautiful eyes nervous. "McKenna," he said my name quietly, pleading. I wasn't sure what he wanted me to do, but I could hazard a guess.

I acted like I was unstoppable and always got what I wanted. That was usually only true because I had my merit and my history to fall back on, and I didn't typically want things that were unattainable. I was rude and brash because I wasn't willing to let other people step on me _or_ Neal, but when it came down to it, I only had limited authority. If there were something that could be done, I'd have done it in a heartbeat, but even Hughes didn't have the power to pull Neal out of the spotlight on this one.

I was successful at defending and protecting Neal with very little difficulty so far because of the very clear terms of his work release and my history of good intuition and skills with reading people. I didn't completely turn off doubts, but I convinced people, either through logic or through anger, not to take it out on Neal, so for all he knew, I made the issues go away, not just be addressed to me more specifically and covertly. Here, I couldn't do that. Now he was having to learn that… I couldn't always be the impervious hero to save him from other agents.

As gently as possible, I pressed on his upper back to get him to stand up. "Neal Caffrey," I said solemnly, my throat feeling tight and my tongue as if it were made of lead. "You have the right to remain silent."

He stood up quickly and turned to look down at me, face fallen and begging as privately as was possible with two other people in the room. "I didn't do this," he desperately vowed. My heart broke as I watched him forsake his pride to show how true his honesty – and his fright – was. Fowler, the insensitive prick, sighed loudly and rolled his eyes. "You know I didn't!"

I nodded slightly to him. I _did_ know. That didn't change things. It just meant that I wasn't going to give up. "Remain silent," I repeated, taking all of my willpower not to let my voice break. "Please," I added, showing him that this wasn't easy for me to do. Didn't he realize I wasn't doing this out of malice? This was going to happen no matter _what_ I did – I just wanted to save him the troubles that Fowler would be sure to cause if he had the 'honors.'

Tightening his mouth into a thin line, Neal nodded once, realizing that pleading, even with words, wasn't going to change how things were playing out. Resigned but riddled with tension, he turned around and presented his hands behind his back. Taking the handcuffs from my belt, I slipped my hand into one of his and squeezed comfortingly. He didn't reciprocate the motion. I couldn't blame him. Holding hands was _not_ going to make him feel better about ( _temporarily, it's temporary_ ) going back to the cage he had been willing to become what was essentially an indentured servant to escape.

I ducked my head to let my hair swing forward and cover my face from Fowler and Hughes, staring at Neal's wrists and adjusting the handcuffs quickly. I left them as loose as I could, which was still too small to slip over his hands, and instead of grabbing the chain in the middle and leading him by pulling at his arms, I placed my hand between his shoulder blades to kindly lead.

Although Neal cooperatively followed my direction, Fowler scoffed when he saw how I was choosing to escort him, no doubt thinking I was being far too nice and giving him ample opportunity to fight back. Most people I would have lead by the cuffs, but I knew that Neal wouldn't make a dumb attempt to run and worsen his own situation, and I also knew that, even if he thought I was the reason he was being arrested again, he wouldn't attack me, even if his hands _were_ free. I shot Fowler a nasty scowl and walked Neal out of my office, followed by Fowler, who was gloating as we emerged into the public bullpen.

Very careful to stay at the right angle, I looked between the sides of the division. It was the dinner hour and a lot of people had left their desks, especially on the left side going towards the doors. Most of the remaining crowd was on the right. I stayed to that side of Neal and matched his slow, reserved stride, just pacing myself about six inches behind him so that my body hid the handcuffs from view. To anyone else, our sullen moods were probably attributed to the agents behind us. Maybe we were just going home, or taking another lead to run away from Fowler, who no one really wanted to chat with, so it wouldn't exactly have been odd.

Even shielding him from that shame, I still felt like Charon – the god that led souls from one side of the river Styx to the domain of Hades: the underworld, or hell. I was knowingly taking Neal back to be stuffed into a tiny little cage with his freedoms taken away, to be treated like an animal. I just had to stay strong – empathy wasn't going to help Neal if it was so potent that I started crying and I got kicked off – long enough to get to the privacy of my own home, where Fowler couldn't invade, where I could sing or cry or scream as much as I needed to.

Then – impossibly – it got worse.

Halfway to the doors, so close and yet very, very far away from the safety of fewer eyes to look on, Fowler decided that there wasn't enough attention on the radical duo, and he opened his mouth to remedy that.

Loudly, he announced, "Didn't I tell you? Once a criminal, always a criminal, Anderson."

In an instant, Neal and I were the center of attention. Suddenly, everyone was noticing our downcast attitudes and the deliberate way we were walking, the shadow of our division supervisor, and someone behind us, who could see at the right angle, looked hard enough to see the handcuffs adorning Neal's wrists. They said it out loud and it rippled through the bullpen like pollution in water.

There were many reactions. Some were muted surprise. Most weren't muted, and the loudest ones weren't surprised that Neal was being charged, but that it had taken him this long to slip up. Some thought that maybe now I'd learn not to be so mule-headed or quick to shoot down their concerns. At least one person felt bad for my trust being taken advantage of. Neal looked down and stared resolutely at the carpet, acting as if he didn't hear. I knew better. He didn't care what most people thought of him personally, but he had never really felt comfortable in the building where he was forced to come to work because he was constantly ostracized and judged. As it was finally beginning to die down and become a focus of the past, now _this_ had happened, and he was starting back at square one – or even prior to that, when he had just served four years and it seemed like maybe, just maybe, he'd have learned his lesson.

I felt like I'd failed him. Furious with Fowler but also humiliated myself at being the center of attention, seemingly arresting the man whom I had repeatedly put my confidence in, being proven wrong in regards to his honor and the value of his promises, my face turned red. I was mortified and humiliated and chagrined, but I was also internally fuming. _There was no call for that._ I wanted to kill the bastard, or at the very least severely injure him.

"Garrett," Hughes said reproachfully, pulling the agent aside to say some very stern words about appropriate conduct, while Neal and I pretended that we couldn't hear, and I imagined that we were not talking because we were trying not to draw any more attention, not because he thought I was the reason for this disaster, or that I _wanted_ to be leading him out in cuffs.

 _"_ _I bet this is about Le Joyau_. _Why am I not surprised that he screwed himself over for a shiny necklace?"_

_"_ _Would you look at that, Caffrey's committed a felony. Someone, call the news."_

_"_ _Smug bastard. I always knew he was no good. What kind of man throws a party when someone dies? – Shut up, I remember that case and that_ _ **was**_ _the context."_

_"_ _I can't believe he did that to her. Has he already forgotten everything she's done for him? He'd have been rotting in Sing Sing if she hadn't helped him out."_

_"_ _Whatever you say. She had to learn sometime people like Caffrey can't be trusted. She thinks just because she used to tussle with serials that the rest of us have been dealing with cute little pets. Either way, at least we won't have to have him in our office anymore."_

* * *

"Can I come in?" Kate's voice carried through my bedroom door, sad and forlorn on the other side, like Anna trying to get Elsa to talk to her.

I sat up and rubbed at my face, scrubbing my cheeks with my hands. No way could I look like I hadn't spent the last… however long it's been… alternating between screaming, crying, and cussing into my pillow. Katie definitely heard the enraged screams from wherever in the house she'd been.

"Sure. The door's open." My voice cracked with rawness, throat still tight and chest pounding. A killer headache had made a home between my parietal and my temple on the right side of my head and a woodpecker was pecking away at the center of my forehead.

She was keen on quickly opening the door and walked herself in, leaving the doorway open to the hall. Katie took a look at me while I was stretching my jaw and blinking, bleary and blurry, and sat down next to me on the mattress, pulling her knees up onto the comforter, sitting facing me.

"Hey, don't start that," she cooed softly. I hated being talked to like one of the preschool-aged kids, but her gentle voice and the low, quiet, calm volume didn't aggravate my headache any more than the silence would have. Katie took my wrists in her hands and rubbed along the inside veins over my gloves, her fingers partially covering the fiery wing underneath as she kept my hands away from my face. "It's okay to cry," she promised lovingly. "Even if you wipe away the tears, I'll still see the marks."

I sniffed and curled my fingers into my palms, dropping my head down lower. Just because I knew I couldn't erase the evidence didn't mean that I had a habit of sharing. Starting to cry with a little more violence, I leaned forward, doubling over at my waist and pressing my forehead into Kate's shoulder. "This wasn't supposed to happen," I whimpered.

Her hands hovered for a moment before she traced her fingertips up my shoulder blades, then sank her hands into the tissue and pushed, kneading with careful precision. "I know," she assured.

"He would've been safe if they hadn't found his initials," I mourned, eyes stinging from more than just having the fabric of her shirt rubbed against already swollen and irritated skin.

"Yeah," she murmured. She didn't know the full story, so I knew that she was just saying what she thought I needed to hear to feel like I wasn't completely lonely.

I breathed in her shampoo and the detergent from recently-washed pajamas, still freshly warm and crisp from the dryer cycle. Katie wasn't Neal. She was smaller and softer and she didn't hold me as strongly, but she _was_ the only person who would have been able to calm me down and make me feel sane again. I wrapped my arms around her back, pushing too much weight onto her and wishing I was about half of my size so that I could stay like that without bowling her off the end of the bed.

A few minutes passed. My nose was all stuffy and hard to breathe through. My eyes weren't quite as eager to produce an entire flood all on their own. Leaving me all tired out, emotionally as well as physically, I yawned, squeezed my arms around my sister, and then sat up, feeling better. I should've gone and cried with her before I tried to get it out in my room.

"I really don't think he did it," I told her, stretching my mouth wide again and touching my sleeves to my eyes with very feathery pressure. This was one shirt that was going to need a good wash. "The alternative is realizing he's been lying to me, which means he could've been lying to me about anything… _everything_ else."

True, most of the things he told me that I valued so highly that I felt my world rocking were things that had been conveyed without words. There was the panic being slowly replaced after the semtex was stripped from around my waist, and he'd locked me so tight in his hold that I'd have had to fight to get away. _You are important to me._ The insistence on sharing space on the bed, not wanting to fall asleep without knowing where I was. _I want to protect you._ The smiles and jokes and the giggles. _You make me happy._

"Then trust him some more," Kate suggested, contagiously yawning herself and raising a small hand to cover her mouth, pressing French-manicured nails against her cheek and turning her face into her wrist. "Hey… how many people want you out of action?"

"Probably a lot," I figured glumly. Doing the actual math would have taken quite a while; I was by no means the favorite person of many a pathetic persons, particularly the ones that ended up with life sentences because I caught them with solid police work.

Katie meaningfully prodded my thigh. "Neal may not have arrested killers," she compared, making the bridge of connection for me, since I wasn't up to it at the moment. "But he's still screwed people over with cons. Right?"

If I had had the gall to disagree, I probably would've been pinched for being deliberately obtuse. "Right," I nodded slowly to save myself the pain.

 _"_ _So,"_ Kate continued, rolling her eyes while I watched for her to continue. I was emotionally unstable. She could cut me a little bit of slack. It's not like she was usually completely uninvolved with my white-collar cases anyway. Neal was her friend, too. I didn't see why I had to be worth an entire team of brain trust all on my own. "He can't be the only person with the skillset to forge the diamond. And probably not the only person who signs his work." She was reminding me of Hagen, whose signature she had seen when Neal showed her. "Maybe he was framed."

I bobbed my head more certainly. "I think he was," I reestablished. I had to say that. The alternative was thinking he was guilty, and I hadn't been entertaining that notion because he had sworn to me that he was uninvolved with the crime. His word was worth itself to me, even if no one else felt that way.

Her coaxing smile was encouraging. She dropped one of her legs off the side of the bed and kept the other up, knee bent and foot pointing towards her thigh. Kate leaned forwards, both of her hands on that knee, pushing it down flat onto the comforter. "That's a step forward," she praised. "Now, whoever's framed him, now has him in prison. What's the next step? Catching the real criminal?"

I tried to think of it from the perpetrator's perspective. With Neal out of the way, they were free to make an escape. I didn't want that to be permitted to happen, but… if I focused my time on tracing someone unimportant to me, then the legal proceedings surrounding Neal's case would be set before a jury.

"No… no, the real criminal can wait, but if Neal isn't exonerated fast, he'll be tried, and it's so much harder to have a verdict rescinded than it is to prove him innocent in the first place." I wistfully shoved my fists as hard against the bed as I could, forcing my hands deep into the sinking memory foam underneath the sheets.

"Then you just need to find a way to clear his name. So who can help?" Katie queried with bright eyes.

She didn't realize exactly how far on the unusual end of the spectrum we were in our inviting and pleased reception of a convict in our familiar spaces if she thought that I could just pick up my phone and rally a Neal Caffrey Defense Army Task Force. "Very few people would care enough to try," I sighed to disillusion her. "No one really know him well, or cares to learn, except for the agents he regularly interacts with."

She pursed her lips in disapproval at the poor acceptance he got. I didn't come out and say it, but she could read between the lines. "So that's yourself, Diana, Derek, Hughes…" she trailed off as a hint for me to add anyone.

Picking up a hand, I waved it back and forth. "Iffier on Hughes."

"Definitely leave Fowler out of it as much as you can," Kate remarked. Mentally, I started mouthing the names of agents I could remember Neal talking to more than just once. The list was… shockingly small, once I also specified to myself that they had to have been chatting, not just relaying messages or on errands (the mandatory things). "Clearly he's anti-Caffrey…"

I went chronologically and it occurred to me rapidly that I had overlooked possibly the most important agent in Neal's entire history. Everything kind of screeched to a smoking halt in my brain. "What about Burke?" I asked abruptly, to myself more than to Katie.

Katie tried to follow, but had to admit she didn't know how to answer. "I don't think I've ever met them."

To explain, I sat up a little bit straighter. It helped if I ignored the feeling of teary splotches on my face. "Special Agent Peter Burke," I elaborated. "The agent that caught Neal the first time. On the bonds." She nodded to show she got it. "They sent mail a couple times while Neal was away, and Neal- heh," I giggled a little bit, rubbing at my eyes less angrily. "Neal was a pain in Burke's ass. Kept sending out champagne and pizzas to surveillance vans, and leaving cheerful notes for Burke to find when he got to a scene too slowly."

This all seemed funny and friendly enough to me, but who knew how Peter himself felt about it? Maybe he was offended by how lightly Neal took the situation. Maybe he had taken the overly happy banter as jibes, the notes and hellos as insults to his competence at catching his suspect.

Before I could get too deep into doubts, Kate broke me out of it by pushing her hand against my side to get my attention. "Maybe you should call him. He might be willing to come help. I think we all know Neal's a nice guy." _Yeah… he wasn't ever mean to Peter, just a smartass._ "And he's got a good thing here, so why would he jeopardize it? It doesn't make sense."

"No," I agreed, letting her talk me halfway into my own decision. I needed the support before I chickened out like a coward. "It doesn't."

"Have you talked to him before?" She took the initiative.

Turning, I looked at the table next to my bed. My phone was where I had vaguely remembered placing it, face down on the table next to the reading lamp and the Bluetooth headphones, charging from a USB outlet.

"I still have his phone number," I told either Katie or my phone, depending on which had more of my attention in that moment. I twisted back to my sister. "I consulted him before I agreed to the deal."

"Right." Kate jumped up from the couch with energy. Her hidden weariness was belied by a little stumble that she caught herself from, but that I noticed anyway. "I am going to go make some ramen. You skipped dinner, moron." She said. Her insult was delivered with affection. Taking my face in her hands, Katie pressed her lips to my forehead. I smiled slightly. "We're going to have a midnight meal, you're going to make a brave phone call, and then you're going to get some rest."

Authoritatively – daring me to try to weasel out or make excuses to get me too scared to follow through – she pointed at my phone, then walked out to the doorway, where, once again, she pointed emphatically at my phone.

"Ten minutes!" She commanded, yelling from the stairwell.

I looked at my phone. I was really going to do this or she was going to tape me to a chair and hold it to my face to talk. Shaking my head, I forced my bones – which felt tired and stressed down to the very pores – to lift me off of the soft mattress and into the bathroom, where I turned on the steaming hot water and stood over the sink basin, letting the humidity work some magic on my congestion.

* * *

I had a habit of saving peoples' contact information to my phone, even if I only intended to contact them once. It just made it faster if I needed to again. It also gave me an idea of who to expect if they called me back for some reason. It was overall easier for me and made me feel better knowing exactly which numbers in my call history belonged to whose names. Peter Burke was no exception.

I sat on my bed, phone in hand, staring at the name _Peter Burke_ in my phone's standard font for several minutes. I'd spoken to him before; it wasn't quite like phoning a stranger. He had sounded reasonable, friendly; had wished me a sincere-sounding good luck with whatever my choice was regarding Neal's proposition. So why was I balking as if the prospect of calling him for some sort of help was as intimidating as saying _I love you?_

 _Because he has the option of saying no and refusing to help, and being turned down when I reach out has always been a long-standing fear of mine, thanks to my parents being too busy to personally see to many of my needs or wants until I was old enough to be self-sufficient._ Peter refusing to give me any help with Neal was him saying Neal wasn't worth the hassle; the one other agent who personally knew the simultaneously most infuriating and most likable man I'd ever met. And Neal absolutely _was_ worth it to me, worth the struggle and the condemnation of my coworkers and more that I hadn't even thought of, but the future of the issue looked bleak if I was all alone in believing so.

I said aloud that I was being a melodramatic coward, and the offense to myself had me pressing the dial button. Whilst the tone rang, I picked my legs up off the side of the bed and laid down on my back, knees bent and head landing on my pillow. My cheeks were still a little dry from the salt of my crying, and I hadn't taken a shower yet, coming to call and get the anxious task out of the way after Katie forced me to eat.

It took a few rings. Someone picked up eventually. _"Hello?"_ A perky feminine voice answered the phone, something else like clinking metal in the background. Then the same voice said sternly, _"Down boy,"_ and what sounded suspiciously like a dog's whine carried over the phone.

"Hi," I answered, confused. Had he changed his phone number? "My name is Special Agent McKenna Anderson, I'm with the FBI…" I trailed off, worried I'd called the wrong number entirely and gotten some completely unrelated woman who happened to have a dog.

 _"_ _Oh!"_ Her good mood not at all deterred, the friendly voice on the other side of the phone followed up with, _"Are you calling for Peter? I'm his wife, Elizabeth Burke."_

 _Ah._ Well, that made more sense. And, while a surprise, it wasn't inconveniencing. "I'm sorry, I didn't know I was calling your home phone," I apologized. It typically wasn't polite to drag work-related calls so close to an agent's house that it went to their landline and was picked up by their spouse. "He gave me this number to call in case I needed it last time we talked."

 _Which was… six months ago. Wow._ Had it really been that long? It had, I guessed; it didn't seem like the time had been sluggishly passing, despite the long months. Another of Neal's effects: having him around made the job enjoyable and the day brighter. There was only another three and a half years left on Neal's sentence.

 _"_ _Don't worry about it, McKenna, it's okay."_ She promised me. She sounded upbeat, awake, and very pleasant. Her voice reminded me of Kelly Kapowski. Using my first name surprised me. Most people used my title, but then, Elizabeth, like Katie, was probably somewhat used to meeting other agents in less-than-professional ways. _"I'll go get him for you."_

"Thanks, Mrs. Burke," I said, making sure to sound grateful, although I wasn't sure she hadn't already moved the phone from her ear to go seek out her husband.

I looked up at the ceiling dully, waiting for any noise on the other end aside from the scrabbling of paws. Man, Peter had it good – kind roommate and domestic animal. I was a mere dog away from that, but Katie just did not want to budge. Well, his roommate was also his significant other, but I felt pretty comfortable with the platonic state of my relationship with Katie.

Realizing that my thoughts had started to get strange in another try to avoid thinking about my main stressor, I picked up my hand and observed my acrylic fingernails thoughtfully, indecisive over what color I should paint them next. If I went to a good salon to have them done, then maybe I could get a design – little Union Jacks or stripes, possibly.

 _"_ _Agent Burke,"_ the more familiar, masculine timbre of Peter's voice dragged me out of _California Nails'_ catalogue and back into the real world.

"Hi, Agent Burke," I replied. In spite of the effort I put into hiding it, I was glad that he sounded happy enough already. "I'm sorry to bother you at the early hour, but my name is Agent McKenna Anderson. We spoke a while back about Neal Caffrey."

 _"_ _Right, I remember you!"_ Elizabeth wasn't the only one that sounded pleased to hear from me without even knowing me. I guessed the Burkes just had very nice dispositions. _"You were going to take him out of prison. How's that going?"_ There was a touch of amusement, but mostly interest.

"Well…"

He was a real pain in the ass at times, between the screwing around when he should have been working, stealing the Haustenberg, and keeping the Interpol agent's identity to himself, but it was thanks to Neal (and partially Mozzie) that we had closed most of the high-profile cases I'd gotten in the last half-year. That wasn't to say that we couldn't have solved them without his help in an alternate universe, but in this one, Neal was integral to the solution. I missed having that sort of usefulness, but if giving Neal the credit helped him gain esteem with the bureau, then he could have it all and then some.

Neal was mouthy, insolent, and tested my patience greatly on any given day. He also brought me coffee, was sensitive to my emotional needs, and would – had – put himself in danger to protect me. He was naïve to aspects of the real world that the rest of us lived in and he childishly lacked the forethought to consider what would happen if he acted impulsively. He compensated with a strong yet slightly misaligned moral compass, and the determination and loyalty to put things right when those consequences set things awry. He had flaws, but the good usually outweighed the bad, and the worst days were made so not by Neal, but by other people who chose to give me hell for partnering up with one of America's formerly-Most Wanted.

Explaining all of this, and the significance and supporting evidence of everything I recalled, would have taken way too long and it would have started to feel like a _Hallmark_ romantic drama. "It was going great for a while," I told him instead, the little things cancelling each other out to leave one thing: I had a fantastic CI and a new best friend. "But… now he's back in."

 _Prison. Super-max. With a bunch of violent people who will loathe him for joining the cops and won't think twice about trying to off him themselves, since they're already looking down life in prison._ I shuddered. I was having an unpleasant conversation with someone I barely knew, but Neal was wrapped up in a baggy orange jumpsuit and trapped in a one-room cell. I had my own en suite bathroom a few yards away and Neal was taking fast communal showers in cold water, and I was resting on my foam mattress while he was probably turning over and trying to sleep in a cot barely long enough for his legs.

I had never wanted to hold him as much as I did then; just to strip him out of that horrific uniform and send him for a hot shower and then force him to sleep for eight hours in soft clothes underneath heavy blankets on a padded bed, and snuggle against his back so he'd know nothing was going to attack him while he wasn't looking. They'd have to go through me first, and I'm a lot tougher than I look.

Peter sighed disappointedly through the phone, reminding me that I was still in the middle of a conversation with someone. _"I told you before, the problem with Neal is that he's like a child. He has no sense of consequences."_ I nodded a bit on my pillow. He was right. I had noticed it many times myself; it's why I called Neal things like Robin Hood and Peter Pan to jest. More than that, his voice was fondly annoyed at Neal and commiserating with me, bonding over our woes of trying to tame the wild Caffrey. _"Was it a heist? Kate Moreau?"_

I sucked in my cheek as I tried to consider how to answer. It technically _was_ a heist, but I didn't want to lead with that. "I don't think it was either," I said evenly. "I think he's being framed."

Which, with Neal, was quite a leap to make. His talents ranged from the mildest of crimes to very serious white-collar offenses, and if he didn't know it, he was an extraordinary learner. Possibly more dangerous than any of the previous, he was an _unbelievably_ good actor. Though he valued his friends in a very high priority, he still had the ability to subtly manipulate if he chose. I opted not to think about that very often. Too much of what I felt was red-hot and real to contemplate what would happen if it turned out that those feelings were fostered by a façade.

 _"_ _Framed?"_ Peter understandably sounded skeptical.

"Think about it," I urged, trying not to be bossy but finding this to be a very important phone call. I needed him to use his brain, because it was harder to appeal to his sympathies when he couldn't see my face. "He's pissed off a lot of people who might want revenge."

I could practically _hear_ him humming, could envision a generic male figure leaning back into an armchair or against the head of the bedframe. _"What makes you think he's not playing off your sympathy?"_

I opened my mouth, then shut it again. I could recite the _but I don't lie to you, Kenna_ line that seemed to be Neal's catchphrase, I could cite the times when he put himself in physical or legal danger for me, I could inform the more seasoned agent of how well I _really_ knew Neal and of how I was most sure then that I knew him, because the hugs and hushed conversations were the same tones and affections he used normally, and it was hard to believe he was lying right after coming apart so thoroughly.

"It's a really long story." I chose to take the safe route and explain the suspicious circumstances. "So far I've got an OPR agent showing up without any warning, a diamond heist that Neal couldn't possibly have had the time or resources to set up," unless he'd had Mozzie's help, but Mozzie wouldn't do something like that, not while he and Neal were being monitored by a fed, "And some evidence that I have my doubts concerning the legitimacy of."

I liked to brag to Derek that my informant was cleverer than anyone else's, and _good luck getting one that bested mine_. Neal would've known that the nature of the heist and its location would put it in my jurisdiction, and he would also know that I got hell-bent on a good case. I knew he was too miserable in and afraid of prison to do something so obviously flaunting his illegal skills while on such a tenuous thread with the government responsible for putting him back in those tiny cages. And really, what self-respecting criminal would sign their initials on a forged diamond in a big-deal theft when context meant that hands would first point to them to begin with?

 _"_ _OPR,"_ Peter echoed gravely. He said the acronym of the department the same way Neal said 'McDonalds.' _"Damn. Sounds like you're in deep, Anderson."_

I agreed fervently. "I'm afraid I really am." I swallowed. Now was the time to ask, and before he had too long to think about it, form a conclusion, back it up, and stick to it. "I'm not overly naïve, but if he _is_ innocent, he doesn't deserve to go back to prison for a less-than-sure thing. Does he?"

I nearly choked over the 'if' because I wasn't sure how long I could last pretending to be some semblance of okay if it turned out to be the wrong preposition to use. It _had_ to be that he was innocent. Neal wouldn't _do_ something like this, not to me, not just for the showmanship of posing for a camera.

 _"_ _I suppose it's the bureau's job to be sure,"_ Peter murmured slowly into the phone. _"You're based in Manhattan, right?"_ I was just about to confirm, but didn't really get the chance. _"It's less than a four-hour drive out."_ My eyes widened and I felt my heart skip alarmingly. Did that mean-? _"I can come down tomorrow morning and look over your case with you. It never hurts to have an extra set of eyes."_

He offered warmly and suddenly I could breathe again. I didn't realize I couldn't until the crushing threat had been alleviated. I had an _ally._ A _friend._ Peter would see that Neal wasn't guilty and then I wouldn't be a sole force trying to oppose Fowler on my own, all while protecting three other non-agents, one of which wanted to stay completely off the table.

"Thank you," I meant to say calmly, but ended up almost gasping with relief and overwhelmed with gratitude. "Jesus, I can't thank you enough!" I blushed when I realized how caught up in this last-ditch effort I'd managed to get. Peter was chuckling.

We stayed on the phone for a few minutes longer, making sketches of generalized plans. I offered to put up he and Elizabeth in my house with Katie and I while they were up (Elizabeth joined in the conversation briefly to say that she felt she knew Neal through Peter as if she'd met him herself, and she didn't want him treated unfairly just because he'd been guilty before). Katie might have objected, but she wasn't in the room, and I was ninety-seven-percent sure she'd agree that it didn't matter whether or not we had house guests as long as it helped our friend. Peter said he wouldn't get to leave before seven because he'd have to put his dog in the kennel, which didn't open until six, so we'd have to meet around lunchtime and then we could both take one of our cars to the Manhattan offices. We bade each other goodnight and a sleepier Elizabeth chimed her own goodnight over the phone.

After it was over and plans were made, I texted Katie to let her know. I didn't get a response, so I assumed she was sleeping. It was high time we both got some rest, anyway. The Burkes wouldn't be getting here until eleven or twelve, but I had other things that I needed to do before then. It was nice to have reinforcements, but it would be a mistake to relax just because I had them.

It took me a couple of minutes and a roll onto my other side, trying to get comfortable, before I remembered again with a wash of fear and longing and another feeling I wasn't even daring enough to call by name that Neal was still so far from being adopted back into my arms that he was in the doghouse. Slowly, I pulled one of my pillows out from under my head to hug, pressing my face into the softness. In a few moments, I drifted off to a light sleep, imagining that Neal was just downstairs having some cocoa or reading on the sofa.

* * *

A perk of being an agent was that I didn't have to wait for visiting hours to go see Neal. Up as soon as the prisoners were woken up on his row, he was already wide awake, and he was brought in to see me with about as much care as someone herding a particularly mean dog, despite that Neal was probably the least offensive inmate these guards were likely to ever look after. I dismissed the guard from the room – something that never would have worked if I didn't have my badge – claiming that it was a matter of legal security and bureau confidence.

A tinny buzzer echoed over our wing of the prison, signaling something. _Maybe a change in the guards' shifts?_ I flinched a little when I heard it, walking back to the table and sitting down across from Neal, arms folded over the top. Neal didn't even blink, well-used to the sounds of a crowded super-max. He'd had the entire night to reacquaint himself.

His eyes were cold and cutting and it made me uncomfortable. One night in this place had done that to him – it was either believe that or address that he was furious with me, and even though I had more to fear from Fowler, the idea that Neal was so unhappy to see me made part of me shrink back and hide in shadows, shamed and wounded. I looked around almost anywhere else, stalling or waiting for him to talk, but there wasn't anything else to look _at._

Instead of the last time we'd been in this room, when I had been laughing at the notion of getting him out, now I wanted to cry with him at the reality of him being in. This was not the place where Neal should be living. This was only a place where people like Lao Shen should be forced to reside – despicable monsters who shot loaded weapons over sleeping children's cribs.

I took a deep breath. Sought out Neal's eyes. Internally scolded myself about how my voice had better be level or there was going to be a serious problem. "I know this looks bad," I said evenly, keeping my eyes on his. Neal's lip curled rudely; he scoffed quietly. "Given your record, it's actually worse than it looks. … You're looking at me like you hate me." He raised an eyebrow as if to sarcastically ask where I'd gotten that idea. With every second that passed, I hurt more and more. "I told you, if I go along with it, I still get to claim inclusion on this."

Neal leaned forward on the table. I'd given the guard the okay to uncuff him, but his ankles were still kept linked with cuffs and a short length of chain. Having also been subjected to an impersonal but invasive pat-down, they were satisfied that he wasn't going to be able to get the better of a trained and fit field agent.

"You told Fowler to look for my initials," he hissed at me, eyes flashing to something akin to devastation before they became like flinty stones again.

"No, I didn't," I denied strongly. It was easy to feel bad or be made to feel guilty, but I wasn't going to let him accuse me of things I never would have done. "I swear, I never told anyone about the polarized light thing. I haven't even thought about it in months."

"Then how did he know what to look for, McKenna?" Neal demanded sharply, bent half over the table with the ferocity of a lion about to rip out the throat of its prey. I shivered at the comparison. Neal would want a much less bloody way to harm me, and with every affectionate feeling I had ever felt, he had exactly that. "Because I've never told anyone else about my signature. You're the only person who knows."

 _Even Mozzie?_ I thought uncertainly. Why tell me what he neglected to inform his best friend of? But that was really unimportant, because obviously Mozzie wasn't going to be giving any FBI agent, much less Fowler, any tips.

_"_ _If_ _**I'd** _ _done something that good, I would've signed it. Hey, the forgeries I was caught on – I signed them."_

_"_ _Where?"_

_"_ _Look at the bank seal under polarized light sometime. Hagen is doing a church restoration o Third Street…"_

"I don't-" I started to say, frustrated that the only conversation that had ever come up with that topic was in the privacy of my own home, where only three of us had been present. _But… Neal and I are only two of those three._ "Katie," I interrupted myself and looked at Neal pleadingly. This made much more sense than me getting rid of my own CI. Did he miss that I'd been made into a sort of laughing stock?

Neal cynically leaned back, but he was _listening._ I went on to explain how it must have happened. He wouldn't believe that Kate had had any intention of her curiosities resulting in this scenario, but neither of us had thought that it was of any consequence that she had been there to hear. He had already been tried on the forgeries; once he had served his sentence on those, he couldn't be charged again for the same crimes.

"You told me in my house," I reminded him, painting the image again in my mind. My hand had been hurting, burnt on my flatiron; Neal had come to my house uninvited and made friends with Katie while I'd been sleeping, showing her the evidence against Hagen without bothering to even call and ask my permission first. He'd had coffee in one of my mugs and was trying to convince me that the could-be of initials in the Spanish bond actually meant something. "Katie was just in the next room, and she and Derek talk about everything. Derek probably looked into it for curiosity and Fowler found it on record or something.

"I'm trying here," I exclaimed, keeping our voices to ourselves before we raised any red flags with the guards for being too loud. "I am digging my heels in and trying to slow down everything as much as I can, but Fowler is determined to get you sentenced before I have the chance to come up with a counter-case."

As I beseeched him to believe me, the stony, betrayed expression started to soften. Neal contemplated the merit of my suggestion and then decided it held weight. Although a little guarded on reflex, he greatly relaxed his façade of being alright. I saw the tiredness in his eyes, not just in the dark shadows underneath. He was fast to change his tune, likely because it was infinitely better to believe it had been an unintentional, seemingly harmless act from six months ago than a sudden blow from a trusted friend.

"I was set up," he plainly explained, testing to see how strong my loyalty was.

I nodded. "I believe you," I said as I agreed, and not just because I wanted to keep his favor. "By whom?"

He pursed his lips tightly and looked to the left. "I'm working on that," he mumbled to the grey wall.

"No one else is going to believe that," I forewarned delicately. After looking at the sagging shoulders and the defeated posture – so dramatic a change from the bright-eyed and vain man that he was outside this isolated part of the world – I decided it was safe to try to reach out. My hand rested with my palm up on the table.

The artist looked at me when he saw the movement in his periphery, and he stared blankly at my hand for a moment. I felt like I was just looking at a shadow. Then his lips twitched with an echo of a smile and he covered my hand with one of his, taking the olive branch with a gentle rub of his thumb over my fingers.

"You're not alone, Neal," I promised, squeezing his hand just like I had while I was restraining him with handcuffs. This time, he responded – albeit still appearing skeptical. "No one on our team thinks you did this. Derek's been getting passive-aggressive with Fowler, Diana is purposefully taking forever to do anything relating to this, Hughes is pretending not to notice you've been arrested… Katie actually gave me the idea to call Peter for help, he's driving up today and he's going to help us."

"Peter…" Neal frowned in suspicion. "Peter _Burke?"_ I had the decency to at least look a little bit sheepish for calling in someone he had such a long and melodramatic history with without first consulting him. "As in, Peter Burke, the guy who arrested me and locked me away for four years?" His incredulity was affable.

I felt the need to defend my choice. "He admits the circumstances are strange and he knows OPR is vicious," I reasoned. He was also FBI, so of course he would understand my concerns. "He's not pledging allegiance to you, but he _is_ promising to help us, and that's the important part." I tightened my hand on his and looked into his eyes, hoping to tell him everything that I'd felt the night before – feeling like I could start a prison riot, if only to break Neal out and give him a safe place to sleep. "I want you out of here."

Neal reluctantly answered, "Not as much as I do."

I bit my lip. That was hard to reply to. What was I supposed to do there? Of course he wanted out. He was like Tweety Bird being swung in a locked cage, only just out of reach of Sylvester the Cat. "I know," I murmured, looking down at our joined hands on the table and marveling at how comfortable it felt to hold his. I knew the soft grasp and the firmer callouses so well that it was like the same sense of familiarity that I got from stepping in my front door. I'd felt them against my hands when we walked or sat around, felt them tugging gently on my hair, guiding my head, felt them caressing my skin and drawing out beautiful, invisible patterns against my bared flesh.

Another buzzer rang through the room and echoed. This wasn't as loud and it was centered on the visiting room in particular. The door mechanism unlocked. The prison guard pushed it open, held it, and stuck his head around. "Agent Anderson, his lawyer's here," he reported, then stepped back into the hall for me to do with that information as I saw fit. He kept the door open long enough for a shady, short, balding man to get through, wearing an overpriced tweed suit with a red tie and carrying a brown leather briefcase.

I groaned quietly while Neal perked up. We pulled our hands apart as someone else intruded upon our privacy.

"You're a lawyer?" I asked dryly, making a point of looking him over. Mozzie looked nothing like any professional lawyer that I had ever worked with.

Mozzie tactically avoided my eyes by looking around the four corners of the room, plotting out escape routes. There weren't many. It was probably mean to even think it, but sometimes his shifty eyes made me think he was the one that needed the handcuffs more than anyone else.

"Don't let my stature fool you, I am a ruthless and bloodthirsty defense attorney," he lied with a faux pleasant air. "If you don't believe me, you can check my University of Phoenix online degree." I hummed. _That explains it… a bit._ Assuming that this degree wasn't made out to an alias. "Go Cardinals! Now, if you don't mind, I'd like to speak to my client."

I could tell when I was being dismissed. If his credentials were enough to fool the guards, then it wasn't worth kicking up a fuss. Attorney-client privileges demanded that I leave the room when requested for the two to have a private conference. I had gotten my main goal accomplished – convincing Neal to trust me again. Getting him to understand it was a misunderstanding, that he had jumped to a conclusion.

I picked myself up from my bench seat on the side of the table. "Of course," I said, waving at Neal with a sympathetic smile.

Neal stood up, a little awkwardly, since the table was preventing him from standing up entirely straight, but he reached out for my arm and caught my wrist, then gave me a tug back down. I sat again. "She can stay, Moz," he established to Mozzie, letting go of my hand.

Mozzie scowled at me. "In case you've forgotten, _she_ carted you in here." he said to Neal tersely, glaring. I glared right back. He didn't even hear out my side of the story. Did he really think Neal would've been holding my hand if there wasn't more to it than just me arresting my consultant?

"It was either do that, or be kicked off for refusal to cooperate," I impatiently explained for what felt like the hundredth or thousandth time. Between Neal, Katie, myself, and now Mozzie, I was reiterating and re-justifying my choices far too many times than was healthy.

"Mozzie, she's on my side," Neal promised to settle his friend's hesitations. "She already lied to OPR to try to cover me. It can't hurt to have someone working things in our favor from the inside of the system," he used as an added incentive when Moz stubbornly avoided taking the seat next to me, standing at the edge of the table with his briefcase in front of him like a physical barrier.

Neal's means of persuading Mozzie to get back on my side just made me hide my face and plant my elbows on the table. "Oh, God, it sounds so illegal when you say it like that," I bemoaned.

A short chuckle was all the conman had to say in response. I'd have retorted against his amusement, except for that it was the first sign of happiness that I had seen from him thus far and I wanted to hold onto it.

"Any problems?" He asked Mozzie conspiratorially.

Mozzie sent me another look, still not the most confident about my integrity and dedication to our mutual companion, but he trusted Neal and evidently I wasn't some super antagonistic force to be reckoned with. He sat down to my right very grudgingly, making it clear that he still wasn't thrilled, laying the briefcase down on the table. I shifted a few inches to the left, giving Mozzie more of his own space to occupy for both of our sakes, and underneath the table, Neal and I touched our legs.

"None," Mozzie reported, flipping up the top. "This was genius! I don't know why we didn't think of this earlier." I looked between both men unsurely. I had definitely missed a meeting and a course of action. Forgetting about his animosity, Mozzie excitedly gestured about, waving his hands as he told the story. "The judge actually _raised his voice_ to the prosecutor! _Open discovery! Turn over every document the government has on Caffrey!_ " Mozzie positively giggled with glee. "They're sending a _truck!"_

"Of course they are," I muttered.

Neal smirked, proud of his own accomplishment of being so criminally-elusive that he had worked up an entire truckload of bureau files. "Did you follow Fowler?" He questioned next, trying not to sound too smug.

Moz confirmed. "Yep. Once the request went through, he made a pit stop at a local dumpster." Waving his hands over the briefcase, Mozzie grandly produced a ziplock bag of thin scraps of white printer paper with black ink on it in incoherent lines. "He shredded these."

 _…_ _And you stopped and crawled through a dumpster long enough to collect all of them._ That wasn't explicitly stated for a _reason,_ but that didn't make it any less of a sound conclusion. I found myself hoping that these things had happened yesterday evening, just so the odds were higher that he had thoroughly showered since. Crawling through trash just sounded gross.

"Perfect," Neal enthusiastically praised, taking the offered bag of paper shreds. "Thank you, Moz. This is perfect."

I looked at the paper scraps with barely-hidden disdain. This was the kind of project I saw on _Psych_ and laughed at, not the kind of real-life thing. Of course, most of my real life cases didn't involve agents committing more and more suspicious acts. They were all teeny, maybe a quarter of an inch wide at most, but part of one as Neal shifted it around got my attention.

"Wait!" I reached out to take the Ziploc bag away from him before the paper scrap got mixed up with the others again. I pressed on the back of the plastic and shoved that one in particular up to the forefront. There was writing in a font that looked like Calibri inching down it, fractions of letters, but what was more interesting was the bolded black piece at the top that looked like part of a seal. "I know this."

Mozzie waved at the bag over the side of his briefcase. "How can you possibly know what that is?" He asked me, sniffing. Apparently I was just being ridiculous. This was going to be one of those times where Mozzie and I not only didn't see eye-to-eye, but we also weren't even looking in the right directions. "It's a tiny little scrap!"

I locked eyes with him and held up the Ziploc bag. Without looking away, I rebelliously did exactly what he seemed of the opinion that I couldn't do. "It's part of the logo on the top of bureau papers. Whatever this is, it was printed in the bureau." The smart aleck looked chagrined. I smirked. _I can be right sometimes, too._ I passed the bag across the table to Neal now that I had showed them both. "It's probably a record of some kind," I surmised. "Shredding that could get Fowler in a lot of trouble."

"Then that's the first thing I'll work on putting back together." Neal decided, setting it to the side but only a few inches away. "Information on the judge?"

 _Whoa now, I'm pretty sure that's not included in the privilege deal._ Mozzie took an unmarked file out of his little case of mysteries and I covered my eyes with my hands. I wanted to at least _pretend_ to be oblivious to the option of there being things in there that even a real, legal defense attorney wasn't meant to have.

Neal took the offered file without hesitation and turned it around so it faced him, pulling up the cover and skimming the front page. He wet his thumb with a flash of tongue and caught up the top right corner of the page, pulling it up to look at the next one under it.

"Wait… he's got a private office not connected to the federal building on Mott Street." Apparently this meant something significant to the two of them. Or, at least, to Neal, because Mozzie seemed to follow, just not get what Neal was driving at. Neal shifted, rolling his shoulders forward and pulling the orange jumpsuit tighter across his back. "Moz, I need you to liquidate some assets. I need money," he declared.

 _What for, room service?_ I avoided asking out loud, guessing that it wouldn't be well-received. His assets seemed like the last things he should've been worrying about.

"… Why?" I looked at Mozzie and then pointed at him to show that I seconded the question. At least one of the two seemed sane at any one time. It was weird that Mozzie was the sane one at _any_ of those times, but you win some, you lose some.

Neal grinned, a hint of the wild and uncontrollable plotting shining through. He seemed more alive, more animated, now that he had something to put his brain towards. "I want you to buy a bakery."

I pinched my nose between my fingers and was about to ask for some elaboration about why a bakery was suddenly so much more important than anything else that he could have possibly chosen to focus on, but before I got the chance, my phone beeped. It startled Mozzie into jumping a few inches high. Neal stared at his lawyer, disappointed that he was so distrusting as to be scared by my text notification.

"That's Burke," I said, holding up the screen so Neal could see the ID over the text content. Then I turned it towards Mozzie to prove that I wasn't up to some conspiratorial collaboration to overthrow the bureau and turn it towards the Illuminati's purposes. "I have to go, I promised to meet him in my office." Making a confused and exasperated face, I decided just to leave it at that. "Have fun with your bakery…"

 _I've said weirder things in equally strange contexts,_ I thought. Even to myself, I was unconvincing.

Before I left, I moved to Neal's side of the table, bent down behind him, and wrapped my arms loosely around his chest, setting my chin on his shoulder. Neal tipped his head to the side to press our cheeks together, his warm and a little prickly with stubble he hadn't gotten to shave, but was altogether focused on continuing to pick through the details of the (possibly illegally-obtained) collection of information on the judge assigned to his case. Mozzie looked particularly distressed by our hug. That made it at least twice as rewarding.

* * *

"Seriously, I cannot thank you enough." I lost track of how many times I had reiterated something like this, in between helping to carry their medium-sized suitcases into my house and buying his lunch for him. Katie was going to take care of Elizabeth – I think she'd wanted to cook something – but the agents of our families had work that couldn't wait that long.

"It's no trouble," Peter assured kindly, walking through the door to the New York division's WCCD. "I'm always happy to help. A bit less so when Caffrey is involved," he added with a grin to show that he thought he was being funny. "But we're on the same team. We've got to stick together."

Peter Burke was a tall man – taller, even, than Fowler, at six foot four. What he lacked in muscle he made up for with the way he held himself and the smooth, easy way he silently demanded authority. He walked with pride and held his head up. It wasn't at all a shock that he headed up his department's fieldwork, too. Although over ten years older than me, Peter was very physically fit and very attractive, too, with tempered, russet-colored eyes and short, thick brown hair. He fit the profile of an agent better than I ever had, not just in appearance, but in demeanor.

"Agreed," I stated, reminding myself to stop thanking him. It had made up a good fraction of my vocabulary thus far and I was supposed to be looking like a competent agent with reasonable doubt, not someone so desperate that they had lost most of their intelligence. "I have copies of everything on this in my office. Oh…"

Fowler was hanging out by Diana's desk. Diana was holding her chin up just to look at him, but the tightness of her jaw suggested to me that it wasn't just because he was standing over her that she was looking up. There was some definite agitation. Fowler seemed equally bothered by my probationary agent, trying to push her by leaning hard on her desk with his hand. I should have told her to keep her head down around OPR, what with not really having much professional history to protect herself, but I was rather impressed with her for knowing it herself and still not letting herself be bullied.

"Is that the OPR agent?" Peter asked, tipping his head and considering Fowler. Peter had a slighter frame in spite of the inch or so he had on the blond, and although Peter was authoritative, he was also unobtrusive and nonthreatening, the complete opposite of how Fowler was acting. Peter was the guy in the room that you noticed, but then could turn your back to without a second thought. Fowler was the guy that made you second-guess looking away.

I nodded at about the same time that Diana opened her mouth, said something undoubtedly tetchy, and Fowler picked himself off of her desk and turned around, hunching his shoulders. He saw Peter and I right away. When he located me in particular, I swear he got tunnel vision; I felt like I was being observed through a spotting scope.

"Yeah. Garrett Fowler," I introduced, and dropped my voice under my breath. If Peter thought talking about him where he couldn't hear was rude, then he was about to figure out why I didn't care. "He's kind of… standoffish."

 _Understatement_ , I thought wryly while Fowler proved me right. "And here she is now," he said with a smile that wasn't very reassuring. "The woman of the day: Agent Anderson."

I smiled tightly at him. "How can I help you today, Agent Fowler?" I asked, bitingly sarcastic. I liked Peter, but I'd much rather be facing down Fowler with Neal by my side. Fowler was the reason that that wasn't happening – was the reason that I had no way of knowing that Neal wasn't being harassed by other inmates or by unscrupulous guards who wouldn't necessarily be held accountable. "Any more CIs you want arrested?"

His face changed, contorting first into offense, and then he seemed to sigh, softly letting his shoulders relax. "You did an excellent job yesterday," he praised. I blinked. Was that supposed to make me feel better? _Congratulations, Anderson, you did a fantastic job of sending your best friend to jail?_ "I know it can't have been easy, but I appreciate the cooperation."

"Oh, I bet you do," I assured with a mean glower. Which was better – getting me out of the way, or forcing my hand? While there was clearly an emotional win over the latter, he'd have a much easier time if he'd accomplished the former. At least I had that small victory.

"You know, Caffrey was a great asset to this department." Peter said to Fowler mildly, already a little bit discomfited by the way I was being addressed. There was nothing wrong with the words. The words themselves were, in truth, okay. It was the tone, and the expressions, that set them off.

Fowler gave me a long look, judging me for bringing in a third party, before he tore his eyes away and scrutinized Peter closely. "I'm sorry," he said finally. "I don't know who you are."

Peter stuck out his hand respectfully. "Special Agent Peter Burke, Boston WCCD. I caught Caffrey originally over four years ago. I'm glad to have passed on his reigns," he confessed with a chuckle and a smile in my direction. I shrugged. Neal had been a long-term thorn in Peter's side. "But I can hardly imagine him being sloppy enough to be caught right after getting out."

When he heard that Peter also had firsthand experience with Neal, Fowler gave me another patented _fuck you_ look, disguised with an _is that so?_ expression. I smiled brightly. He wasn't the only one who could make underhanded and not-strictly-approved-of moves. If the OPR man thought that I held myself to a higher esteem than to play dirty, then he was sorely mistaken. I'd play absolutely filthy if it protected my friends.

Fowler turned his head back to Peter and, although it was late, he shook the man's offered hand. The latter was already seeing the nonverbal gloating that I was doing and the irritation that it resulted in. I was relieved that Fowler rubbed him the wrong way, too – it would be easier to convince him that the bastard wasn't being fair to Neal.

"You can't try to understand these criminals, Agent Burke," he said finally, undermining the personal experience Peter had. Just because he had committed some crimes (but not this one) didn't take away Neal's humanity or his personality. "Anderson, I maintain that you did a good job. You are, of course, welcome for your stay, Agent Burke, but do yourself a favor and don't forget that you have your own job in Boston."

In other words, _get lost soon, this isn't your fight._ I wasn't the only one who interpreted it that way, going by Peter's disgruntled and slightly insulted stare at Fowler's back as he passed us and went on to the elevators.

* * *

I took Peter to my office and showed him everything that I had in the hopes that he might notice something that I had potentially missed. I wasn't too proud to admit that I was being very emotionally stressed by this one, and I was desperate enough to accept help. Hell, I'd asked him to drive all the way up from Boston to help possibly exonerate someone whom he had arrested and testified against.

It was the strangest thing. I don't know if it was his position, his history with Neal, or his attitude, but talking with him on the phone and talking with him in person were hugely different affairs. I'd felt like equals on the phone, but not so much face-to-face. It was through no fault of his – the older agent was an absolute gentleman, a little sarcastic at times, but never hurtful or rude. He had a very respectable and almost paternal demeanor, so instead of just wanting help, I wanted to _collaborate,_ and caught myself seeking out approval. I mean, damn, I cared more about getting his agreement with my thoughts than I did my father's. _Weird..._ But a dynamic that I could work with. I'd much rather someone whose respect I wanted to earn than someone who just wanted my soulmate in prison for something he didn't do.

"Everything Tulane gave us seems to check out." I spread out different articles from the forger's "proof of travel" folder, as I had elected to call it in my head. My head is a nice, solid dictatorship. No rebellious parties get to arrest my friends when everything's taking place in my head, which is the way I prefer it. Peter didn't sit down, but stayed standing up with his thumbs in his pockets, looking over everything on my desk. Compared to the professional and well-grounded agent, I probably looked like a hot mess – hair down instead of up, jacket off, not looking like I'd slept. "The photos from Spain are timestamped, the airline tickets look pretty legitimate, and there's nothing suggesting he actually was here before yesterday morning."

"Of course there isn't. Never be surprised when these guys clean up after themselves." Felt like life advice. Peter waved a finger at me as he imparted his knowledge. It was hard not to bitchily reply that he shouldn't have been so surprised every time Neal got away during their multiple-year chase. And he'd invariably respond with a smart note on how he _did_ get Neal in the end. "What's Neal's lawyer been up to?"

Curious, I almost asked if Peter had ever met Mozzie. I chose not to after a second's hesitation and covered up smoothly. "Not all that much," I pursed my lips and rubbed the back of my neck, passing off my pause as frustration. Given how Mozzie had been jittery to even talk to me until we got tipsy together and he did a hit-and-run for me, I found it highly improbable that he had ever talked to the "suit" that was constantly working to put Neal _in_ jail, rather than keep him out of it. "And legally, he can't be followed. Attorney-client privileges entitle he and his lawyer to a certain level of confidence, especially from the prosecution."

"Attorney-client privileges." Peter sighed deeply, looking up from the photographs of the pretty European country. "Covers up a lot of sins, that one." He locked eyes with me. "Agent Anderson, that begs the question, are we the prosecution or the defense?"

 _Moment of truth._ I swallowed and remembered to stand proud. Without certainty for whatever it was I was fighting for, no one else would believe I was actually worth fighting _with._ I rubbed my hands over my hips and raised my chin, showing a little defiance and no shortage of my famous stubbornness. "I'm going to testify on Neal's behalf that he was not responsible for this," I declared. "I don't know about you, but I am on his side."

Peter drew his hands out of his pockets and held them up in question. He looked… not really surprised, but confused. "Why?" I kind of raised my shoulders and looked towards the window. He'd need to specify the question. "Why risk all this – your job – for a conman?" He pointed at me. "How well do you really think you know him?"

I know he was asking to make me think about what I was doing, but this wasn't something I'd just picked up as a pet project. I took Neal as a long-term commitment of at _least_ four years just by signing my name on the right papers. Then I'd become his friend, his lover, and – eventually, even if I was still working on that part – his confidante. That's more than just some piece of paper that neutralizes itself when evidence comes up. That's an actual human bond, forged by trust and choice and enjoyment of him, and although I know it has the potential to wreck me entirely, it also enables us both to make each other better people, to help each other out of the ditches we get thrown in by meddlesome OPR agents. In my head, it all made perfect sense – as much sense as the simple reasoning that I live with Katie because I love her.

Explaining it to Peter, though… that wasn't going to be as simple. I couldn't tell him about the ongoing joke about Italian roast coffee, or the way that sometimes I was "invited" to Kate's errands because what she actually wanted was Neal's artistic taste on wallpaper or paint or décor for her kids. I didn't have time to explain the complexities of cases like Ghovat's, which had involved me being kidnapped and Neal running out into a line of fire to jam a cell phone signal to protect me, and the way he wrapped me up and held me close for fear, hiding his face in my hair and letting me hear the rapid _thump-thump-thump_ of his heartbeat. And I couldn't talk to _anyone_ with a badge about how I was sleeping with Neal, much less offer the justification that it feels _right_ to be with him, even in that way, that I sleep _so much better_ with him than I do alone, that I feel _safe,_ even though I know that if someone were to attack, it would be less of a matter of Neal protecting me and more like him waking me up so that I could do the fighting. There was, though, just one part of that entire ongoing list that would appeal to any seasoned FBI field agent, and that was the sense that I appealed to with Peter.

"Not as well as I'd like." I hopped up onto the edge of my desk and covered my knees with my hands, looking up at Peter earnestly so that he could see that I was entirely serious, that I completely understood what I was playing around with. "I can admit that." I'm adult enough to know that I'm playing with fire. It's cool while it last, but burns hot when my handle on it slips. "And he's done some stupid things." Peter very emphatically nodded. I chuckled and held up a hand to him, using the man as an example of the bad things Neal did. Peter wouldn't even know his name if Neal was a good, law-abiding guy. "But he's also done stupid things to protect me, more than once from very violent people, and that's won my loyalty."

 _Loyalty._ The good guys on the force treasure it. We entrust our lives to each other when we're out on the field. Field agents have partners when they work, and work and home have such blurred lines that it's hard not to start considering your partner as your friend, even when you're not on the clock. Loyalty is associated with and strongly expressed by putting yourself in danger for someone else, but it's also about having their back and supporting them through a decision, paying attention to know when they're not okay, and defending them against naysayers and trash talkers.

I saw the instant that it hit home with Peter exactly what my motivations were, and he understood why I was so hell-bent on getting Neal out of the baggy jumpsuits and into the well-fitted Devore outfits. "Yeah," he said, face soft with empathy and respect – if not for me, then for my priorities. It made me all fuzzy and glow-y inside. _Yes. Approval. Got that._ He cleared his throat loudly. "So we have no idea what he's doing?"

I raised my arms and clapped my hands together in front of my chest. "We _do_ know that in the last couple of hours, his lawyer has made a real estate purchase in Neal's name, using his financial assets." I pointed to the right pile of papers that had been delivered to me via Diana, and Peter reached over the desk for them, carefully avoiding knocking over my photograph of myself, Kate, and Derek.

"What? He bought a bakery?" He squinted at it, looked at it normally, and then found my eyes to demand an explanation. "Why'd he buy a bakery?"

I turned my hands palms-up. "He likes pastries," I suggested weakly. It seemed like a really random purchase, but Mozzie had to have a reason for it – even if that reason was just having a convenient misdirect.

Clearly, Peter wasn't up for buying my suggestion that Neal liked pastries so much that he decided to buy a place to make them in bulk. "So he bought an entire bakery?"

"Hey, don't ask me!" The silliness of the last few sentences made me laugh, and I felt a little bit better when I giggled. I slid off the edge of the desk, pushed my hair out of my face, and spun around sharply on my heel to face the desk and agent again. "I don't even know where it's located," I promised more somberly. "That's part of the privileges, too…" I glanced at the clock on the computer monitor and I sighed, looking down to the photographs of tourist sites in Madrid. _Way to give me a wake-up call._ "His arraignment is this afternoon," I quietly informed. Peter wasn't going to be needed there, since he wasn't officially involved with this count of forgery. "I'm going to get lunch with my sister first." Then, because I owed him at least a meal, "Care to accompany me, Agent Burke?"

He broke into a smile. "Call me Peter," he offered, leaning towards me and holding out his arm. I slowly accepted his offer of companionship and shook hands with him. His grasp was firm, but not very tight, and I took my hand away first. "I'll let El know where to meet us." He took out his phone. I just kind of watched, interested in how long it would take for him to realize he didn't know yet where he was supposed to tell his wife to travel to. It took a few seconds of him staring at the keys before he thought to ask. I grinned, surprised at how easily I could manage it with Neal behind bars in what was probably one of his nightmares, and felt a little guilty for my happiness. Neal wouldn't begrudge me a laugh, but I was annoyed at myself.

* * *

**I met someone new yesterday, and I was so excited.**

**My uncle and my father lost contact a long time ago – way back before I was even born. They had a huge fight over… well, Dad still won't tell me what it was, but they recently started trying to get over it, for the sake of Dad's work (my uncle's got some political influence, too). I knew he existed, but only through Mom, and she had only met him a couple of times. She's of the opinion that a daughter doesn't need to know what her father won't tell her, so she wouldn't say much.**

**The thought of meeting my uncle made me excited. He's a family member, right? Mom and Dad don't really cut it for me anymore. Someone new might be someone less intolerant, less** **_intolerable_ ** **. And, for the first few hours, I was right.**

**We met at a restaurant. My uncle adored me right off the bat; started saying how I reminded him of my paternal grandmother, who died when I was too young to remember. Then he appreciated my multilingualism, and my taste in food when we ordered something that my mom made a face at. He was fun and asked me about myself, so we talked and laughed and acted like people are supposed to when they're at a family dinner. Never once did he say anything about my posture or how I was being a little too audible to the people around us. Mom can't stand it if we go out in public and I attract attention by laughing.**

**Things went downhill when we got back home. He was supposed to stay with us for a few nights. Everything was all good until I was dragged out of my bedroom – by my impassive father, of all people, who was spitting mad, in a rage, and he started shrieking at me, all red in the face, about how I'd broken into his study and taken a check that had been written by someone that he worked with. I hadn't done anything. What would I do with the check? I couldn't cash it and it wouldn't have been endorsed to me. Not that I needed the money, anyway. I mean,** **_hello?_ ** **Rich white girl here? I'm pretty well-set for a seventeen-year-old.**

**He called the fucking cops on me. I still can't believe it.**

**He used his friends in law enforcement and they came by the house. I think he only intended to have them freak me out, but the words 'criminal charges' and 'fraud' were thrown in a few times. I didn't cry, but had I been a bit less angry, I might have. I kept throwing back at them things like 'minor' and 'no evidence' and 'get me a lawyer if you're gonna do something and if not then get the fuck out of my bedroom.'**

**One of the sergeants found my uncle trying to leave, and he wouldn't tell them why. The guy thought it was suspicious and checked his wallet. Not only did he find the check, but he found a pocket knife that they're reasonably sure he used to break the door jam to get into Dad's study. Only then did I find out why everyone was so intent on blaming the kid in a house staffed with a dozen people: my uncle had left my jacket behind when he stole the check.**

**I still don't know what he meant to do with it, but I'm not going to ask. Dad pissed me off, but mostly, I'm incredibly upset that my uncle would do something like that. Just as I got hopeful that maybe someone would actually care to act like family, and I was just being used as a scapegoat.**

**I met someone new yesterday, and I am incredibly disappointed.**

**Love (but what's life without some hatred, too),**

**Zarra L**


	14. There's No One to Save You But Yourself

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Neal and McKenna go rogue in slightly different ways to exonerate Neal and find the real thief. Peter is helpful, El and Kate are partners-in-crime, and disturbing details about Fowler come to light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Lucy Hale's "Bless Myself."

**_Chapter Fourteen – There's No One to Save You but Yourself_ **

Elizabeth Burke was an absolute gem. Despite having my very own grade-A lover, I was almost jealous of Peter. I didn't get to meet her in person until we had lunch together. Kate and Elizabeth got to the plaza first, then Peter and I ended up joining them. We did cross-introductions, talking to the women that we didn't recognize immediately, and five minutes later, we'd ordered appetizers to split, Elizabeth was to be called El, I'd had a friendly hug, and El picked my zodiac sign, my hobbies, and my close appreciation for coffee practically out of midair with very little prodding at me.

Elizabeth bore a strong resemblance to Kate Moreau. That was the first thing I thought when I saw her, and I felt guilty for it right after, although I couldn't pinpoint why. The differences became evident in moments as soon as she started talking and distinguished her personality. The first thing I noticed was that her eyes were brown, not blue; her hair was shorter, curlier, lighter, and shinier brunette; El had more color in her face and a much brighter disposition than Kate had in any photo I'd seen her in. Kate's face was narrower while El was a little rounder and gentler in her presentation. She was kind and sweet and had a mild smart remark on the tip of her tongue for Peter about being late, but kissed him affectionately and he chuckled, taking it in jest.

By the time we were leaving the restaurant, I felt closer to all three of them. El was great at bonding and there hadn't been a single awkward silence. Every time one threatened to come up, she took control of the dialogue and steered it in a safe direction with a subtle but iron control. It was much easier to be around Peter without feeling like I needed to move around and use every single second to be productive to prove I was worth his time, and if I didn't know better, El could have been someone I'd known for years, despite having had only one hour of time to get to know her.

Truly amazing. And I bet Neal would've loved her – gorgeous, compassionate, and wickedly smart, even if she utilized the skill to quietly keep everyone together in a safe and non-judgmental atmosphere. El had her own business, which would've given them an entire vast array of conversational topics – El worked as an event planner in Boston and owned her own company, Burke Premiere Events.

Yeah. If I wasn't having to try so hard not to be into Neal (and failing), and if I had ever been the type to crush on unavailable people, I'd have been falling hard for El. She was just so easy to adore. Fortunately for me, many an uncomfortable situation had been avoided by my feelings; when I learn someone is unavailable, any potential desire for romantic or sexual connections are flipped, turned entirely off. I just have no interest in that sort of drama. The only exceptions are the physical attraction for celebrities, people I've never actually met, who hold an abstract idealism that would never go anywhere anyway.

Peter and I split the bill. Kate and El wanted to argue, but we hadn't gotten much more than appetizers, and it would've just been stupid to split it into such small increments for a damn meal. We were all adults. As the people who had had the idea to eat out anyway, the agents took the responsibility. Peter kissed El's cheek and I very dramatically dropped down to one knee and took Katie's wrist, giving her a kiss on her hand until she flicked my face and told me to get up because people were staring.

El and Kate graciously agreed to accompany Peter and I on our walk to the courthouse, which was a short trip away from the restaurant. It was one of the rare days when the lunch rush was off-timed and we had enough space on the sidewalk to move to the wider side of the street by a park fountain and walk all in a row, Peter and El in the middle, Kate on El's other side and myself taking up the space between Peter and the street.

"So, hon, I want to ask now that you've had the chance to look everything over. Are you sure Neal did this?" El worried her lip between her teeth while she looked at Peter. I hadn't gotten a read on how she felt about Neal yet – it wasn't really something that came up during lunch. She seemed to know plenty about who he was on paper, at least, and didn't outwardly demonstrate any derision for it.

Peter sighed deeply, looking out down the street. Only about a block away from us now was the large courthouse, built a long time ago and maintained by the city ever since, sunlight reflecting off of the metals on and around the structure and making it glint. "Of course, he _says_ he was framed…"

"Maybe he was," El volunteered cryptically, not voicing an opinion one way or the other without further information.

Peter pursed his lips and looked down at his wife, who was a good nine inches shorter than him. El came to his shoulder and fit perfectly in the bend of his arm wrapped around her shoulders, pressing against his side like it was the one place in the world she belonged. "I'm more inclined to believe it now than I was yesterday," he admitted with a grimace.

I looked behind the two lovers' backs to Kate and did a victorious little fist-pump. _That vote of confidence could mean the difference in how this entire ordeal plays out._ She looked appreciatively at Peter in between the adoring looks she kept sending them, trying to offer them some relative privacy but being unable to resist looking at how perfect they were together.

"Hey El," Kate struck up another conversational note on that turn of topic, "Did you ever actually meet him?"

El switched the to-go cup she'd brought her cappuccino in and looked to Kate, shaking her head softly with little brown curls tossing on her shoulders. "Unfortunately, I never really did get around to that." She sounded genuinely apologetic. "The whole 'under arrest' thing kind of got in the way. If he gets off the hook, maybe I can finally meet my competition," she teased, nudging Peter's side with a careful elbow.

"Competition?" I echoed, looking at Peter with raised eyebrows.

Peter looked altogether unamused by the way El chose to relate the time he spent on Neal's case, and was a little flustered by the implication, if the uncomfortable look on his face and flush on his cheeks was anything to go by. I laughed before he could even answer me. El took pity on him and leaned around him to address me directly.

"Peter would spent days at a time chasing after Neal," she said with an exaggerated roll of her eyes, as if she was sharing a sentiment with me. _Men, right?_ "Felt more like an affair than a job!" The words were bad but she was laughing about it, so she couldn't have been offended.

Kate 'keh'-ed loudly. "No wonder they like each other," she snorted. "They're both workaholics."

I pretended that I hadn't started to poke fun at Peter and instead raised my chin a little, looking at him in concern. "I think they're laughing at us," I shared in feigned distress.

"I think they are, too," he confided, hugging his wife a little closer. "No one could ever compete with you, El," he promised in all seriousness, tone smothered with love and devotion that came close to making my knees weak – and it wasn't even directed at me!

"Oh, I know," she assured him with a smirk, stopping her walk to turn in his arm slightly to face him, lifting her free hand to his chest. "No one could replace you, either," she vowed, then playfully giggled. "In spite of that you lost all ability to flirt when we got married."

Katie and I were more like third and fourth wheels in that moment than half of the group, but to be honest, I couldn't have cared less, and with the eyes she was making at the Burkes, neither could she. El and Peter were wonderful people – at least, from the short time I'd known them – and it was even better because they made such a perfect couple, too: each had their own careers and lives separate of each other, but were constantly in support of one another, with loyalties and concerns and dedications and inside jokes and the comfort in a long-standing love to taunt and jibe with good intentions. It had been way too long since I'd seen a relationship like that that wasn't platonic, and certainly the first one I'd seen so up-close and for hours at a time.

El stood up a bit taller on her toes, even with her heels boosting her off of the ground, and Peter lowered his head to press his nose to her cheek, laughing into each other's air with an easy and enviable intimacy. "I didn't have much skill with that even before then," he reminded her fondly.

The two kissed. I finally looked away, smiling up at the sky despite myself. I was going to have to go to a dentist for cavities if they kept it up for much longer. My phone thankfully disrupted my attention from them without bothering the married couple, and I checked it from my pockets to see if it was important enough of a call to take at the time. The caller ID was Diana.

"You see that, Kenzi?" Kate sighed dreamily. Her eyes were on the Burkes, but the focus was off – she wasn't seeing them, she was seeing a cute fantasy they happened to be mirroring. "I want a relationship like that."

 _So do I,_ I confessed within the secrecy of my own mind. I loved the two of them together. I loved that they displayed such a healthy and secure relationship that benefitted them both. I especially admired that neither of them had talked about soulmates once, except in a passing reference when El had been describing a cake she'd ordered for a pair of mates that had hired her for their wedding reception. I had no idea if they had matching marks and it didn't seem like they cared – if they did, whatever, if they didn't, who cared, because they were in love with each other, not with a tattoo.

To me, a relationship like that seemed like a dream. A literal dream. And a distant one, at that. The only person I could see myself with at the moment was Neal, and that was a pipe dream for many, many reasons, too many to make a list of, and I didn't have the best track record with relationships, anyway. I had a habit of unintentionally (or subconsciously?) picking out significant others that were nice for a fling but that weren't compatible with me in the long-term. Some ended amicably, others ended messily, and a couple had ended very bitterly for me.

"What's up?" I asked into my phone, pushing thoughts of my incarcerated lover out of my head and looking away from Peter and El, both for their "moment" and to concentrate. For Diana to call me while I was still technically on a lunch break with as much office calamity as there was, it had to be important.

 _"So, the arraignment's been moved…"_ she started, her wincing audible. Well, that was certainly important enough to warrant a call on my break.

"What for?" I asked, screwing up my face in confusion and looking over to the courthouse. Moved in time, or moved in location? Had more evidence come up that needed to be processed, or was there something at play that would affect who controlled the process? I was prepared for my good afternoon to end with a screeching halt.

Diana hesitated; _"Neal-"_ she cut herself off with an incredulous laugh over the phone. _"Neal says he's going to confess."_

 _What?! Neal, confess?_ Mr. _Alleged-_ Crimes, Mr. Statute-of-Limitations, Mr. You-Can't-Prove-Anything, Mr. I'm-Denying-Everything? _Confess?_ To a crime that he didn't even commit? Was I high? Was the world upside down? Had I walked out of the restaurant and right into the Twilight Zone?

"To _what,_ exactly?" I demanded in disbelief, not truly expecting Diana to have the answers. It would've been nice if she did, but luck wasn't really on my side this week. My raised voice got the attention of all three of my companions, and El and Peter shared an almost identical expression of nervous fretting.

I got the impression that she shrugged from the pause. _"My guess would be the crime,"_ she said apologetically to me, knowing that that was not what I wanted to hear.

"That's extremely uncharacteristic," I stated the obvious. Even if he _had_ stolen the diamond, he wouldn't just confess all.

_"He said some important people were going to be named, and he won't do it in an open court, so they moved the proceedings."_

I raked a hand through my hair and as far down my upper back as I could reach, then held up an open hand in the universal 'wait' sign to Kate, Peter, and El. Who were these important people? Was he going to accuse Tulane? Maybe actually be bold enough to point fingers at Fowler for the unusual speed with which he got here, say that an FBI agent had not only been accessory to the heist, but had also tampered with evidence and fraudulently framed a consultant and obstructed another agent's investigation?

 _I have to talk to him._ Would they even let me? I had to know what he was planning. I had to talk him out of it. What if it was something I hadn't even thought of? He was a convicted felon. No matter what of the truth he said, a jury wasn't going to believe him over a respected senior agent of the bureau.

I made a whine instead of a coherent noise of frustration, like most human beings would make. "Where to?"

 _"There's a judge's chambers around the corner on the next block,"_ Diana helpfully supplied. I looked past the courthouse down the street and across an intersection. Further down the block was a turn that then led to the right, going past the courthouse and into a neighborhood that was more business-finances than residential or industrial.

"Okay. Thanks." I took the phone away from my face and checked the time. There was supposed to be almost another half-hour until Neal's scheduled arraignment time, but if he was meeting someone in private, they might've bumped it up. It's not like they were obligated to tell me, even though I was the arresting officer (a pang in my chest made me catch my breath and squeeze my eyes shut at the reminder). "I'll go check it out," I said, holding the phone close enough to my mouth to say before I hung up, trusting her to call or text if there was something important I wasn't giving her the chance to tell me.

I met Kate's almost frightened face with one of confusion. This was supposed to be straightforward, but instead it was going all crooked. I shook my head almost minutely at Peter and his frown deepened, and then I crooked my fingers to the three of them and nodded forwards, taking a deep breath and propelling myself onwards with a new sense of urgency. Lunch had been nice, but I'd let myself forget that while I was having fun, someone very important needed me.

* * *

At the end of the courthouse, we turned right on the same block and started down the sidewalk. A set of stairs dipped down into the underground subway system with a dark blue railing around it to keep people from mindlessly walking to a fall onto the steps. To the right of the sidewalk, a big, dark-colored brick building, mostly office spaces, resided. On the ground floor, most of the doors were undecorated, but a bright orange awning caught my eye for a flash of color before I dismissed it, looking instead over the windows higher up on the building.

Peter stopped before a suited man with shortly-cut brown hair talking on a phone. He had a badge pinned to his shirt that said he worked for the justice system as a bailiff. Given that he was so close to the courthouse and the supposed offices, Peter walked right up to him, held up his FBI badge, and asked, "Judge Hickman's office?"

The man put his phone away from his mouth temporarily and turned to look at the building over his shoulder. He pointed up to a window over the awning. "Fourth floor, up there," he directed. I guessed there were five floors total inside, excluding any lower floors beneath the ground level.

"Thanks," Elizabeth politely said, while Peter and I shared a look and went towards the larger doors that would lead inside. There wasn't any sort of remarkable front to the doors to the offices, not like there was that large staircase with decorated marble statues in front of the courthouse. "Since my husband forgot to say it."

I took a second look up to the window that the man had pointed out and narrowed my eyes, squinting up to look at it. It looked different from the others; it took me a second to realize that that difference was that I couldn't see any glass. That window had been opened from the inside.

 _Why would a judge leave his windows open?_ I wondered skeptically. Seemed like a security risk. Slowly, I dragged my eyes down and ended up glancing at the awning again, totally in passing, but stopped and reached out without thinking, loosely grabbing hold of my new friend's arm.

"Peter! The bakery!"

The awning was orange on top, had a darker citrus trim on the edges, and the ends that flipped down on the sides of the metal overhang were lighter yellow. The same dark citrus that made the trim had _The Greatest Cake_ scrawled in italics underneath a thick-fonted, capital-lettered "GRAND OPENING." The awning was over the front of a _bakery_ , right underneath the quarters of the judge overseeing Neal's case.

Eagerly, I looked at Peter. He read the script on the side of the thick furnishing fabric and shook his head. "That's the bakery," he agreed, confirming for me that I wasn't just going crazy and seeing coincidences. "The son of a bitch bought that bakery." He didn't sound like he meant "son of a bitch" as anything other than an almost fond exclamation.

"The awning…" I murmured. The awning was brand new. It wasn't dirty or torn. The bakery didn't have its lights on or look lively at all; it could have still been closed. It certainly wasn't open. So why was there a pristine awning in front of it?

Kate scoffed. Behind Peter and me, she and El stood behind us, waiting for us to do something that was actually productive. "What's the big deal about a bakery?" Kate complained at our stillness.

_What, indeed…_

A flash of motion way above the awning caught my attention. I threw an arm up to point. "Look!" I yelled, unintentionally grabbing the attention of not just Kate and El, but also the man on the phone and several people both on the block and across the street.

The open window from the judge's chambers had a ledge just on the outside – it was short and thin, only spanning the length of the window itself and more decorative than functional. A shoe stepped out onto it, leg bent, and with hands on the inside of the window keeping him from falling, Neal ducked out the open window, then spread his arms to hold onto the inside of the building while his heels rested on the narrow ledge. The wind forty feet high made his hair fly and buffeted his tie, the end whipping up.

He must have heard something inside, because he turned to look over his shoulder. Probably bailiffs on-duty, because he turned back to look out over the street, where several people were screaming and shouting for someone to call the police or an ambulance, expecting that he was trying to commit suicide. Very few people seemed to notice the awning, but to me, it finally made sense.

Neal jumped off the ledge. Katie _screamed_ his name _._ I covered my mouth with both of my hands, throat feeling raw despite the fact that I hadn't made a sound. I could have shrieked. I really could have. My heart pumped and adrenaline made me feel as high as Neal was. He didn't stay up there long, falling fast, arms windmilling impulsively and blazer blowing up to his shoulders.

The terror of the civilians lasted, but once he landed square onto the awning, I let out a breath. No wonder the cover was new. It was sturdy, too – it dipped down hard and pulled at the metal beams it was secured around, but the overhang didn't break. Neal's legs flipped up into the air when he bounced.

He bounced a couple of times to regain control of his own body without the momentum or impact throwing him off-balance, then rolled onto one side to the edge of the awning. Holding on with both hands, he rolled right off the side, flipping right-side up, knees bent and back arched. He swung up under the overhang, then let his arms fall, uncurling his legs and dropping to his feet. He stumbled once, catching himself quickly.

"That was fucking awesome!" I shouted on an impulse, breathing hard even though I hadn't moved. It was either that or to start crying as anxiety and relief simultaneously became too overwhelming.

Neal, also panting, looked down the street then and locked eyes with me. He saw Kate, El, and Peter – El had latched onto Peter's arm when she'd seen Neal jump – and held out his arms, almost shrugging to me that he had escaped, put himself in hotter water, and possibly put me in more trouble. Then, in response to my yell, he doubled over in a swift bow before he straightened up and looked at me, torn.

 _Go,_ I mouthed, forgetting that anyone could see me and hoping that no one who was watching could read my lips from this distance. My hands twitched in the slightest 'shoo' motion. _Get out before they catch up._

Neal would be in _huge_ trouble if he was caught for this, but it gave him time to work his own angle to exonerate himself, and I know I'd said myself at some point that it was a _lot_ easier to get charges dismissed before they had been pressed. It was a lot harder to exonerate someone after they'd been sentenced, and at this rate, we weren't going to get the evidence in time before Neal had been put in front of a jury and given more prison time.

His shoulders fell in relief and he nodded, just once, just to thank me for understanding and consenting. Neal wouldn't have to hold a guilty conscience over doing this to me when I was the one instructing him to do it. The artist turned tail and sprinted down the block, dodging to avoid the people who had started to come to him, oblivious to his reasons, just wanting to ensure he wasn't hurt.

Neal crossed the street without looking for cars, too busy making his escape before any security guards could come after him – also possibly before Peter could give chase. I stood stock-still to give him the opportunity, and if asked by anyone else, I'd say I was just shocked. A dark red van was parallel parked on the curb forward and to the left side of the street with the back door slid open. Neal bolted across the road and leapt into the van, turning to slide the door shut with a loud _bang._ The van started, headlights turning on, and backed up a few feet, and less than thirty seconds after Neal had jumped in, it pulled out of its spot and sped off away from the courthouse.

The bailiff who had been on the phone had either hung up to talk into a radio or he had called someone else, because he was yelling, "Somebody jumped out of a window and ran into a van!"

As the van went at the very edge of the speed limit, peeling out of the neighborhood, Peter and I looked at each other, both of us feeling some strange mixture of shock and pride. Neal may never have been Peter's trusted consultant, but the two had met several times during Peter's chase to find not just the man, but the evidence he needed against him. I didn't know who had driven the van, I didn't know who had arranged it, I didn't know how it had even been managed – but I knew that Neal wasn't going to be that easy to catch.

Peter had the same thoughts.

"He's not in the van," we told each other synchronously.

Kate's eyes fluttered shut faintly and she covered her chest with one hand, fingers splayed wide, trying to calm down after the near-cardiac arrest. El looked up at her husband with wide eyes, stunned at what she'd just seen and staring between us like we were focused on the wrong thing.

I looked after the van with a smirk on my face. _That's my brilliant criminal._ If you're going to break out of a judge's chambers… do it in style.

* * *

As soon as we made our way to the place where the van had been sitting, Peter and I saw exactly why Neal had chanced such an obvious getaway scheme – there was a manhole cover into the underground network right underneath where the van had been parked. Though I admired Neal's resourcefulness, given the short amount of time he'd had to pull this together – and from jail, at that – I was almost scared to think of what would happen if I were to end up with him as my opposition one day.

Neal's heart attack-causing getaway resulted in a big spectacle with both the NYPD and the FBI, and in less than ten minutes, we had two pairs of FBI agents working on getting witnesses into place and civilians out of the way for the professionals. NYPD set up road blocks and cordoned off the scene, both of the bakery and the getaway van's parking spot. The individual block had been shut down with traffic cones on either side. It would be a pain in the ass for civilians who needed to get to facilities on this street, but it was overall safer for the pedestrian law enforcement.

I watched another FBI car pull up with two agents riding in it – Hughes driving, and the ever-persistent Fowler in the passenger seat. I was dreading facing them alone, but it turned out I wouldn't have to – Peter's phone call ended and he returned to me by the curb of the street, holding up his cell to show me why he'd left before he put it away.

"That was El," he explained, although I'd kind of figured that, since he'd answered his phone with a _hey, hon_. "She and Kate are at your house. You don't mind, do you?"

"Not at all," I said, practically willing to invite them to move in with us while they were here. These were faster friendships than I usually built, but especially given what we'd just seen, I was glad Kate and El both had each other's company. It's not every day that Katie watches her friend jump out of a fourth-floor window, let alone survive the fall, so I was relieved that she wasn't going to be alone until I had things sorted. "She can make herself at home."

That resolved, Peter put his hands on his hips and looked down at the manhole. I didn't have a handy map of New York's sewers. Neal Caffrey in the sewers seemed even less likely than Neal Caffrey jumping out of a window, but desperate times called for desperate (and extremely theatrical) measures.

"We need someone to get to the city planner's office to find out where these tunnels lead," Peter said thoughtfully, staying back from the circumference of the cover and keeping his feet on the solid asphalt ground.

Having Peter became even more of a blessing when Hughes and Fowler came storming up to us, Fowler coming first but Hughes looking far more intimidating. "Anderson! Burke!" I didn't know who had told Hughes about Peter's involvement, but at least he didn't seem aggravated by it. I put on my guilty face and prepared to behave. For my boss, anyway. "Caffrey escaped?!"

"Yeah," Peter confirmed, either not afraid of Hughes or, more likely, not realizing that the man was far more terrifying than his small stature let on. "Did a four-story swan dive onto the awning of that bakery." He pointed to the golden awning in question across the street and up the block.

I grinned just at the reminder. It had been a horrible moment when I'd thought he'd just decided to make a suicidal leap – awnings could be weak – but now that the panic was over, it was just going to be one of those things that replayed in my head and went down as an exhilarating memory. Like a roller coaster or rip cord at an amusement park. "Which was _totally_ impressive, by the way," I enthusiastically praised, before realizing that neither of the newcomers appreciated my assessment. Hughes glowered at me as if I'd just told him that I'd locked Derek and Diana together as a prank and then misplaced the key to my handcuffs.

… Again…

"Who approved moving the arraignment?" Peter questioned forwardly, a bold and brazen move, considering that Hughes hadn't gotten the verbal venting necessary to get all the wind out from his sails.

What shocked me even more than the arraignment being moved was that Hughes didn't act like his anger was going towards Peter. "The Marshals guaranteed the security of the room," he groused, rubbing his hands over his face and covering his eyes.

Peter shook his head, making his hands into fists. "Oh, you never assume _anything_ with Neal," he belatedly cautioned.

I smoothed my palms down along the top of my hair, pushing it down and flattening it as it reached the arch of my ponytail. Then, feeling like I'd proven that I wasn't quite as incensed or bothered by Neal's escape as they might want me to be, I turned on Fowler to give him a piece of my mind.

"You know," I said, very, very testily, in the tone that usually made Neal put his hands up in surrender before I'd gotten more than a few words out. "I have been working very, _very_ hard with Neal over the last many months, and we wouldn't have won half of our cases since without him, but then suddenly you come along and announce that he was a criminal once, so he's _obviously_ the criminal _now_ -"

"Oh," Fowler snarled, realizing what I was doing and jumping to his own defense, hissing and spitting with claws unsheathed. He advanced on me and stared down. I lifted my chin and defiantly didn't take my eyes off of him. "Don't put this on _me!_ " He shouted.

"I'm putting blame where it's due!" I yelled back, matching his volume. "This wouldn't have become a spectacle if OPR had let me handle my own consultant!" I waved my hands up around my face and deepening my voice when I said the acronym, mocking the authority that he was supposed to hold.

The older blonde man looked ready to burst a blood vessel. "Your hold is evidently far too loose!"

" _I_ hold his custody," I reminded him fiercely, stomping a foot forward and… maybe a little bit intentionally almost landing on his toes. "I could have fought you on arresting him, and I didn't! Don't you think that might have been for a reason?" Exasperatedly, I waved my arms around. I wanted to punch, but that wouldn't have looked very good. "You'd never stand a chance getting him back without me!" Between his own smarts and Mozzie's help, Neal could go off the grid until things cooled down enough for him to sneak out of the country.

"Hey, hey," Hughes barked, and suddenly there was a hand on my shoulder pushing me backwards and another on Fowler's chest, shoving him in the opposite direction. "I'm not breaking up _another_ of these!" It was a testament to the bond we had as supervisor and field agent that he could say 'another' with so much exasperation. "Let's focus on the problem here."

I was, of course, very well-versed at pretending to be cowed and ashamed of my behavior. I pulled on my jacket and straightened my collar, shooting a final glare at Fowler as a version of getting the last word before I turned my nose up and turned to face Peter. Fowler 'heh'ed in my general direction and crossed his arms before he saw that's what I was doing and he instead shoved his thumbs through his belt loops.

Hughes waited until neither of us were looking at each other to mutter that we were both children and then asked expectantly, "What do we know?"

"Did we stop the van?" Peter asked, moving his hand from where he'd covered his mouth to disguise the fact that he was smiling as Hughes broke up what might have become a very underhanded fight very quickly.

Hughes nodded once, shortly. "The only person in the van was the driver."

Fowler looked up at the rooftops of the buildings across the street, preferring to talk to the birds than Peter or I. _Talk about pride._ "He claims he was hired through the internet," he stiffly recounted. "Five hundred in an envelope, dropped anonymously to pick up the van from a lot and park it in this exact spot at the right time."

"And let me guess," I drew out sarcastically, glaring once again at Fowler. "The floor panel was removable."

Once again, hackles were raised. "How did you know that?" Fowler rounded again, probably itching for some excuse to accuse me of being an accessory and lock me up, too.

"He wasn't in the van for more than a few seconds," I told Hughes, outright ignoring the OPR agent who had gotten so deeply under my skin. He was like an annoying little tick. "It was a cover."

"Can we track his anklet?" Hughes asked me, also choosing to set aside Fowler's temper for a better time.

At this point, I looked over at Fowler coldly. "They chose to remove it when he was arrested."

"Okay." Hughes covered his forehead with his hand and sighed, turning his back to us while he collected his thoughts. Peter looked at me questioningly. I gave him a discreet thumbs-up in answer. We were in the clear. If we weren't, he would've know. When Hughes turned back around again, he looked down at the manhole. "Anderson, find him," he instructed. "… Again."

Predictably, Fowler took a personal problem with me begin assigned to chase after my Neal. It was like a game of cat and mouse; I knew he was somewhere, Neal knew where I was, we both knew I would capture him eventually. This cat was just going to poke at the mouse playfully, not maul it to death, like Fowler would like to.

"I'm not comfortable with Agent Anderson running this operation-" He opened his loud mouth to bitch.

Hughes cut him off. "I don't care whether you're comfortable or not!" Peter and I shared another look, mutually amused, while Hughes went off on Fowler enough to get him to actually click his mouth shut and keep it that way. No one would argue back at Hughes when he was pissed enough to raise his voice. Except maybe me, but I'm a special case. "Anderson knows Caffrey better than anyone. She's the only agent in this damned bureau that he actually listens to." I smirked at Peter almost victoriously that I tamed the man he barely caught, and Peter rolled his eyes. "Now get to work."

"Oh, and as of today," I said, before Hughes stepped out of earshot. I wanted this officially on record, made into an undisputable fact. Rocking forward onto my toes with my hands held behind my back, I grinned cockily at Fowler that I won. "Agent Burke is officially on this case. This is his job, and he is my working partner."

For several seconds, I thought that Fowler was going to either collapse or pounce. He went through a strange series of emotions, ranging from _fuck me_ to _fuck I want to strangle you,_ and then he forced himself to shut down. He didn't do it nearly as effectively as Neal could. With gritted teeth and narrowed eyes, Fowler attempted a semblance of civility.

"Alright then, Anderson." He growled. "What's your plan?"

"Set up roadblocks," I instructed. Peter stiffened slightly, having not expected that from me. "Put up wanted posters." They sounded useful enough, right? Logical instruction from an FBI agent in pursuit of a wanted fugitive. Hopefully the useless attempts would curb the intensity of the manhunt and buy Neal some time.

_"You won't catch him with roadblocks and wanted posters."_

* * *

My steps were fast and decisive, sure-footed and confident. I was escaping Fowler and setting off on a plan at the same time. What that plan was, I wasn't really sure yet; but I knew that maybe I could talk it over with Kate, and between Peter, Katie, and I, we should have at least an idea of where Neal would have gone to hide. I reached up to my throat and fixed my tie, straightening the long line from my collar down past my chest with a smirk. I knew Hughes would take my side. OPR, being booted out of control in favor of a demoted violent crimes specialist. _Ha! That had to sting._

Peter followed just at my side, just as swift on his feet, and not willing to give me the chance to get ahead of him, in pace or in thought. "You know roadblocks and posters aren't going to do anything to get Neal back, don't you?" He questioned knowingly. When I turned my head to the side to look right at him and feigned innocence, he was deadpan certain and somewhat amused by the turn of events. He scoffed when he saw my 'not-guilty' face.

"Why do you think I suggested it?" Peter himself had, at one point, listed in a report that Neal was a resourceful criminal and a masterful fugitive; roadblocks and wanted posters were his own examples of useless means of finding the convict. "I want him back, but nowhere near Fowler."

"You don't trust him," Peter observed pretty obviously.

To show how much of an understatement that was, I snorted and tossed my head, flipping my fringe out of my face. My hair bounced as I walked with the same skip in my step. I felt like my attitude and my body matched up, and it was a sign that I was right to be doing this – to be abusing my authority, to be manipulating the bureau to help my consultant avoid the agents hunting him. "I would trust a circus clown before I would trust Fowler," I vowed, and anyone who had seen me near a circus clown would have understood how serious that promise was. I looked at Peter out of the corner of my eyes. The taller man was quizzically trying to figure out why the circus clown was an important comparison. "And hopefully, soon I'll be able to tell you why," I included as an afterthought. Keeping Peter out of the loop wasn't my intention, but I'd rather have all of my mallards slowly lined than arranged quickly, only to find a surprise hidden goose.

* * *

Peter and I went back to my house to see our housemates after we put forth our own contributions to the poster plan that wasn't actually supposed to catch Neal – if anything, it was our anti-plan, but from the way we worked and tried to appear efficient, no one else would be able to guess that.

We arrived at my home to an unpleasant surprise awaiting us – a pair of partnered-up FBI agents were sitting out in front of my house, their car parked across the street but their bodies planted on my porch, one on the porch swing watching the front of the house and the other stationed in front of the window that looked into the curtains into the living room that were usually drawn. The lights were out, but I could see the glow of the digital clock over the television, as well as several other electronic lights.

They shared professionally that they had been stationed here in case Caffrey attempted to come to me for help. They apologized for the infringement on my privacy, but seemed to truly believe they would be doing me a favor by keeping me out of a situation in which my "former" ally came to me for illegal assistance. I just smiled tightly, committed their faces to memory in case they turned out to be important later, and introduced Peter. Peter showed them his badge so there was no doubt about his legitimacy and then I let us inside while the agents remained out by the porch.

With the keys, I didn't have to knock, but once I had closed the door, I called out "honeys, we're home" sarcastically, only then realizing that the living room wasn't the only room that had been darkened. The kitchen lights were on, but all of the curtains on the first floor appeared to be pulled shut and kept closed with safety pins except for the ones in the living room that the agents might happen to look through. The back door even had the deadbolt and chain latch on, even though someone would have to climb over thorny bushes and over the top of a balcony railing to get to it. We always kept those on at night, but we tended to be a little more lenient when we weren't alone or during the daytime. I'd gotten the three locks on the hardest point of entry in a fit of paranoia not long after we'd moved in – fully understandable, given the reason we'd moved to the new residence in the first place.

I moved into the living room and looked around. No one was in there. The landline was beeping with the notification light of a voicemail message. I looked over my shoulder at the bemused other agent and I shrugged. _This is weird._ I led the way inside, edgy in case I should have my gun out, but dropped my keys into a ceramic bowl on the parlor table.

El and Katie came out of the brightly-lit kitchen into the comparatively dark living room, and neither of them made any move to reach for the light switch, which was very close by.

I told them apart by their heights. El was shorter than Katie, and the latter was a little bit slimmer from running around on a playground almost every day with her kids. She didn't passively stand to the side – she actively played with them, whether it was running through sprinklers in the hottest days or playing tag and dancing around the jungle gym to avoid being "it."

"Hey," El murmured to Peter, coming up to him and standing on her toes.

"Hey," he murmured back to her before gently giving her a kiss on her lips.

She pecked his cheek afterwards. "You okay?"

I held my arms out and open. Kate wound her arms around my middle and squeezed tightly for just a second before she stopped, and very carefully hugged me gentler. It had been a long time since she had actually had a reason to be cautious of how she handled my midsection, but after the first couple of times she absently forgot to watch it, she had decided to hug me around my neck or shoulders if she wanted a tight squeeze. I don't think it helped that some days the old wounds acted up, whether it was stress-induced or psychosomatic.

"We still haven't found Neal," Peter sighed. He didn't sound shocked, just resigned to what a long day tomorrow would bring.

I pushed my nose into Katie's hair and breathed in deeply, shutting my eyes. I wished sometimes that she didn't have to have such an active part in the pandemonium that my life turned out to be half the time, but she would kick my ass if I tried to push her out. Her shampoo was scented like lavender, but there was something else…

… Fresh chocolate.

"Smells like cookies… wait." I mumbled, taking her by the shoulders and pushing her away. I looked at her suspiciously. "We didn't have any mix." I looked over at El, and especially looked at her hands. There wasn't any flour or chocolate stains on her fingers or her clothes, but I could smell it both in the air from the kitchen and the aroma clinging to Kate. So El hadn't done the cooking. "You don't like making cookies from scratch," I reminded my sister pointedly. "Why did you put forth the effort to make cookies from scratch?"

Kate and Elizabeth both shared looks with each other and Kate avoided my eyes, holding her hands behind her back. It was too late – I'd already noticed the white powder clinging to her palms that was probably making a mark on the back of my jacket. El stayed by Peter with her eyes down guiltily.

"There's an entire detail outside," Peter casually informed them, looking between the two very guilty-looking women thoughtfully. "Apparently, the bureau thinks Neal believes McKenna is his safe place."

Although I was personally pleased at the notion that Neal felt safer with me than he did hiding out in isolation or with Mozzie, there had to be more to it than that. He needed a contact in the FBI for the most efficient results in his exoneration. Still, I could pretend…

"Believe me," Kate grumbled, glaring at the window that she'd left open for the agents outdoors. "We noticed."

Something moved in the kitchen – just the hint of motion, of a shadow, as a line of darkness between the kitchen light and the hallway dimness contrasted and grew darker with another source blocking the light from the curtains over the sink.

"As if he'd be dumb enough to come here," I said unnecessarily loudly. "It's practically the first place they'd think to look." _Way to be predictable, Caffrey,_ I thought snidely to myself with a roll of my eyes. He was supposed to run away somewhere safe, not run right towards the person everyone thought he would go to.

Peter fixed his eyes on his wife. "Where do _you_ think he went, El?" He asked with a shade of exasperation.

Kate and El were both miserable at pretending that they were completely innocent, so I chose to just end the torment being done to all of us and shook my head. "You can come out of the kitchen," I said at my normal volume, as if I was just talking to El, and my voice was heard out in the other room without alerting the people right outside.

There was a tentative pause, but then Neal, dressed entirely in the same shade of black, slipped around the kitchen doorway, looked down the hallway towards the door, made sure no agent was looking in the window, and slunk across into the living room, staying in the darkest section of the parlor right inside the doorway and out of sight of the window. He cast his eyes down shamefully.

There were no words for how strongly I felt about giving him both a tight hug that made him gasp for breath and a slap that would've left his cheek red for _hours_ , but I leaned back onto my heels and stayed put so I wouldn't betray those intense feelings to Peter or El.

"Hey, Peter," he greeted in a small voice with a wince, expecting a lecture or a miniature bomb. "Long time, no see."

Peter did indeed go off on him, but he did it quietly and with a glower of disapproval rather than shouting for the guard detail. "Of all the places you could run, you come here?!" He waved his left arm up towards the ceiling, indicating my house in general, tightening his jaw with a muscle in his chin flexing. Not only would it make _me_ look bad if Neal was found, but it reflected on Kate and El, too.

"Um," he started to hold up a hand to defend himself, but Peter turned his head to the side and gave him a dirty look, so Neal faltered and dropped both hands close to his side, keeping himself as small and unnoticeable as possible. "I came back to my handler," he muttered rebelliously, "So it's not entirely a bad thing."

I turned to Kate. I was beyond happy to have Neal back where I could see for myself that he was alright and uninjured from his reckless jump, but Kate's loyalty to Neal could have gotten her in a spot even I couldn't bail her out of. "You helped him to sneak in!" I accused her. Turning her in was never going to happen and even she knew that, but I could sure scold her.

Katie took offense to my tone. She balked and put her hands on her waist confrontationally. "He wouldn't have had to sneak in if we weren't being stalked by intimidating muscle-y men in suits with guns at their hips! How do they expect me to feel safe showering and sleeping when I know they're right outside?!"

A groan escaped my mouth while I moved my hand to cover my eyes. "Oh my, God, Katie, you _lied_ to the _FBI."_

"No, we did _not_ lie to the FBI, I promise," El soothingly intervened, moving away from Peter and laying a gentle hand on my upper arm. I took my hand away from my face while she made an apologetic smile to appeal to my empathy, then nodded towards Neal, who shuffled his feet and looked down, not wanting to be part of this argument. I got what El was asking regardless; _what were we supposed to do? He needs us._ "There was just… a lot of milk and cookies and pleasant, distracting conversation while Neal slipped around the back."

Peter huffed. "I love this," he lied to Neal, giving him a bitch face. "You've turned our family into accomplices!" I let him handle that while I just looked thoughtfully to the covered window on the back side of the house and mused that the thorn bushes evidently weren't as effective as I had guessed they would be. Maybe the extra locks had been a good idea, after all.

Neal lifted his eyes and deliberately didn't look at Peter. "Give me one minute to explain," he asked me, unease in his eyes while he refused to look at his first arresting officer. "Please, Kenna, I'm _begging."_ He wasn't on his knees, but Neal was staring straight into my eyes pleadingly, his voice strained desperately.

_As if I was ever capable of telling you no._

I turned my eyes to Kate meaningfully. I couldn't say she had no idea Neal was in the house, but I could at least try to keep her cover of plausible deniability for as long as possible. The less she knew about the illicit activities, the better.

El caught it, too. "One minute," she beseeched Peter on Neal's behalf, sticking out her lower lip in a pout and kissing his cheek again. She patted his back and turned to head back into the kitchen.

Kate smiled at Neal reassuringly. "Cookies are out here if you want some," she said kindly as she excused herself, though whether it was to Neal or to Peter and I remained to be seen.

In seconds, Peter and I were left in a room as dark as possible with a fugitive five feet away. Peter put his hands on his hips, looking up at the ceiling incredulously, turning his back to Neal and pacing to the other side of the table, throwing his shoulders and shaking his coat off.

Since he wasn't going to do it, I addressed Neal sharply. I believed that he was innocent and understood why he had made the decision to flee the courts, but he was lacking in his judgment to come running to Kate. Innocent until proven guilty should apply, but in this sort of situation, it's not as literal as it should be, and Kate would be seen in a colored light as a result. So would El. That inconsideration to their securities required a good reason.

"You have sixty seconds to explain what possessed you to go on the run," I informed, leaning against the curving end of the table behind me and crossing my arms.

"Before I decide to take out my cuffs and drag you back to the bureau in chains," Peter added in a hard, harsh whisper. Neal flinched at the threat and a flash of panic appeared on his face.

Protectively, I looked over at Peter and talked him down out of it. "Okay, I can tell you from experience that the threats to put him back in prison will not get you places." Peter clenched his fist and bit his lip, but nodded to me, giving me the assent to handle the situation, trusting that I knew how to deal with Neal's disobedience with better results. He wasn't wrong. What I _really_ meant was _we aren't going to turn him in,_ but I was glad I didn't have to get that direct.

Inhaling deeply, I jumped up and scooted back onto the table, sitting on the edge with my feet swinging a few inches from the floor. I looked at Neal expectantly. When he stayed quiet, looking between Peter and me and waiting for us to come to a verbal consensus, Peter turned to glare expectantly.

"Oh, so does that minute start now?" He said in surprise.

"Go!" I hissed, waving at him and giving him a stern look not to be an idiot.

He nodded. "I told you I was set up." I looked over at Peter and nodded my agreement with Neal; this was true. "By someone close to you," Neal added. "I couldn't tell you at first because I thought it was someone in the FBI, but now I'm positive it's Fowler."

Another reason to hate the douchebag that made me embarrass myself and my CI? Well, I was all for that. I would rather blame the newcomer than someone I trusted my life to on a regular basis.

Peter repeated the name cynically. "Fowler." I had no doubt that the associated OPR title came to mind before he shook his head to dispel the doubt Neal started. "That's not-"

"I've still got fifty-two seconds," Neal stubbornly cut Peter off when he started to contradict him. Peter chuffed indignantly and stared at me in amazement, probably questioning how I had managed not to hit him before now. Neal ignored Peter's impatience, caring more about my reactions, his eyes glued on my face so as not to miss anything. "I had a little free time on my hands the past couple days, so I've been putting… these… together." He reached into the pocket of the tight-fitting black pants and took out a piece of folded up paper with a lot of little creases and uneven spaces. I moved to him rather than making him come to me so that he remained out of sight from the window. "They're documents Fowler shredded after I requested access to my files."

_"Once the request went through, he made a pit stop at a local dumpster. He shredded these."_

_Right, the papers that Mozzie rescued after Fowler tried to get rid of them._ We'd assumed they were incriminating of Fowler or exonerating of Neal – why else would he try to dispose of them? I took them in hand and looked away from Neal, but didn't try to put up any sort of front. If I wanted everything out in the open, I wasn't going to go to the trouble of hiding what I felt. Not in my own home, with the lights down and my consultant literally _hiding_.

"Yeah. I remember these," I assured, unfolding them. The first thing I noticed was the seal at the top of the paper. Each paper had been shredded into dozens of tiny, thin strips. I didn't want to think about how long it must've taken him to piece them back together.

The format was very clearly a dialogue. All-capital letters spelled out _SUSPECT (NEAL_ _CAFFREY)_ and _SPECIAL AGENT MCKENNA ANDERSON_ in the corresponding columns, and each time the time had changed by a minute, the new time was recorded underneath or above one of the lines. There were even descriptors of how the lines had been said, like the Italian instructions on sheet music.

"What do they say?" Peter asked, while my breath caught and I looked down the page.

"It's a transcription," I told him, barely moving my mouth as I started reading off of it. " _We have got a good one today. Suspected jewelry heist, which means you know if it's the real thing, it's a really good one! … That's at Le Joyau Precieux. I'm even more intrigued. Oh, of course, the classiest and most expensive boutique in Manhattan. You would know the exact street address. You're gonna love this one, Neal. … How much coffee have you had? None. Shut up! See you later."_ I reached the end of the transcript on the second page and looked up to Neal, eyes wide and horrified. He licked his lips and bit his tongue softly between his teeth, nodding in sympathetic confirmation. "Oh my God."

"What?" Peter asked, arms crossed imperiously, looking between us and knowing that he was missing something from my reaction.

Slowly, I turned my head to look at the landline phone on the table just a few feet away, sitting innocently. Not the same phone, but it was the same number, same connection. It sat there innocently. I stared at it like it was the clown from _American Horror Story_ in disguise, feeling a wave of nausea threaten to bring me down to my knees.

"I made that call from _here,"_ I whispered to Peter, not taking my eyes off of that phone. "On my landline."

"Yeah," Neal stated, lowering his eyes.

"Oh my God," I gasped heavily, covering my mouth. My shoulders trembled. The thought of being listened in on wasn't scary; it was the thoughtless invasion of my privacy that frightened me. My privacy, in my own head, in my interpersonal relationships, in my one-on-one phone calls, was something I had always taken for granted, because why would anyone be eavesdropping when they weren't allowed? Unless I accepted a conference call, no one else could be on the line with me, and the only other person in the house to pick up the landline and listen in was Kate, and she had been right there with me.

Unless – _had someone broken into my house, and been using another of the connections to listen in while I called-?_

"Kenna," Neal's voice urgently broke into the despair and agitation threatening to get to be too much, too fast. "Breathe."

"They'd need a warrant to tap a phone," Peter stated lowly, looking thoughtfully at the object. "This it?" I nodded, putting the papers down onto the table and grabbing onto the edge with whitened knuckles.

Peter dragged the machine closer to the edge, lifted the phone from the charging apparatus, and then picked his fingernail against the panel that kept the wiring safe on the back of the charging machine. It came off easily, not secured with tape and not meant to withstand tampering. The little grey piece fell to the table and Peter picked up the machine, held it up, and then pointed it towards me. A little grey device, not much bigger than the eraser at the end of a pencil, had a blue light blinking on and off.

Peter picked up the phone from where he'd set it to the side and reconnected it to the charger. The light on the bug stopped flashing. He left the panel off to keep an eye on it in case it started transmitting.

"It's a bug. Looks pretty standard issue." My throat felt dry and I wanted to tell Peter that I knew, I recognized it; it was my job, too, and I knew what a listening device looked lik3, even when it was in a place it was absolutely not supposed to be. "It activates when it's picked up."

This was undeniably better than the irrational conclusion I'd worked myself up to that someone had snuck into my house while Kate and I were both home. I wanted to smack myself for that being my first guess, but then I remembered exactly _why_ I was overly panicked by the reminder of a potential home invasion and decided that I was judging myself too harshly. Anyone else with my history of home invasions would have the same associated anxiety.

"They've – they've been in my house." I wiped my forehead with the back of my hand. I wasn't sweating, it was too cool for that, but I felt like I should've been, since my clothes were feeling too tight from the anxiety attack I'd almost had. "No one's been in my house in the last week except Kate and Neal, Fowler – Fowler must've broken in. He was _inside my house,"_ I repeated.

Peter and Neal both looked at each other, Peter bemused, and Neal subtly shook his head. Even Neal didn't know the full story of what had happened to me. It wasn't something I told many people, only the people in work who demanded to know when I didn't have the grounds to refuse them the information. Kate only knew the entirety of it because she had been the one to find me after it had happened; Neal didn't know the story behind the scars on my stomach, but, having seen them every time we slept together, he knew that it was a lot more than just a tragic accident and that it was a sore subject, so he didn't ask.

Well, that wasn't true – he had asked, once, if they still hurt, but that had been in a completely unrelated time when I'd run out of Midol in my office and had been suffering, bent over and pressing my hand to my stomach while trying and failing not to make noises of pain. I'd given him a very long, unamused look and he'd realized what was _actually_ happening and embarrassedly left the office. At first I'd chuckled and dismissed it as the typical male queasiness regarding female problems, but then he'd come back a few minutes later with a water bottle he'd heated in the kitchenette microwave. I'd have to bless whoever taught him that trick, whether it was his mother, a former girlfriend, or Kate Moreau.

When I thought about it, I moved a hand to my abdomen, breathing out deeply to calm down. I knew I had to calm down. I was freaking out and it wasn't a very professional presentation of myself. Without knowing what had happened, neither of the men were very much help, but honestly, if either of them had tried to touch me before I could handle it, I probably would've hit them away. There wasn't much that could be done.

A couple minutes later, I felt like I was breathing normally again, I wasn't clinging onto furniture to stay standing, and the uneasiness in my stomach had calmed down. I didn't feel like I was going to be sick. The light on the bug was still turned off, deactivated for the moment. I swallowed and wished I had some water to drink.

I looked up again and tried to plow right through what had just happened, hoping that Peter wouldn't ask for an explanation. "There's no way they could have gotten the grounds for this," I said, hushed and even more determined. "Even now, they still couldn't. And – and this was before the case even started!" I looked at Neal, startled. "I already said something to him about how quickly he got here, he must've been here for _days_ before the heist. He's been keeping tabs on us even before he supposedly had his reason to suspect you."

" _Exactly,"_ Neal agreed fervently, relieved that I was catching on. "Fowler is _dirty."_ Peter looked between the two of us, his attitude shifting. He still stood closer than I had realized he'd been. Had I looked ready to faint at some point? Probably. Couldn't fault him trying to get close in case I needed help. "I have access to every file the FBI has on me. You were right. Six months ago, Derek processed a request to look at my initials on the bond forgeries. After he checked it, one other person looked, too."

Instead of pushing on the initials that even Peter hadn't found in his investigation, he drew the conclusion with a sharp intake of breath. "Fowler," he guessed.

Neal nodded intently. "And then my initials just _happened_ to show up on the pink diamond. McKenna, he's _using_ you to get to me."

"Why?" I asked, realizing that he probably didn't know the answer, either. Someone had to say it and I had to speak it out loud – what had _I_ done to deserve this? This blatant disrespect and violation of my own personal space, my own _home,_ after everything I'd done for other people and the hell that had been done onto me in return for it? _As if a humiliating demotion wasn't enough!_ "What does he have against you? Either you've done something in the past that he suffered from or he's using me, to get to you, to get at me."

"Well, there's an ego," Peter commented.

I looked back at him unabashedly. I knew how it sounded. It was ridiculous – coming at me to come at Neal just to come at me again, but disregarding that nonviolent Neal might have pissed him off somehow, it was the most reasonable explanation. "It's roundabout," I admitted to Peter willingly. "But it's one of the few ways to actually, legally get me. Attack the people close to me. My job is too secure." Not only was I someone commended by the bureau, not only had I greatly suffered because of negligence on the FBI's part, but I had an excellent record. It would just be embarrassing for them to issue warrants against their heroine that they had just honored less than two years prior. "And it hurts Neal in the process…" Which only hurt me doubly.

Neal swallowed and averted his eyes, finally giving Peter a submissive stance. "My minute's up," he mumbled.

Peter looked at him dryly, but no longer had a good enough reason to be angry with him. With everything else going on… Of course he had come to me. It wasn't just his protection anymore – it was also _mine._ If Fowler was willing to break into my house…

"Your minute was up a couple of minutes ago," Peter retorted, maintaining the semblance of the annoyance he was supposed to hold for a fugitive, no matter how futile it was.

* * *

"I said I'd give a full confession, so here it is: I've been trying to find Kate." Neal sat with his back to the doorframe between the living room and the hallway, knees pulled up in front of his chest and playing with his fingernails.

I had pulled out a chair and turned the landline machine around to face me where I sat, sideways on the seat with my legs crossed, keeping an eye on the bug to make sure it stayed off. We left the lights out so we could talk, Neal shrouded in shadow. Anyone who looked in would just see me. If they noticed me talking, then I was just talking to Peter, Kate, or El – any of the perfectly legal friends in my kitchen, eating cookies while Peter explained how they had to be very careful about what they said because a bug had been planted and there might be more.

It was funny how Neal promised a confession to a legal court and had no problems with blowing them off, yet he honored the same promise to me when I wasn't the person he had promised. I knew he thought higher of me than he did the judge whose window he jumped out of. What was less funny was that he said it as though I hadn't had any clue that he'd been trying to get in touch with his sister. I'd been at Grand Central that day with the phone call. He'd shown me the photograph from the San Diego bank. At this point, I knew _him_ , and I'd have had better luck talking a wall into moving itself than convincing Neal to give up on Kate's trail.

"Sorry," I snickered dryly, throat raw. I still wanted a drink. I hadn't gotten one. Neal was more important, and I wasn't about to let him out of my sight quite yet. "I'm laughing because you say it like I'm not completely aware of it already." He may praise me as an agent, but sometimes I think he underestimates my smarts.

Neal had no witty response to that. He hadn't been very secretive about it, especially not to me. Sighing, he drew his chest up and closed his eyes, rocking his head against the door trim. After slipping a hand into his pockets again, he produced two more pieces of paper. These weren't like the shredded transcript – they were much smaller and both in one piece, colored black and grey.

He held them out over his knees. I sent a wary look at my window before I leaned over, stretched from my table, and reached for the pictures. Sitting back, I unfolded them. The one on top was smaller – the black-and-white security photograph from the ATM, Kate Moreau looking up at the camera.

"I remember this," I murmured quietly, chancing another look at Peter. The man was already pushing a lot of boundaries just by staying quiet about Neal's presence. I didn't think he would be if it weren't for the proof that someone in the bureau was dirty and attacking me. He probably saw harboring a harmless fugitive as the lesser of two evils. Still, I'd rather give him the benefit of _not_ knowing exactly how lenient I'd been with my consultant.

"But you haven't seen all of it." He motioned to the pictures again. I looked at him nervously – what else could there be? And why would he have cut some of it before showing it to me?

I slipped the top photo off and tucked it underneath the larger version. It was the same picture, but on Kate's shoulder was a man's hand, a ring on his ring finger with a design that I recognized. I bit the inside of my cheek.

"Damn," I sighed, staring at the ring. It was nothing new to me, but I'd been hoping that Neal hadn't known what it was. Maybe I could hold onto the hope that he still didn't.

"I shouldn't have kept this from you." Meekly, Neal hung his head, chin almost to his chest, eyes downcast. He misinterpreted my reaction as disappointment with him, not with what he'd found. "She's being held by someone. She's too scared to say who, but after our Chinatown operation, Interpol told me the man is with the FBI."

 _You told me the flash drive was blank._ Mei Lin had given him a memory stick with nothing on it. I hadn't been too surprised, but Neal had taken it hard that her intentions had been slick and her follow-through lacking. Then I remembered the strange questions I'd been asked right after Lao Shen had been indicted – _how safe do you think the bureau really is? How well do you know the other agents?_

At the time, I had noticed it was a strange level of paranoia from the charismatic, unflappable forger. I had attributed it to Mei Lin failing to withhold her end of the bargain she'd made – if he couldn't trust Interpol, who was to say he could trust the feds, either? This explanation made a little more sense. Neal had already trusted me, Derek, and Diana at the time, and he knew we wouldn't let him be hurt. If Mei Lin had somehow contacted him when I wasn't paying close enough attention, that would've warranted the questions. Maybe the flash drive hadn't been blank, but Neal had told me that in a misguided effort to protect me.

"And now you think Fowler has her," I assumed, internally cursing Mei Lin all over again.

"Yes," Neal looked up with stony eyes, filled with a flinty anger that truly scared me. His wrath didn't have to be directed at me for me to feel pity for whoever had his sister when we caught up with them. Kind, lovable Neal had a dangerous edge to him, one that took a lot to uncover, and one that I hoped would stay off the table. I didn't want to have to see that take over him, and I didn't want him to have to live with the consequences of doing something he might regret. "I do."

I put the photographs down on my thigh, balancing them under my knee, tilted at the angle of my leg and still visible. "What's he want from you?" _What could be worth all of this?_

"I don't know," Neal said quickly, biting his lip. It wasn't the fast, guilty answer of someone who was lying, but the frustrated, aggravated voice of someone who had been asking himself the same question for longer than I could guess. "It could be anything."

 _Could be anything_ wasn't going to help anyone. It wasn't going to help clear his name or get Fowler out of my home; wasn't going to shield Katie or Peter or El from the repercussions of being involved in this illicit act of mingling with a felon on the run. "Best guess," I stated flatly, letting him know that a vague _could be anything_ wasn't going to cut it with me.

Neal looked up, his brow furrowed and lips pursed, but then stopped, pinched his tongue between his teeth, and looked down at his knees again, psyching himself out of it at the last moment. "No." He shook his head. "You'd have to arrest me."

A strangled noise of disbelief worked its way out of my mouth. Did he not realize what situation we were in?! If I wasn't arresting him _now,_ what material object could be _possibly_ have that would convince me to turn him in?!

"Neal, please revisit the events of the last several days and then consider what you just said."

Neal swallowed. "If I give him what he wants," he said slowly, frowning heartbrokenly. "There's no guarantee I'll ever see her again." The poor sweetheart had had that point made painfully clear to him in the past – _I'll wait for you_ from Kate and _I'll tell you where she is_ from Interpol being the two most obvious specific examples of broken promises. "We need to look into Fowler."

 _We._ Not _I,_ "we." Plural. Both of us. Together. While on one hand I was overjoyed to finally have him retrained to consider us a team, asking my help on this was a hell of a lot bigger than asking me to take his custody. "You're asking me to investigate OPR!" I hissed down at him, not angrily, just… amazed. How had this come up? This time last week I'd been having such a good time, and now I'm hiding in my kitchen with my fugitive lover crouching in shadows, his arresting officer in my kitchen, and guards stationed outside my house. "OPR investigates us, we don't investigate them back. It's practically career suicide!"

I wasn't even going to bother internally defending the system. It was a bit rigged; unfair double-standards. OPR had too much leeway and too little balance from other departments tugging at their leashes when they got too far ahead of themselves. If an agent questioned the integrity of one of them, they had the entirety of the offices questioning their own motives, and before you knew it, you were more suspect than the original suspect.

"He's already investigating you," Neal reminded me forcefully. "He's bugging your phones, Kenna, he's already looking for a way to get you torn down." I turned my head to the table, not wanting to hear it. Fowler was looking to make me into that hypothetical agent. _With OPR on his side, even my reputation may not be of much use._ "How much longer can your job hold out anyway if you don't fight back?"

"Why?" I asked harshly. It was so _cruel._ I did _so much_ and I asked for very little in return, just the safeties of my friends and family, and instead I ended up with _this_ disaster. "Why's he coming after me?" All I'd ever done was protect the innocent. I saved Neal from a stupidly-long extension of his jail time and I get a lot from him in return, but it's like the universe is trying to make up for his favor. "I've never even heard of the man!"

His face alone was enough to tear me apart. "If I knew that, I'd tell you in a heartbeat," he swore, slowly licking his lips and thoughtfully pressing his teeth in. He dropped one of his knees down, straightening his leg, and wrapped his left arm around his left knee. "I know it must make you feel sick that he broke into your home," my Neal empathetically guessed at my feelings, and damn it, he was right. "It's the place you're supposed to not have to look over your shoulder in. If I could tell you anything about why he'd do that to you… come into where your sister lives… I'd tell you."

All of my fears that laid with him being a professional liar – fear for my career, fear for my emotions, and fear for my security – they all stood on different fronts, but in that instant, I didn't for a second doubt his honesty. He was too genuine, too upset for it to be fake.

I swallowed. Nothing made sense, but everything fell into place. We needed more information before I would be able to understand the entirety of what was going on. Laying over on my back was never something I'd done willingly before, and I'd rather go to hell than start now.

"Well, then." I braced myself up for it, gritting my teeth. "Let's fight fire with fire. Looking into me is one thing, but setting you up for prison and breaking into my sister's home is another ball game." I phrased it like they were both equally heinous choices, but I was more enraged on Neal's behalf than Kate's. She hadn't been put in direct harm, but Neal had been. I know the statistics of super-max prisons, and now that I've gotten emotionally attached, I can't bear the thought of him ending up in such a dangerous, brutal environment. "If he thinks I'm going to pretend not to notice, he's got another thing coming." I glowered viciously at the bug on the phone and almost, for a split-second, wished that it was on to hear my oath. "Suicide or not, he's in for it."

After my brave declaration, we sat in the silence for several minutes.

Wanting to guess at what he was thinking went to the backburner in favor of trying to sort out what _I_ was thinking. Privately or not, I'd just waged war on OPR. I had to play it safe and very, _very_ smart if I expected to win. For everyone's sakes, I should avoid going to Mozzie, but pray that he was on standby if Neal needed him. Katie should be kept out as much as possible for her own protection, and Peter and El should be sent home with as few worries as possible as soon as Neal was free to return to June's.

Was this a good enough reason to get over my pride and contact my family's friends internationally? Was Fowler that big of a threat? What were the grounds for extradition, if the bureau failed me and I had to go through an international agency to get Neal out from behind bars again?

Even more than wanting to kick Fowler's teeth in, I wanted to hold Neal in my arms without fear that he'd be ripped away by a SWAT swarm treating him like he was a wild animal, liable to attack at any moment. Fowler was always going to be on my bad side, I supposed, but my priorities had always lied with family first and vengeance second. It was too easy to lose bonds to the latter, so the former was always meant to be prized above all else. That was one of the very few lessons my parents had managed to get me to agree with.

Staying in the increasing shadows as dusk fell and covered my living room with the twilight of a sunset, Neal pushed up from his seat and slid up with his back staying against the doorframe. "I'll be in touch," he promised me, already stealthily planning to make his leave. He produced a prepaid, practically ancient flip-phone. "This is untraceable, but if for any reason you need to get in touch with me-"

I picked myself up from the table and in only a few steps I was right in front of him, smothering his personal space with a finger pressed to the bow of his warm lips.

His eyes darted down to my hand.

I whispered, "Don't say where you're going."

Slowly, Neal raised the hand not offering out the burner phone and covered my wrist with his hand, wrapping his fingers around my skin and letting his eyes slide shut. I moved about as fast as a glacier, lifting my finger from his mouth and tracing my thumb over his cheekbone, cupping his face sentimentally, hoping we'd be granted just this one moment of comfort before something else interrupted.

"Bugs in the phones," I whispered, not taking my eyes off of his for more than a couple seconds, unable to decide where to look but always, _always_ gravitating back towards his eyes, always so present and expressive and sharp. I could rarely look away. "Until Fowler is gone, I'm not sure I trust there not to be bugs elsewhere… if there are, then we're both already screwed, but so is he, to an extent. Let's just not make it worse."

I brushed my knuckles over his cheek. Neal turned his head to nuzzle his face into my hand. Gingerly, I took the phone from him and stashed it in my pants as his hand fell down to his side.

"And if not," he murmured, his breath coming out in a rush. "There's still plausible deniability." The eyes I couldn't stand not to look at were sad. I wasn't going to be able to get away with kissing it better – intuition told me that would be pushing my luck too far.

"Words to live by." Regardless of my inner conflict, I forced a weak smile to my face and lowered my fingers from his face, regretful to do so. "Be careful," I made him swear to me, scared that I'd wake up to the wanted posters taken off of the streets with my best friend locked away where I couldn't reach. What I wouldn't stop at to get him back within arm's length frightened me.

* * *

I went in the next day after a long night awake late with Peter, trying to consider every possible angle and looking for other bugs that might have been hidden in my house, and then I had hot chocolate with El. My short rest was fitful and punctuated with agitated sighs and staring at the ceiling.

I slept best when I had someone else in bed with me. Having someone near keeps me warm and, for some reason, more secure; instead of rolling around restlessly and getting my hair and blankets tangled, I latch onto my bedmate. Sleeping alone was never a problem until I recognized that I _wanted_ to be able to latch onto a bedmate – and then promptly remembered that my preferred cuddle object was probably having a horrible night, as well, assuming he had found somewhere to sleep without being worried about being caught again. Mozzie might have some place that Neal could stay, but he would never risk going back to June's, and with his face all over, in a constantly-busy city like New York, there was a high risk factor in anywhere that was even semi-public.

The FBI wasn't welcoming when I arrived in the morning. It wasn't somewhere that I had looked forward to going to, nor was it someplace I dreaded; it wasn't even the in-between that it had been between my demotion and acquiring my consultant. It was just another building, only different in that I had memories with Neal in them in almost every room I usually went to, and so it would be that much harder to keep focused.

I was taking off my jacket from the moment I was in the doors to the WCCD. I had even less time for screwing around than usual. Peter had seen how pissed I was at life in general and had decided it was better if he drove, which meant we got to the building slower than I'd have liked. It also meant we obeyed traffic laws, but, uh, whatever.

"What's the latest on Neal?" I asked jerkily, pulling my jacket over my left arm and holding the side tight to my body.

Derek was just putting down the phone from his desk onto its receiver, the black cord winding up into tight coils. "Conflicting information, unfortunately," he sighed. His notepad had a couple of street names but mostly consisted of doodles of a dragon that looked like the one from the Welsh national flag. I wasn't the only one reluctant to do anything even remotely anti-Neal. "Reports are ranging from Jersey Shore to Geneva."

He knocked his pen back and forth, hitting it on the inside of his ring finger and then back to bounce off of his middle finger. _I could tell him,_ I realized suddenly, cocking my head at the moving pen. _I could tell him that his meddling gave Fowler his ammunition._

Two seconds after it occurred to me, I threw it out of my head. _What the hell?! I don't want to blame my brother!_ I was angry and I was seeking revenge, and some sick part of me was so desperate to lash out that I was even considering trying to guilt Derek. _The hell would I make him feel bad for, anyway?_ Fact-checking information Katie overheard from a conman whom he'd just met and whom he was trusting his friends with? It was _responsible_ of him to check, context considered. He'd never meant for it to become the material that a corrupt and repulsive agent used.

Peter sighed and leaned his hip and hand against the other side of Derek's desk, looking down thoughtfully at the computer monitor. I doubted he could read it at the angle from almost right over it. "No one can say he doesn't cover all his bases," the older man sighed nostalgically.

I wished I'd met Neal before he'd spent four years in a prison cell with violent and untrustworthy criminals. That sort of thing would change a person, and I wanted to know if there had been more glee in his eyes, less guarded insecurities, a higher spring when he walked… but I didn't know how to ask.

"More like he stole them right off of the field," Derek chuckled, also thinking of the con artist fondly.

"Hey, Anderson!" _Oh, and while I was thinking of the bastard I hate…_ Having formerly been blue-collar, there were a lot of people I could safely say I detested, and Fowler was making a good job of climbing the list with every word he said, every breath he took in front of me. Even _blinking_ made me want to punch him in the face. "You got a quick minute?"

I took a deep breath in, filling my lungs with air that _wasn't_ yet poisoned with that jackass's breath, and forced a tight smile on my face, turning around on my heel to see the OPR jockeys who came up behind us.

There was such a noticeable lack of heat at my side, the lack of sensation of someone standing by me or watching me to get a clue how to act or a guiding hand on my lower back. My smile faltered and was replaced by a loathing glare in my eyes. _It's your fault,_ I accused, screaming in my head. _It's your fault he's not here. It's your fault I couldn't protect him._

I held my tongue by some miracle. "For OPR, everyone has a quick minute," I said sharply, masking it with a saccharine twist of my lips and blinking so I didn't stare too hard.

"I just wanted to apologize about the other day, you know?" Fowler held his shoulders up and then put a hand out like he wanted to shake hands and be nice. _Too late for that!_ "Temper got the better of me," he admitted, as if that was an excuse. What, he thought I didn't have a temper, too? I sure as hell wasn't going to say I was sorry. I apologize when I mean it. "I mean, we all just want what's best for the bureau, right?"

_Fuck the bureau! Screw you, screw the system, screw the government. Right now, all I want is what's best for my friends, and that's for you to get the hell out of Dodge._

There was a pause between his question and my tight-lipped answer. "Obviously," I forced out through gritted teeth, rebelliously keeping my hands to my sides.

After several seconds in which it became apparent that I wasn't going to touch Fowler, even via a two-by-four to the head, he swallowed, his earnest smile becoming more see-through, and he let his hand fall lamely to his side, where he tucked it into his pocket. "Let me ask you a question," he said, staging it as though I had any means of stopping him, short of duct taping his mouth. "Hypothetically, where's Caffrey?"

"That was subtle," I snapped, crossing my arms, pretending that I was pissed my friend ran away instead of being ready to kick him in the groin for attacking Neal and Kate both. He may not have harmed my sister, but the threatening invasion of her home was construed as an assault by me. "He's probably trying to leave the country, if he hasn't already managed it."

 _Of course not, how much of an idiot would he have to be?_ Security was too tight and airline enforcement was all going to be on high-alert for anyone matching Neal's profile. _My Neal is much smarter than that._

"You don't think he'd stay in Manhattan?" Fowler blinked, breathing evenly but a little too deep for it to be natural. He was clinging to his anger management just as much as I was, a fact that only made me feel marginally better.

I started to shake my head slowly and lifted my shoulders high. "Why would he?" I returned curiously, pretending to get suspicious that he knew something I didn't.

The blond raised his chin and licked at his lips, scraping his teeth over the lower. "I don't know," he told me, despite having very obviously been getting at something specific. "I just thought maybe there was someone he might be seeing in an… overly-friendly way." He looked away from the ceiling and eyed me closely. "There is such a thing as _too_ strong a partnership, I think."

Through tremendous effort, I kept up my indifferent poker face. _How could he know?_ I seethed to myself. What, had he bugged Neal's penthouse last week, too, and listened in on a recording of the most intimate aspect of my life? Was he trying some Shawn Spencer trick where he saw me touching Neal more often than most agents touch their coworkers and was trying to out me through my own behavior?

Well, there wasn't a crime with being touchy-feely. As long as the physical contact is appropriate for five-year-olds to see, it's generally not a problem. I'd like to see him try to convince anyone I'm having an illicit affair with my informant based on me touching him a little too often, not when I spent half of my time in this building with my hand on someone's arm or back anyway.

"I don't make a habit of asking who he's banging in the privacy of his own suite, but if you'd like to ask him yourself when we find him, feel free," I coolly replied, darkly lowering my head and glowering. _Come right out and accuse me._ I'd have liked to see him try. He had nothing on me; nothing that was admissible in court, even if he _had_ bugged Neal's bedroom. The listening device was illegally planted and therefore would be dismissed by a judge before it even got to a jury panel. "Let me know how awkward it is on a scale of one to ten. Now, if you don't mind," I imperiously stood taller, wishing I was just a few inches taller so I didn't have to look up at the bastard. "I _do_ have work to do."

Fowler moved to the side as if to let me pass. "Yeah, of course." His agents moved with him, flanking his sides like minions, and I resisted the urge to sneer and ask if they even had minds of their own.

To spite him and the path he'd freed, I turned right back around and stalked back to Derek's desk. I walked up to the back edge next to Peter and Derek, both of whom were discussing the legitimacy of some claim they'd gotten from their tip line, trying and failing to act like they hadn't been silently watching the dominance fight they'd just witnessed.

I leaned to my right a few inches closer to Peter. "Do me a favor that might actually be fun?" I murmured hopefully, thinking he'd already done so much for me and my cause and guessing at where he would eventually draw the line. Because he would, wouldn't he? He had some sort of strange bond with Neal, but not anything concrete enough to risk his entire career, like I was.

"What is it?" He asked, not agreeing without further information. He did keep his voice lowered so it was a quiet exchange between the three of us, _not_ the three of us and our stalkers.

"Keep an eye on Fowler, and don't let his little henchmen follow me." Though talking to both, I kept my eyes on Derek. I needed him on my side, or at least willing to look in the other direction.

Peter's hand tightened on the table, but he gave no other reaction. "We're allowed to do that?"

I gave him a _what do you think?_ look. Peter wasn't exactly Sherlock Holmes if that was a legitimate question. "If OPR wants to look into me," I whispered determinedly, "They're gonna have to try a lot harder."

Derek gave a very plain nod to agree with me. I took the cue and smirked, biting the inside of my lip, and signaled it as the end of our discussion about our very important case about finding our very high-profile criminal, which we were all very eager to arrest again. I whirled around, keeping my jacket over my arm, and breezed past the three OPR agents that, if I wasn't imagining things, had moved just a touch closer to the desk in an attempt to overhear. Fowler looked pessimistic and his lackeys a little awkward with their very un-collegial behavior.

Making sure that Fowler saw me, I pulled back the doors to the unit and stepped through, dragging it back behind me halfway before I got impatient with the time it took to strain the door against the mechanism that kept it from slamming. In front of the elevators, I poked the "up" button on the panel repeatedly, tapping my foot angrily.

With the door still open a little less than halfway, I heard and saw Peter step up with some paper he'd grabbed off of something nearby while I'd been huffily storming away. "Hey, sir, why don't you do me a favor?"

The brunette lackey looked down at the papers Peter was holding out in distaste. "What's that?"

"Get this new photo of Caffrey to Massachusetts PD," he instructed, taking the question as a sign that they were going to do as they were told. Irritated, Fowler tossed his head back and turned the other way, conveniently looking away from the elevators while both of his followers looked at each other, debating over whether or not they should do as they were asked.

As soon as I saw that all three of the OPR guys were distracted, I turned from the elevators and bolted to the stairwell, shoving my way through and pushing the door closed with my entire body weight. I stopped it by grabbing the handle only an inch from closing and very carefully let it latch with almost no noise.

For a second I stood there with my hands on my hips, smirking proudly at the closed door. That was too easy – but I couldn't have done it without Peter, and I wasn't going to let either of us forget that.

Though the elevator was queued to go upwards, I took the stairs going down towards the ground floor.

* * *

The FBI building is very tall and it demands a lot of attention. It's practically covered in windows, which makes it easy to see the surroundings. It looks nice, but it's also tactical. I hiked my jacket up over my shoulders, also letting down my hair and wrapping the ponytail holder around my wrist. It wasn't much, but OPR's first thought would be to look for a woman with a ponytail and a white shirt. With my back to the bureau as I was hurriedly leaving, they stood less of a chance of recognizing me in the crowd.

I took the burner cell Neal had given me out of my back pocket and flipped it open. It was a relic of years past, when flip-phones weren't laughed in the face of, but probably the best he couldn've gotten. I still questioned how he'd gotten the money to buy it to begin with, but Mozzie had probably had something to do with that. In the contacts, there was only one number, and it was just the phone digits. No name or contact information. I shrugged, looked to my side and subtly over my shoulder to make sure I wasn't being tailed, and turned the corner at the end of the block while telling the phone to dial the contact.

I knew when the phone had been answered because the dial tone cut itself off halfway through, yet Neal didn't say anything. I assumed he was waiting to make sure I was the one calling him and not some FBI henchman who had managed to lift my phone. I went ahead and talked first. "Meet me at _Le Joyau_ in twenty, okay?" It wasn't a question.

 _"Returning to the scene of the crime,"_ Neal joked over the phone. _"Risky behavior."_ I hated that we kept speaking in codes. Why couldn't we say what we meant? Because anyone could be listening in, and it was no longer realistic to expect that we had our privacy or the respect of our coworkers. So instead we had to use hints and cues and codes to communicate.

"Someone stole the real thing and replaced it with the forgery." I dropped my voice down lower so I wouldn't be overheard, and I slipped past a teenage couple carrying bags from a boutique shop. She had green streaks in her hair. "Let's go back to the first thing we tried and figure out how it was done. See you there." I hung up both before he could argue and in case somehow either of our disposable phones were being traced. _Disposable is key._ Inconspicuously, I kept to the right on the sidewalk, making room for another pair of friends and conveniently stepping nearer to a public trash can.

* * *

Most people would have hesitated before they walked right up to someone and yanked the _Times_ paper down from in front of their face, but I was not one of those people, and once the newspaper was out of the way, I was looking into the smoldering blue eyes of Neal Caffrey rather than the dull grey eyes of his counterpart from almost five years ago.

"You're about as subtle as a Sesame Street character, you know?" Next, with the conspicuous newspaper out of the way, I ignored his elegantly arched eyebrows and swiped the fedora from on top of his head. The only out-of-character part of his attire was a black Belstaff coat. _You're on the run! Where are you getting silk hats and suits tailored very specifically to your body?!_ "You're standing out," I informed, turning the hat around and popping it onto my own head.

He folded up the newspaper and then turned it around to look at the _"Wanted: Neal Caffrey"_ headline. "I think I'm only standing out because you were looking for me," he disagreed, surveying his picture with admiration.

"Sure," I rolled my eyes, clearly not buying it.

He pouted and turned the paper around. "I never really liked this picture," he told me plaintively, his frown seeming much more fitted to the black-and-white mug shot on the cover than the cheeky grin did. The idiot was charming everyone who looked at the picture, even while he had a lettered block in front of his chest with the state, date, his height, weight, date of birth, and name.

I cocked my head, giving him the attention he wanted for just a few seconds. The Neal in the photograph had a big smile and bright eyes and was well-groomed. He met my qualifications for a good photo. His mug shot was more attractive than my driver's license – though licenses had a bad habit of making your profile look bad and Neal had an even worse habit of flirting with cameras.

"I'm not the best judge, considering I find you sexy even in prison jumpsuits." I admitted flatly. I saw no shame. He could probably turn me on in anything he chose to wear as long as it wasn't one of the more ridiculous of Lady Gaga's outfits. And he knew it, too.

"Mm," he hummed appreciatively, tongue peeking out to lick his lips, smirking at me over the top of the paper. "Now that I think about it, it _is_ better than my driver's license photo."

_Sometimes it's like he can read my mind._

"Which one would that be?" I wittily inquired, crossing my arms, getting back at him quickly for the uncanny way that our thoughts went to the same place. Neal frowned at me unhappily. I unfolded my arms, chuckling. "Alright, not the time."

Neal nodded to the storefront across the street. "I can't exactly walk in, Kenna," he pointed out, folding the paper again in half, tucking it under his left arm, and reaching up to my head to straighten out the hat so the front was more even.

"You're in my custody again and you're going to show me exactly how you pulled it off." I invented the explanation on the fly and it sounded reasonable enough to me, so I shrugged at him, asking what he thought. He rocked back on the balls of his feet cynically. "I've lied to OPR and the FBI," I reminded him, and for a second I thought he looked guilty again for putting me in a position where I did that. "After that, lying to a boutique manager is small fry."

The guilt and upset was gone in a flash. He turned his lips up in a provocative smirk and purred, rolling an 'R' on his lips and making bedroom eyes. "Ooh, Kenna," he taunted flirtatiously. "I'm not the only one being sexy."

The only thing stopping me from blushing was how absolutely terrible his timing was. I pointed across the street. "If you talk like that inside, they're going to realize pretty quickly that you're not under arrest," I warned. Neal sheepishly bowed his head and rubbed the back of his neck.

* * *

It was shamefully easy to get back into the vault, but neither of us were complaining. The manager let me in, not talking to Neal but not acting particularly adverse, either. He didn't try to start up a conversation. Either she had nothing to say or she hadn't seen his face posted up all over the city.

I walked inside and asked for the woman to close the door. She was confused, but I promised we'd see ourselves out. I wanted to immerse ourselves so that we could think of another way to get out without seeing the exit broadcasted any more obviously than it already was, and I wanted the privacy to talk to Neal respectfully instead of as his superior.

Once the door was shut, it seemed to merge with the wall. I had to actually look to find the cracks between the wall and the door, which added to the illusion that we were trapped inside. From the interior, the vault was an even smaller space than it looked like on the cameras – maybe ten by eight feet, not counting the outward arch of the wall opposite the door.

The vault was set up to look fancy. The door blended with the wall painted entirely in white. The short sides were coated with the same color several times until it looked even and clean. Then there was the part with the wall safes. The wall was built out in a curve, with tall, floor-to-ceiling panels of backlit and clouded glass on either side of the crescent shape, creating a very white and bright room. The wall safe was set in the inside of the arching wall at four and a half feet off of the ground, the opening made of silver with a circular handle.

"We made the assumption that the thief snuck out through blind spots, but forensics confirms that there was never any tampering done to the equipment." I turned to face the security camera, poised above the left of the door. The red dot was still turned off. I smiled and waved to be spiteful, even though no one was seeing the video.

"But that's not possible," Neal objected, looking up at the camera himself. "Unless he never-"

"He never left the vault," I interrupted knowingly, looking sideways at him and nodding. There was another way out of this tiny little cage. Neal grinned at me, showing teeth and taking the challenge, spinning on his heel to investigate.

I had only seen few cases where there was a puzzle of a second exit, but I had watched plenty of _Scooby-Doo_. We went through almost everything. Neal knocked on the walls, searching for hollow spots. I stomped around on the floor and felt the lines between tiles for a little extra give, something to tell apart a trapdoor. Neal got up from his knees as he rapped on the lower part of the wall and started feeling around the circular wall safe for some hidden trigger mechanism.

Ten minutes passed, I was getting a little frustrated, and Neal was scowling at one of the backlit panels. It was flickering on and off, trying to give us epilepsy or headaches. There had to be something we were missing. I trusted our digital experts; they were pretty damn good. Unless the real thief had acquired a TARDIS somehow, he should not have had such a good means out of this that an expert thief and an FBI agent couldn't find it.

I turned my back to the wall furthest from the door and collapsed backwards against it. If nothing else, it had worked several times on Cartoon Network; as they gave up, they leaned against the right section of the wall and found the revolving part of the wall. No such luck. I sighed loudly.

Abruptly, Neal rose from his kneel by the wall. "This wasn't flickering on the security tape," he remembered, heading swiftly over to the aggravating panel to the right of the arching design.

If it had, I hadn't paid close enough attention to it to remember. My focus had been on the masked intruder. I took Neal's word for it. It was a panel, after all, and panels came off; I fished in my pockets for my car keys and came up with the keyring and several instruments of choice, joining him by the panel.

The glass was glued on with some industrial adhesive. It was no match for my keys unless it was thicker than they were long. I took the longest one, which went to my car, and gripped it tight, forcing the tip against the thin layer of glue. The glue was reluctant to give, but when it did, the key ripped through quickly. I hit the side of my hand on the wall as a result, hissed, and then drew the key down, tearing through the glue. Neal stood to the side watching while I dragged the keys all the way down, then up, and the ventured to the other side to repeat the process. I'd have to pay for the glue, but it was a small cost.

I wasn't tall enough to get the last stretch at the very top by the wall, but it didn't turn out to be necessary. Neal took one side of it and I took the other and we dislodged it from the bottom, wiggling it free. The top edge came off with little prompting. We pushed it to the wall on the right to expose the fluorescent LED light on the inside, a long vertical rod similarly adhered to one long, depressed panel of the wall.

"Could be a misdirect," Neal suggested. Even I thought that we were beginning to grasp at straws. Tearing apart the room seemed a little dramatic, except for that we were running out of options; to leave would be admitting defeat. "Here." He left the unsealed part leaning on the wall and crossed to the other panel.

Figuring that it was better to try and be disappointed than to just throw in the towel, I tossed him my car keys from across the room. Neal was faster at breaking through the seal, maybe because he knew from watching about how much force he had to use or maybe because he just had more practice using small tools on narrow areas, what with sculpting clay. My artist broke away the glue on both sides, then pulled the key staggeringly through the glue on the bottom, which looked more sloppily applied, and pocketed my keys in his own pants.

I chose to decide he'd done that out of convenience, not because he was trying to play his 'steal their belongings and see how long it takes them to notice' game.

When we moved that one to the side, we had better results. There wasn't smooth wall behind it like there was on the first one. There were panels painted the same color as the walls, two of them, that met about halfway up. The lower one was cracked away from the wall and leaned out against the LED rod.

"Look at that!" I cheered triumphantly. Neal bent over and unplugged the plastic electrical cord from the socket on the inside of the space. I pretended not to admire the view (of him) by taking the sticky tabs holding up the lighting piece and yanking on them, avoiding touching the lamp to my skin while I moved it out of the way. I leaned it on the outside wall by the panel. The cord followed on the floor behind it.

Neal slipped his fingers along the inside of the opening and pulled back. Something cracked and then the wooden piece came away freely, the bottom of the wood splintered and a screw sticking out. Underneath was a blockage of bricks without mortar or cement in between them.

"They're not even sealed," I pointed out, crouching down to push at them with my hands. The bricks were stacked tightly on top of each other, so they were reluctant to be moved. I rocked off of my feet and tumbled onto my rear, throwing my hands out behind me to catch myself.

"How did the FBI miss this?" Neal asked, sounding a little bit contemptuous. I couldn't really blame him for thinking badly of the bureau after how poorly they'd treated him, approving the paperwork to kick him back into jail without even hearing him out.

"We didn't," I grimly corrected, pausing to look up at him from where I sat on the floor. "When you were arrested, Fowler took the opportunity to spin me around with evidence while he claimed the crime scene for OPR."

I picked up my feet, leaned back onto my hips, and kicked forwards, keeping my knees bent to absorb the hit. It only took one really hard blow to knock the bricks loose. My heels hit harder than my toes, and both heels hit close enough together to dislodge one of the red-brown stones. The ones above it started sinking down. I drew my legs up again and dealt another attack to the structure, and they started falling out of the way, tumbling down with less and less resistance. The bricks fell to the inside. Startlingly enough, it took a few seconds for them to crash.

I spun around and got on my knees, crawling forward. Neal crouched next to me. Taking out my phone, I drew up the flashlight app from the lock screen and then used it to look inside. There was a really old, unsafe-looking ladder leading downwards, bricks rolled and landed around the legs and through the rungs. It led to a dirt floor at least seven feet below ground level. I lifted the light from the ground and looked at the walls. They were tightly-packed bricks. These were actually sealed, from the looks of it, although it had been done a _long_ time ago. I wasn't too sure how much integrity they still held. Barren but for the ladder and scattered bricks, it wasn't still in use. Going by the smell, there were probably a few small animals that had expected it to go somewhere and died for their troubles. I wasn't walking down there without a light, at least.

"It looks like a prohibition tunnel," I said to Neal, my voice echoing a little bit as I leaned forward to look deeper into what was definitely an underground escape. "I wonder how many people even know it exists."

"Someone found a new use for it," Neal said mildly while I crawled back out of the way, turning around to go down the ladder feet first. He was wrinkling his nose uncomfortably, obviously not looking forward to the next part of our field trip.

I laughed at his distasteful expression, smiling brightly and sincerely, cheeks almost pained with the stretch. I couldn't express enough how pleased I was with having him at my side again. I reached up to tap his nose affectionately, because God forbid I speak my feelings like a normal person. He went cross-eyed for a second just to amuse me and then chuckled.

"Getaway one-oh-one," I agreed, crawling backwards and pressing my hands flat to the floor while I found my footing on the ladder. "You coming?"

* * *

We followed the tunnel slowly, me in the lead and waving my phone around so neither of us were surprised by anything in our path. Neal selectively ignored the carcass of a dead animal ("Do you think that's a small cat or a large rat?" "I don't see anything." "Don't be such a baby, Neal!"). Just as I started thinking I should queue up our position on my GPS to see how far we'd come, we found another ladder propped up to the left of one of the sides of the narrow tunnel. It kept going, but Neal noticed that there were spots on the ladder where dust had been rubbed away, so we agreed to go up that one and get to the fresh air.

Unsurprisingly, Neal was eager to get up top again and he was scaling up the ladder before I even asked if he wanted me to hold it still for him. I sighed and turned the phone up so he could see what he was doing and where his hands were at. Not long after, he grunted with effort and shoved something up. An angle of light from the outside world pierced the gloomy shadows that I had grown used to. Honking traffic and blaring, nonsensical music, an amalgam of several radio stations from various cars, penetrated the dark.

Neal pulled himself up out of the tunnel while I followed my earlier train of thought and opened Google maps. I searched for _Le Joyau Precieux_ and located it, then set it to navigate. It came up with a blue pinprick on the map of where my phone was. We had only gotten a few blocks away, despite how long it seemed like we'd been underground.

Neal crawled around on his knees, holding up the hatch while he looked over the edge. I pocketed my phone and took the first step up the ladder. This one didn't feel any sturdier than the other, but I was confident that Neal weighed more than I did, so the odds were that it would've broken already if it was going to. "We're not too far from the boutique," I called up, looking down to make sure I was estimating the right distance between rungs. They were narrow, without a lot of space to put my feet. It was strange to be speaking loudly to be heard after we'd been isolated enough to whisper and understand clearly. "But we're far enough that our camera teams wouldn't have kept looking over here."

I came up to the top and took in a breath. Immediately, I could taste a difference on my tongue. The city might be polluted, but it was like comparing a fresh lake to filthy, mucky pond water – now that I was getting out, I could recognize even more the staleness and the stench of the air. Neal kept his hand up to prop open the hatch in the sidewalk and offered me his other. I took it to be nice, but I mostly propelled myself up by continuing to step up the ladder until I was high enough to get my knee onto the concrete.

I rolled over, fully out of the way. Neal closed the hatch with a _bang._ It was a sheet of copper-colored metal placed in the middle of one of the sidewalk squares. The cement was cracking and uneven, last re-done and smoothed decades ago. I had the feeling that we'd just rediscovered a remnant of a much older version of our very modern city.

"Looks like that can be remedied," Neal stated, looking up, still on his knees on the ground. Any other situation, and he'd have been jumping up to save his pants from getting dirty. I followed his eyes to see what he was looking at. There was a traffic camera over a stoplight pointed in our direction, aimed near enough to capture the sidewalk we were on.

I looked up at it and broke into a grin. So we had more than just a decrepit tunnel as proof – we could get actual, physical, recorded evidence. It was hard to refute that, and harder still to tamper with it, since I wasn't going to risk Fowler getting his hands on it first.

"If this works, Mozzie's going to have to admit that Big Brother really is a help sometimes," I announced. It was hard to feel upset about wiping the grime and dust from the ladder on my slacks while feeling like the victory of this battle had already been secured.

* * *

I had a friend retrieve the video tapes and burn them to a CD for me to view, then picked it up on the sly. This friend was not someone I was going to name because it wasn't a respectable course of action, legally speaking, but I was pleased with the results that my connection garnered, and I took the disc back home, where I met Neal sneaking back in, and woke up Peter from the couch. I'd granted Elizabeth my bedroom, since I didn't think I'd have slept well anyway, and I didn't want her to be carted all the way from Boston for a case she wasn't personally involved in and then end up in poor accommodations.

Peter firstly made himself a cup of coffee, then wrapped a napkin around it to carry it back without scalding his hands. I dragged my coffee table closer to the sofa and put my laptop in the center, taking a seat in the middle of the couch. I patted the seats on both sides of me. Peter put down his drink before he made himself comfy on my right side with a quiet, tired groan.

Neal was peeking out the blinds, holding them just inches apart to take a look out the front. The intimidating armed guards were no longer out in front of my house. "Where's OPR?" He asked, unable to help his curiosity. And maybe he was a little worried that they might come back.

I had just assumed that they'd been taken off of my ass by Fowler once he realized that I'd barely been home. Instead, Peter riveted his eyes on the video, playing at normal speed. Neal and I had taken roughly eleven minutes to make our way very slowly and cautiously through the tunnel. I figured that was the maximum for a thief trying to sneak out, so I took the timestamp from the heist in the vault, matched it to the numbers in the top right corner of the video, and set the CD to fast forward.

"I had Johnson reassign them to Penn Station," Peter answered Neal casually, not doing himself the injustice of looking to see Neal's confused and suspicious expression turned on him.

"Derek?" I questioned, surprised. Derek didn't really have that authority.

"He does a pretty good impression of Fowler," Peter explicated, very careful not to outright say what had happened. I could do a nice impression of Lara Pulver's Irene Adler, accent and all, but there was a difference between imitation and false claims of identity.

My mouth was making an 'oh' and I was applauding before I knew it. Neal grinned smugly, having rubbed off on the agent who was the first to call him a bad influence, and left the window to flick the blinds back into place. He stepped around the coffee table to sit down to my left. I placed my hand on his knee as soon as he was still.

"Look at _you_ , Agent Burke, sending OPR after ghosts," I cheered with a laugh. Peter turned his head down and reached for his coffee, hiding his little blush and rebellious smirk behind the mug. I looked back to the laptop and saw the timestamp again, having sped through the time lapse. It was at seven minutes after the heist. "Oh, the timestamp! Look, any second now-" I hit the left arrow key and the rewind command cancelled out the fast-forward. The disc played normally.

Neal shifted, leaning forwards to fold his arms over his knees. I moved my hand. "Give him a few minutes for him to double back and cover his tracks," Neal urged quietly. If El or Katie happened to come check on Peter, they'd find the odd mix of do-gooders sitting in order of most to least law-abiding, all squished on the couch to stare at my computer like it was the Holy Grail.

The video caught a couple walking down the street away from the camera, past the darker square in the sidewalk where the hatch was installed. They both had long hair and both were carrying plastic bags of groceries. The recording was already zoomed in on the hatch, so they left the frame faster than they actually left the camera sights. A few seconds after they left, at barely eight minutes past the heist, the hatch moved, pushing almost unnoticeably out from the cement before it was shoved all the way up, vertical on its hinge.

The man creeping out from the inside was definitely the diamond thief. Dressed in the same all-black garb and with his ski mask still covering his face, the man shoved his over-the-shoulder bag onto the sidewalk and used his hands on either side of the hatch to pull himself out, walking up the ladder and getting his feet onto level ground before rolling to the side onto one knee and standing up. He gave the sneaky door a kick to make it fall shut, then picked up his satchel and turned his back to the camera to follow in the same direction as the couple with their groceries.

Once he turned away, he gripped his bag tight with his right hand and used his left to take the hem of the mask around his neck and drag it up off of his face, freeing messy, dark-colored hair and walking with a very accomplished and triumphant gait. Smarminess was written all over him.

"Wait. Hold it right there," Neal elbowed me into action. I paused the video with the space bar, doubled over to reach my computer quickly. "Is that Tulane?" I looked at the man again. He could have been any of the short- and dark-haired men of average height and medium build in New York City. Even Neal would fit that profile. "Play it at half speed."

For once, I put aside my control issues about not taking commands from Neal and slowed it to point-five, then let it continue to play onward.

"That has to be him," I muttered, because I knew Neal hadn't done it and the statistics were that we had talked to our criminal at some point. Tulane fit the psychological profile on the flaunting display in the store vault better than Fowler's suspect did, and really, I wasn't opposed to doing the legal version of hanging him by his ankles over a balcony.

"Come on," Peter whispered encouragement at the man on the screen. "Turn around…"

As if our prayers had been answered, a girl came onto the frame at the top of the screen, talking on her cell phone. She took a look at the man walking by her as she passed, but then redirected her attention. He, however, didn't; clutching the ski mask in a tight ball, he started to turn around to keep looking after her, eyes dropping down to her rear as they passed.

"Got him!" I yelled, and then covered my mouth, hoping I hadn't woken up the two still sleeping upstairs.

Peter had a crooked half-smile. "I guess he never did go to Madrid," he commented as Tulane's interested face became the freeze frame on my computer. He sure seemed to think he was hot stuff after thieving an exotic gem.

Neal laughed in nervous relief. If this hadn't gotten us the face of the real culprit, we wouldn't have anything to use to clear his name. I could have taken his face in my hands and planted a deep kiss on him right there on the couch if it weren't for Peter being right there. To compensate, because I _needed_ to feel his warm body under my hand to reestablish this wasn't an optimistic dream, I blindly reached to the side and sought out his arm. Neal covered my hand with one of his larger ones and squeezed, as much for himself as for me.

"I knew his plane tickets were fakes," he claimed boisterously.

Peter scoffed. "No, you didn't!" They were less of a criminal and cop duo and more like middle school boys, Neal constantly trying to get under Peter's skin and teasing him about his lovely wife with the best intentions at heart. It turned out that his postcards from prison had been the main reason Peter remembered his and El's anniversaries more than three days in advance.

I stared at Tulane's objectifying leer in disbelief. He had been so close to getting away with it. All that stealth and planning, and the careful execution of what would have been a perfect score, aided unknowingly by the bureau's shortsighted determination to get their formerly-most wanted white-collar criminal back behind bars. In the end, he was going to pay heftily for it… and all because he was such a pig that he had to stare at some stranger's ass on the street while making an escape.

"He stole _millions_ in diamonds, and we managed to get him because he couldn't stop looking after a pretty face," I summarized, objectively disgruntled by the catch. I knew he was a bad person, but really? It had to be something like that? This entire case had been a whirlwind; wasn't it fitting that there be some nice big reveal, or a clever trick to get his face? Maybe piecing him together from reflections?

Not that I was really going to complain. No matter how it happened, it ensured that I would get to keep my own thief right where he belonged – with me, safe and wanted and treated like an actual human being.

"Well," Neal said in Tulane's defense, voice soft and modest. "It happens to the best of us." I turned my hand over in his to squeeze his palm back, rubbing my thumb over his knuckles. Neal was way too good to be caught like that.

His arrest had been made through the exploitation of a girl, but not in such a crude way. No, Peter had caught Neal by leading him to where they knew Kate Moreau was, and Neal had been so desperate to be with his sister that he'd walked right into a trap. No matter what he might say about his own lacking foresight, that showed a great deal into his character, and I liked what I saw.

I turned my computer's lid down. That was that, then. I'd have to take it to the bureau at the very first chance I got. The sooner Neal was no longer a wanted man, the better. And I wasn't going to let him out of my sight in the meantime. I'd like to see Fowler try to pull him out of my custody a second time. I'd scratch his face off, even if I didn't have the exonerating evidence.

"What?" Neal asked one of us.

I shifted to face Peter, because I hadn't said anything. The oldest of us was grinning widely at Neal like he had just cracked a puzzle and thought the answer was the funniest joke in the world. "You know what!" He declared smugly, pointing at Neal.

Neal frowned at Peter. _Someone doesn't like when he's the one being teased._ "No, I don't!" He stubbornly denied, avoiding looking at me.

Peter looked from Neal, to me, and then back again, his mouth open the whole time in gleeful shock. "Yes, you do!" He persisted, knocking Neal in the shoulder with a loosely-held fist, laughing himself through the artist's thoroughly irritated glowering.

"Do not!"

"You do, too!"

 _What does or doesn't he know?!_ If it was about the case, I didn't know what it was or why it would be funny, but we hadn't talked about anything else, had we? "Okay, wait – what?" I interrupted their bickering, looking at Neal first. He took his hand away from mine. Peter's smile got even more victorious, if that was possible, when he saw that we had been holding hands. Neal crossed his arms and sank into the couch in a sulk. I turned my eyes to Peter demandingly. "What am I missing?" I complained. I hated when things went over my head.

Much like Neal, Peter too threw himself back into the couch, but Peter was giggling like a madman and I didn't get any more of an answer from him than I did from the pouting child on my left.

* * *

"We make a good team," I remarked, taking the stills from the video of the boutique's vault and clapping them on the table, straightening the edges.

Peter held himself proudly across the desk from me, hands in his pockets. "Yes, we do," he agreed without hesitation, smiling slightly at our success. I was just getting the stills from the street camera and the vault together to show them as proof. They'd been verified as authentic by a forensic technologist, and very clearly showed one man in the same outfit performing the heist.

Around the older agent, I could see out into the bullpen. The doors to the WCCD were pushed open faster than I'd ever seen them move to make way for a steaming OPR agent, closely followed by the servants at his heels. _Fowler could probably use some meditation to calm down._ I almost hoped that his stress gave him an aneurysm.

I waved at Peter and dropped the black-and-white pictures down onto my desk, where they fluttered out of the neat stack. Careful not to bump my hip on the edge of the table, I walked speedily around the edge and motioned for him to follow me out of my office. I pulled open the closed door and moved out onto the mezzanine.

Derek stood up from the edge of the desk that he'd been leaning on while he talked to Diana. He held his hands behind his back and rocked onto his heels, smiling smartly at the OPR agents closing in on him. "I see you got my page," he commented.

Fowler raised a hand to him, one finger pointing lividly. "You had _no business_ helping the agents disappear like that," he roared, gathering the attention of most of the agents left in the division. Chatter calmed down, computers stopped making as much noise, and most of the heads turned to see the confrontation going on as the outsider raised his voice to one of their own.

I hopped over to the railing at the edge of the mezzanine and pushed my weight against the silver, bending at the waist to lean over the side. "How could we have just disappeared, Fowler?" I called, getting his attention. His head snapped up and his eyes locked on me in less than a second. The artery in his throat visibly pulsed from how tense he was. "I mean, it's not like we were being followed or anything, right?" I grinned impishly.

Fowler placed a hand on Derek's arm and pushed him out of the way. Derek didn't stumble, but he did stick his tongue out at Fowler when the agent stalked past him in his trek to stand in front of the mezzanine.

"Do you want to bring on a full OPR investigation, Agent Anderson?" The man pushed his shoulders back and thrummed with indignant humiliation at being beaten.

"Ugh. Office politics." I rolled my eyes. "Boring." I quirked my lips again because my amusement seemed to be really aggravating to him. "I find it's much more entertaining to work the system, don't you?" Taunting him about how he framed Neal was only fitting, and it was the least he deserved. "Hey, if you start growling at me, I might have to get you a shock collar.

"Turns out that I won this time." I stepped away from the mezzanine to free one of my arms from the railing. Grandly, I held my arm out towards the door to the conference room, inviting Fowler to look beyond the glass wall. "In my conference room," I explained with relish, "I have Adrian Tulane, known forger, never caught… until today, that is, as the perpetrator of my jewelry heist from _Le Joyau._ "

Chuckling at the look on Fowler's face, Peter pressed a large hand to my lower back supportively, stepping up to my side to look down at the agents in the bullpen. "And, as you know, there was only one masked man entering the vault. Since we have confirmation that it was Tulane, that means Caffrey is free to walk from the charges against him."

Wasn't it weird that the same man who arrested Neal the first time was now the one declaring his official exoneration?

See, _that_ was the kind of agent I wanted to work with, run my agency with. I wanted the FBI to apprehend criminals appropriately. Peter arrested Neal for bond forgery and made sure that he was sentenced. He knows that Neal didn't steal the diamond, so now he's forsaking his history as Neal's arresting officer in favor of upholding justice. Neal didn't deserve to be punished for something someone else did.

"Does it?" Feigning surprise, I looked at Peter to my left. "Huh." He nodded confirmation with grave importance. I turned my head back towards Fowler. "Didn't even occur to me," I lied, smiling sweetly. "Don't feel bad, Fowler. We all make mistakes."

_Yours was screwing with me._

* * *

After several questions fell onto seemingly-deaf ears, Peter and I shared a long look across the width of the conference room. Tulane resided in a spinning chair and was rotating about sixty degrees to his right and then sixty to his left, and he just kept doing it, all but ignoring us and our attempts to play nice. I didn't care if he got a long sentence, but I wanted him to confess to rub it into Fowler's face.

With Tulane on the end of the table, I was to his right in the chair closest on the long side, seat turned towards him and one of my legs up, crossed over another. I looked at Peter, beseeching assistance. Tulane was content to ignore me. I didn't know if he was ignoring me because I was law enforcement or because I'm female, but either way, I was pissed off. Being ticked didn't get me anywhere, it just made it more stressful for everyone.

Peter pushed himself up onto the table, scooting further onto the top and drawing one of his knees up to lean towards Tulane. "How did you know which vault the diamond would be in?" He questioned civilly, giving me the help I'd wanted. When the thief didn't answer, just slid his eyes towards the clock impatiently, Peter stayed soft. "Silence won't help you, but maybe we can. Tell us everything, and I'll talk to the prosecutor about immunity."

 _Immunity! Ha!_ Any other time and I'd have fully taken over the interrogation, giving Peter a glare not to be dumb. He knew as well as I did that we couldn't afford for Tulane not to give us anything he knew about the scheme. Even seeing a slime ball like him walk would be worth it for the edge it would give us on Fowler. This wasn't just about a jewelry heist – the case was the cover for the nefarious activity that was far more threatening than a simple crime. This was about Neal being covertly attacked and my home being threatened; about the integrity of the bureau being compromised, down to one of its most superior offices.

"Why would _you_ give me immunity?" Tulane scoffed, a bored smirk plied out of him regardless. It was a game to him, and it bothered me to no end that he was taking his charges so lightly.

"Don't be offended or anything," I wryly cautioned, totally not caring if he chose to take it as an insult. "But I really don't think you have the… ah… _mental capacity_ to pull off something this elaborate."

"Playing on my vanity now?" The criminal chuckled sarcastically at my poor attempt to bargain. At least someone thought it was funny. "Please, you have some video. That proves _nothing._ " Confidently, he drummed his fingers on his thigh.

I looked to Peter pleadingly. With his own secretive smile, he nodded. Eagerly, I uncrossed my legs and reached down to my bag stored underneath the table.

"Oh, but, um, our search warrant _did._ " The item I was looking for was right on top after being collected from evidence, and it was cushioned with an extra shirt from my change of clothes, the material soft, washed with softener and gentle detergent, with a lace padding from the neckline around the jewel itself. I unwrapped the green top from the prize. "Your townhouse wasn't the first place I looked, but I'm glad I did. I think this belongs to a certain boutique in the Garment District."

I held the strand looped over my middle finger and raised my hand over the table. The world's most exotic pink diamond in full authenticity, appraised by Neal himself, was laid into the silver pendant making up the glamor of the necklace, the rest made up of real cream-colored pearls, just like the model's counterfeit version.

Tulane's face falling was even better than the heady, unreasonable glee that I got from holding something so coveted and of so much value that he stole it at great personal risk.

You don't become a criminal if you're not good at covering yourself, and Tulane saw reason when he understood exactly how bleak his situation looked without cooperation. "Well," he leaned back, gaze lingering on the diamond sentimentally. "If you're asking for my expertise," Peter snorted quietly, "I can tell you that a crime like this often has a benefactor… the entire operation, from delivery route to exit strategy, is handed to someone."

I had never firsthand encountered a theft in which another mastermind had been revealed to be shrouded behind any curtains, but evidently this was common information to Peter, who shook his head that that wasn't enough. "Tell me something I don't know," he deadpanned.

"Men with privileged information often hire people with certain skills to do what they can't," Tulane loftily explicated, careful to speak clearly. Moron thought we didn't get it the first time he went over it. "Of course… this is all just hypothetical."

"This is an interrogation," I declared, affronted that he thought any _hypothetical_ situations counted towards anything. _Just once, I'd like a high-profile criminal to take law enforcement seriously!_ "We don't _do_ hypothetical."

"Immunity for a name," Peter negotiated firmly.

The chair reclined a few degrees as Tulane stopped swiveling himself back and forth, sighing heavily. "I would if I could," he stated wistfully. I believed him – or close enough, anyway. "The more I learn," he paused here for emphasis and his eyes locked in on the diamond again before he gave up his reward, his "payment" for his services. "The more I think this whole case is a setup."

He was absolutely right, of course.

Neal and I had been being set up since long before the moment I decided to call him up and recruit him for a jewelry heist. I knew exactly who was responsible, and retribution was so far out of my grasp that it felt like I was reaching for a mirage.

"You don't even know the half of it," I mumbled, staring out the conference room's open blinds towards Fowler, who sulked and would refuse to admit that he was sulking while he snapped at Diana, who gave him an answer to something that he didn't like. If I knew Diana, she was probably two minutes away from telling him exactly where he could stick it.

Sighing, I turned back up to Peter. The troubled worry in his eyes was reassuring – I wasn't the only one deeply concerned about where the setup ended. Was it here? Had we stopped it? Had we paused it? Were we walking even further into the mouth of a bear?

I didn't know what was going to happen to Tulane – he did all but say that he'd only been hired, and that was fairly cooperative, so he'd probably get some favor with a prosecutor, at the very least, even though it was almost certain he was still going to do time – but I envied him the simplicity of knowing that there were a couple of dates ahead of him that would wrap up his misadventure in a nice little bow, while for all I knew, mine was only just beginning.

* * *

Fowler tried to duck out of the WCCD while I was booking Tulane, but when I noticed him heading to the doors, Peter saw the same thing. He took the newly-arrested, soon-to-be convict off of my hands to take him to a holding cell himself while I went after Fowler. He looked at me meaningfully.

I understood what he meant. _Don't let him leave. Show some teeth. Don't let Fowler think he gets to walk all over you, don't let him think that he got one over on you with the bugs in your home._ I had to let him know I wasn't scared – even if I actually really was. I had the perfect item of symbolism for it and jogged after him, shoving open the door that had half-closed behind his lackey.

The OPR agent had his head down in chagrin while he waited for the elevator. I stuffed my hand in my pocket and fingered the little device in my slacks.

"Check you later, Fowler," I called irately.

He lifted his head, but stared at the panel above the elevator on the right. I glared at his back and wanted to grab his shoulder, twist him around to face me, and hit him in the mouth. Instead I moved around him so he was forced to either turn away or look at me, and he didn't back down to the challenge. His dark eyes were stormy when I got a good look at him.

"Have a nice flight," I wished, holding an exposed wire from the bug in my pants between my index and middle fingers and taking it out smoothly. I could've shaken his hand and slipped it into his palm, but it occurred to me right before I did that that maybe his lackeys weren't aware that he'd acted without authorization, and I wanted to expose him if at all possible. I glanced at the men standing behind him and smiled brightly. "Oh, and by the way, I found these stuck on my landlines."

I took his wrist with my free left hand and held it up. He opened his hand on impulse and I dropped the destroyed hearing devices onto his fingers in clear view of one of the men, whose face didn't show any sign of surprise. I hoped that was just training and not a sign that he'd been fully aware of what was going on.

"I figured you might want them back, seeing as how you must've dropped them sometime when you were in my house." Controlling my voice, I let the warmth and friendliness drain, replaced by a steely edge. "Uninvited."

The blond agent behind him raised his eyebrows and looked away from Fowler, reaching up to toy with the pin holding his tie to his shirt.

I crossed my arms, pushed out a hip, and scowled up at him. He was way too tall for my appreciation, standing a few inches higher than Neal. "When was it, Fowler?" I demanded lowly, throat burning with rawness. I wanted to vent by screaming. My muscles itched to lash out and attack. "Were Kate and I at work? Were we _asleep?_ " I couldn't keep my contempt out of my voice and I really didn't care. "Let me tell you," I stepped closer until we were within kissing distance. Also known as head-butting and spitting distance, which was far more fitting to the context. I had to lift my chin to stare up at him like an angry dwarf. _Angry dwarf_ was probably an exaggeration, but it felt about right, considering how much higher he was on the hierarchy. "Involving my sister in any way was the biggest mistake you could've made."

He narrowed his eyes at me warningly. "Is that a threat?" He hissed, returning the sentiments to me. I belligerently kept my head up and growled.

"I think breaking into my house is more threatening than a couple of sentences." I whispered. "By a longshot." _Yes, it's a threat. It's a damn threat. And I couldn't care less._

He leaned back and stepped out of my personal space. _Good._ I wasn't going to be the one backing up. He shoved the bugs into his pocket, his cheeks starting to turn red as he fumed, unable to do anything about it in public. "I'm not done with this investigation," he threatened again, promising to return in a way.

The elevator doors slid open, granting him escape.

"Neither am I," I vowed.

* * *

"I thought that a small celebration would be appropriate," Peter pulled the door of the conference room shut behind him and then took his other hand out behind his back with a big, smug grin. He was holding a big bottle of Sauvignon Blanc. Derek whooped and threw his fist up.

Peter made quick bonds with Derek and Diana during the time that we were going behind backs to exonerate Neal and leading OPR agents around by the nose. If they weren't sure they liked him before, they did now. Liquor wasn't technically allowed on the job, but if Hughes caught us, he would probably let us have the victory – we _did_ just save one of our own, after all.

And, besides – if I was standing a little too close to Neal, touching him a little more frequently with a hand on his shoulder or back, then that was normal, wasn't it? I mean, he's my consultant, it's no shock to anyone anymore that he's my friend, and I am well known for viciously guarding my friends.

Diana snuck over to the wall and pulled at the rod by the blinds, drawing them down to cover the glass so agents who were actually doing their diligent paperwork wouldn't see us in our tame little party. Derek went over to the water cooler and took the paper cups from the top, unstacking five of them and bringing them back to the table. Peter bit his lip to try to control his merriment and held the bottle against the table while he unscrewed the cork.

"You really shouldn't drink champagne out of paper," Neal advised, looking mildly upset at the offense to his standards.

"Ignore him," I told Peter, who set the cork next to the bottle, then picked up the wine and started pouring it into the glasses. The cups were about the sizes of shot glasses. "He's so high-maintenance." I looked up at Neal then, proud no matter how I was poking or prodding at him, and he smiled back, putting the wine and paper issue aside to grin warmly.

Peter picked up one of the cups and held it out towards Neal insistently. "You'll try it, and you'll _like_ it," he determined.

Neal put his hands up in surrender and then took the cup daintily from his arresting officer.

Diana picked up another two from the line and she offered one of them to Derek. Derek immediately took a sip. "Well," she said with a smirk at Neal, holding her wine for something to do with her hands, but not drinking. "You're off the hook."

Derek swallowed and held his little shot glass higher. "And our jobs are a lot easier when you run _with_ us, not _from_ us," he swore.

"Hear, hear!" Peter chuckled, holding up his glass in my brother's direction. I nodded. I couldn't have said it more eloquently myself, and I took the last cup of champagne from the table for myself.

"I'll drink to that," Neal announced, getting over his sophistication and taking a long drink. "What about OPR?" He asked, looking towards me specifically. Sure, OPR probably pissed off Derek and Diana, but no one was more aggravated with Fowler than the two of us. Planting bugs in my house, invading my privacy, humiliating Neal and I both, putting Neal in prison – they might be irate from the attempted conviction, but we were the ones with the most to hate them for.

"They're gone," I announced, catching myself when I started to send a flickering glance over towards the doors of the WCCD. "For now," I amended, putting down my wine and pulling my fingers through my hair. "Fowler will be back, he practically said so, but for now he's run off with his tail between his legs… and I'm feeling pretty good about that." I'd gotten him as well as I could, right? And now that I knew to be alert, I would be prepared for when he came back.

"Celebrate the victories." Neal tore my attention back to the present and draped his left arm widely over my shoulders, his wrist falling down over my collarbone. "However long they last." I quickly looked to his hand and then decided, _to hell with it_. What was the big deal? We were drinking and having a toast to a good case solved.

"I'll drink to that!" Peter declared loudly, tipping his cup back and emptying out the shot in one go.

A rap on the door made us all guiltily jump a little bit. I even felt Neal's arm tense up for a second before he relaxed and the door was pushed open by an agent from downstairs in the bullpen poking his head in. "Mr. Caffrey," he said, seeking out Neal specifically. "There's a call for you on line two."

As if in acknowledgement that he was talking at _my_ consultant, the agent gave me a polite nod before he pulled his head out of the doorway and closed the door, message successfully delivered.

It was weird to hear someone give Neal that much respect in this building without him turning on the charm. Usually it was just 'Caffrey.' I supposed it was probably due to some guilt and remorse for being so quick to believe that an innocent man belonged locked behind bars. I'd be feeling pretty damn bad, too – but instead there was warm pride in my chest that made me lean into Neal and wrap my arm around his waist, hugging him.

I mean, either it was pride or it was the liquor, but either way, it was nice.

"Oh, _Mr. Caffrey,"_ I repeated, for some reason finding this to be the most incredibly funny thing I'd heard all day. "Call on line two."

Neal smiled around the room to excuse himself without drawing much curiosity or an overly-zealous tail. "That's probably my lawyer," he offered. I tipped my head and sipped my wine. I would've been surprised if Mozzie was calling an FBI line, but who else would it be? _Well, maybe June. Oh, well._ I could question it until my head spun, or I could just enjoy my victory and be glad to have my consultant in a place where I could touch him without a guard yelling at us.

"You should get him on retainer," I noted, giving Mozzie his credence, whether or not he was the one calling. "He's a damn good one."

"I'll expense it," he said, taking his arm over my head and setting down the half-drunken cup of champagne. "Can I use your phone?"

"Knock yourself out," I shrugged, focusing my attention on my team again. Neal patted my back thankfully and walked behind Peter and I to leave without further disruption.

After Neal had already left and the door closed solidly behind him, Peter reached for the wine bottle and shook the Sauvignon around. "Mr. Caffrey had a call on line two," he repeated, chuckling as he poured out another cup.

Everyone else thought it was hilarious, too, and we handed our cups forward to watch Peter pour out more shots.

* * *

Kate was the first to brag about how she put up with hosting a lot of sleepovers and dinners for my FBI comrades, but the Burkes had managed to add themselves to the list of people she didn't mind hosting for. We'd be sad to see Peter and El leave; although I didn't spend much time with El, and Kate didn't really get the chance to talk to Peter, I hoped that would be remedied in the future.

"Thanks for letting me stay over," Elizabeth chimed to Kate on the front porch, both of them holding mugs of caramel coffee while they watched Peter and I carry their suitcases out to Peter's Taurus. They'd taken his because El's was smaller and they needed room for not only their luggage, but to give their dog a ride to the kennel on their way out of Boston. "Really, it was great."

"Come back anytime!" Kate invited. I rolled my eyes while Peter pushed in his suitcase, laying it down flat on the floor of the trunk. If Katie had managed to get to a shopping trip with Peter's wife, I think we would've had to physically drag them home. "It's nice to have another woman around whose first instinct isn't to do physical harm."

"I resent that!" I shouted over my shoulder, shooting my sister a mock glare. Pushing down the handle to drag El's suitcase, I looked back to Peter and pointed over my shoulder at them. "Why do I feel like they're bonding over teasing us?"

The older man looked over my shoulder and smiled adoringly at El. "Probably because they are," he said with a grin, eyes lovingly fixed on his wife. I pursed my lips and picked up El's case from the sidewalk. Ten years of marriage and those two were still so stupid in love with each other that it was almost sickening. That was the kind of happiness I wanted for my sister. That was the kind of fantastic relationship you saw on the television, but that scarcely happened in real life. El could ask for the moon and Peter would probably ask NASA to look into it for him. When I hefted up the suitcase to the bumper, Peter realized what I was doing and moved his hands underneath the bag to help. "Here, let me get that…"

"Oh, okay." I just let him take the bag. I didn't feel like I was giving in with him. I wouldn't trade my partners for the world, but I really wished I'd gotten to work with Peter before I became the boss. I'd have benefited from working with him far more than I ever had with Ruiz. There was so much that I could learn from him; if not through his experience with criminal dealings, then through his outlook on life and the emotional maturity and complete devotion he had to Elizabeth. I felt like equals and friends with him, not like competing division leaders in associated branches. "Look, thanks again for coming out." I pushed my thumbs into my pockets until my hands hooked. "I realize that not a lot of agents would've done that, especially not with Neal being the suspect, and if there's ever anything I can do to pay you back-"

"I'll give you a call," Peter interrupted me with a gentle smile, showing that he didn't mean it to be rude, just to close the topic. I felt comfortable extending the offer because I trusted him, even after working with him for such a short time. Stretching up to reach the open trunk door, Peter grabbed the edges and dragged it down, forcing it to slam shut. "Listen," he added on another note, turning to face me while I leaned against the side of the car. "You should really be careful, with OPR on your back. It's playing with a loaded gun." He cautioned.

There was nothing I could do to reply to that except to sigh very deeply. "I know," I nodded, looking past Peter and over his shoulder. Things had just gotten very complicated and exponentially more risky. I didn't need an ally to tell me that; I noticed it clearly for myself when I found that my home had been broken into.

"Does Kate?" The agent looked past me and to my sister meaningfully, still saying goodbyes to Elizabeth. "Neal?" Also a good point – Neal and I were more at risk than Kate was, with us having more to lose to the circumstance, and if Neal didn't understand that, then even a small indiscretion could give Fowler the ammunition he wanted.

My breath caught. How much of it did Katie really get? Did she understand how close Neal had come to being sentenced back to prison? Did she even know how thin the margin was that she would have had to wait _years_ to play cards with him again, making him coffee in exchange for teaching her tricks? And what about me? If I was arrested for helping a fugitive, then what would have happened to her? All that had to happen was one of the agents on guard deciding to look in one of the wrong windows at the wrong time, or deeming it necessary to come sweep the house, as I bet Fowler would've been sure to include that on his warrants. She was an _accessory,_ an _accomplice_ – she could've been charged with aiding and abetting.

"I don't know," I told him honestly, swallowing back the unpleasant thoughts. I couldn't leave Kate in the dark about the severity of the situation. I'd have to sit her down and explain the new precautions we'd have to take, and make sure she understood the extent of the danger we were in with OPR looking into me. "Neal probably gets it, but I don't know if Kate understands exactly how bad it is."

Nodding like he understood the difficulty of the conversation I was set to have, Peter looked back to both of the women, the most important people in our lives. Then he raised an arm and set his hand on my shoulder, letting his palm rest as a soft weight over my sleeve. He moved his other hand to rest against his hip. "Do yourself a favor, and don't let Fowler run your life," he instructed. I paid attention and started to agree with the advice. "Even if he comes back. _When_ … he comes back. If he runs your life, it becomes his. Not yours."

I bit my tongue before I said something sarcastic like _yes, Dad_. "Duly noted."

The taller agent took his hand off of my shoulder and smiled tightly at me. "I might've been wrong about Caffrey," he allowed. Quickly, without thinking about it, he starting to look down the street as if afraid that Neal himself might be recording this conversation. It made me giggle. "Just a little." Then he held up a hand and held two fingers barely a hair's breadth apart in emphasis.

"That's more than I expected to hear," I laughed, able to tell apart the truth from the joke.

"That offer still stands." He pointed at my chest. "You need me, you call." _That_ sounded like an order, but it was one with the best intentions.

I hopped off the edge of the sidewalk and onto the street asphalt, throwing my arms around Peter before he saw it coming. I held tight and hid my face against his shoulder, overcome with feelings that I had been trying really hard not to feel. Gratitude for his help and El's understanding of the situation, terror and fear for Neal, fury and seething, blinding rage at Fowler for invading my home and threatening _my_ Neal, and the relief that still felt a little surreal that it was over, and that I could talk to my consultant without a pane of glass between us. If it weren't for Peter, then it likely wouldn't have turned out as favorably as it did, and I wouldn't ever forget that. The older agent returned the hug with a surprised huff and patted my upper back reassuringly.

"Cowgirl up, Anderson," he said affectionately against my hair. "This isn't over yet."

 _I didn't need the reminder, but thanks anyway._ I let go of him and stood up. Since we weren't exactly in orthodox circumstances, the unorthodox goodbye was hopefully excusable. El and Kate were walking down from the porch to the car, El with the straps of her handbag draped over her shoulder and her emptied coffee mug handed to Kate. I forced on another of those smiles – which really wasn't a pretend smile, just a matter of summoning up the right emotion – and turned to Elizabeth.

"Sorry to drag you up, El, but it's been a blast." I wasn't sure what to do with my hands. _Do I hug her or shake her hand or wait for an elaborate high-five game?_ "Thanks for letting me borrow your husband."

El didn't feel any of the awkwardness. Her face remained glowing, lit up in joy while she reached out and pushed her fist against Kate's upper arm. Katie rocked to the side before elastically standing up straight. "Thanks for letting me borrow your sister! She's much more useful with feedback for my business." Peter had the 'apologetic husband' look down pat, and employed it when El playfully glared at him for not having quite-as-refined taste. "Oh, by the way."

El produced a wallet-sized business card from her purse in a matter of seconds. The curling calligraphy naming _Burke Premiere Events_ was followed by less elaborate letters with her name, email, and phone number. The woman winked at me as she self-promoted and then laughed, holding out her arms and moving in expectantly for a hug. I took the card and held it between my fingers while I held my arms around her waist. When El leaned back, she cheekily winked at me, looked exaggeratedly at her husband, and planted a kiss on my cheek.

"You take care, sweetie," she instructed, very sisterly in the stern way she said it and then just expected to be heeded. It left me wondering if Kate had at some point adopted her as the honorary eldest sister and neglected to tell me.

Kate insisted on another hug from El. "Insisted" meant that she held her arms out waited approximately point-seven seconds before her request was being granted. Peter shook his head at the two of them, clapped me on the shoulder, and wished me good luck, both with protecting myself from the inner circles of the bureau and with handling Neal. Mentally, I figured that he'd have been telling me a little more than just to keep an eye on him if he knew that I kept my eyes on him more frequently than I should – and on a lot more of him than I should – and decided that it was definitely for the better that as few people knew about that as possible.

* * *

It had been a few days since I'd last been to June's for any reason, but I sent a message to Neal via phone and he informed the house staff in advance that I would be showing up. The door wasn't unlocked, but I was permitted entry in a matter of moments.

Neal opened the door to the penthouse with a cloth in his hands, fingers and palms stained with oily colors. It seemed like I'd caught him doing something artistic. He scrubbed at his hands and gave me a smile, stepping to the side to let me in. "That was fast," he remarked, loose strands of hair curling down over his forehead and into his eyes. "Where's the fire?"

 _I just wanted to see you were home safe._ I had spent too long with a pit of anxiety in my stomach to just lay down and will it to go away. I'd known I'd need to see Neal, safe and sound in his lodgings, before I could sleep well. The last several days, rest had been hard to come by, especially because every time I tried to catch up on some, I had to remember that Neal was in a cold cot in a super-max or on the run from the law.

Saying that would've been awkward, so I didn't. Instead, I found myself looking up to his face, trying to come up with an excuse on the spot. The trouble was creating one that made sense, and, even more so, one that he would buy into. It was hard to fool a trickster, but I felt silly now that I saw him, alive and well and relaxed, with pastels on his hands and comfortable pajamas loosely adorning his body. I'd been worried for no reason. What had I expected I would find when I came over? A miniature version of Sing Sing?

"Kenna?" Neal cocked his head when I took too long to answer, curious and kind face pulling down into a concerned frown, lips pouting slightly.

I read it as an invitation and pushed the door shut, reaching for Neal. He tightened his grip on the rag with his left hand and moved his arms apart to make room for me to press up against him, dragging my fingers down from his ribcage to his hips, where the waistband of elastic grey sweatpants fit snugly and lowly.

His lips tasted like Chapstick and within seconds, I was out of breath. Neal circled his right arm around my waist and held the balled-up rag against my shoulder, stretching his fingers to press the tips into my flesh through my clothes. He closed his eyes, made a soft, delighted noise, and as soon as I heard that assurance, I couldn't even think of going home.

I turned him around, walking him up against the door I'd just come through. I slipped a hand past to lock it and then shoved his back against the wood. Neal's breath was knocked out of him with a huff and he chuckled, raising his arms in surprise. _It's not enough, it's not enough…_ I groped down his front as Neal reacted, beautifully responsive, arching his back and catching his breath. I found the folds of fabric towards the hem of his shirt and yanked, tightening my grip, raising it up and bringing it over his hips, baring lovely, unmarred skin and taut flesh.

I wrestled with his shirt for only a few seconds. Neal lifted his arms up over his head and ducked his head, letting me pull it off of him, and then I had nothing more to do with it and dropped it onto the floor, dragging my hands down his chest, over his stomach, navel, and down towards his waistband before I stopped and felt back up over his back. Neal lowered his arms to my shoulders, pulled me tight flush to his chest, and crushed our mouths together, groaning into our kiss. A strong hand cradled the back of my head and he kissed me hard, working his lips to part mine and coaxing my tongue. I could feel the in and out of his breathing even better this way, pressed up against his naked torso.

When I felt like I just couldn't kiss him any longer or my lungs would catch on fire, I pulled back. Neal kept his arms around my upper back while I looked down from his throat to his abs in amazement, touching slower, with more tenderness, feeling for sore spots around his ribs, over his kidneys, near his carotid. When I touched his throat, Neal's eyes fluttered and he rocked his head back against the door with a small thud. _Safe. Whole. Unharmed._ There was no statement regarding his emotional wellbeing, but his brief return to prison hadn't left him with any physical wounds.

_Not that I can see now, that is. I'll have to keep going to make sure he's completely uninjured._

Hesitantly – because now just seemed like a _great_ time to get shy – I looked back up to his face, seeing his cheeks flushed and lips wet and pink. His blue eyes peeked out at me through dark eyelashes and watched the range of thoughts crossing my face.

My eyes darted down to his mouth and I swallowed, questioning what I thought I was doing. I hadn't even said hello, just turned around and backed him up against the nearest hard surface. That wasn't really the message I'd wanted to send. It wasn't inaccurate, but it also… it meant things to me that probably weren't communicated very well through the actions. It wasn't just making out. It was proving that he was okay, that… _we…_ were okay, whatever we were.

I touched his lip, brushing the pad of my thumb over the warm bow. Neal shut his eyes and sighed, reached for my wrist, and held my hand up while he purposefully kissed each of my fingers, then turned my hand up to press his lips to my lifeline. As he drifted his kisses to my wrist, I slid my hand over his face, cupping his jaw. The smooth texture of his skin was interrupted by the beginnings of a shadow, scratching softly on my palm.

"I'm sorry," I whispered, sadly taking in the angelic, blissful expression on his face. _My angel_.

My angel looked perfect, healthily glowing, his body and his touch showing desire and tenderness and gratitude to be where he was. To my eyes, no one could compare; man or woman, black or white, no matter hair color or age or body type. There must come a point where someone is so dear to another that suddenly that person is the most beautiful human they've ever seen, no matter what the rest of the world would think.

I wondered if he was like me – if he responded to roughness and meanness from the world by treating his partner with even more love, even more kindness, as if to compensate. I hoped to find out. I hoped to return the favor. I wanted to cradle him to me and nurture the compassion that I admired in him.

Neal peered at me with half-lidded eyes and tilted his head into my hand, nuzzling against the stilled caress. "Don't be sorry for this," he murmured, holding my hips tighter and eliminating the space between us, holding me in his arms. He lifted his chin to set it on my hair. "Never for this."

We caught our breath as the urgency drained. I sagged against him and Neal put his weight against the door, hugging me for all he was worth. Turning my head to the side, I lowered my ear to his shoulder and hid my forehead in his neck, inhaling the smell of my consultant mixed with soap and shampoo.

After several moments, I sighed deeply and the hand on his face fell to his other shoulder. I lifted my head to look at him again, only to see that he was already watching me with something akin to devotion in his wide eyes. Holding onto him, afraid to let go, I moved my hips forward to rub against his groin. The hand in my hair tightened and Neal bit his lip, repressing a startled gasp. I could feel him, half-hard through his pants, and in lieu of saying things I couldn't permit myself to say, much less _mean_ , I wanted to fulfil that need. The more I thought about it, the more intense the urge became.

"Can I…?" I started to ask, circling my thumb comfortingly in the hollow of his throat.

My artist nodded swiftly, inhaling quickly. "Please do," he requested with a modicum of gentlemanly politeness before he reached for my shirt, as well. "Gods, Kenna, you have no idea how much I've missed this."

 _I think I've got a pretty good guess_ , I thought to counter, meeting our lips again, much more gingerly and reassuringly, while Neal took my smaller hands in his and guided them to the front of his pants, pulling on the strings holding them up.

His pants fell to the floor. With both hands, I unbound my hair from its ponytail and let it fall free down my back. Neal slipped his hand through my thick tresses and stepped out of his sweats. I caught the toe of my shoe on the fabric and pulled them closer to my feet, sinking slowly down to my knees, using his pants and briefs as a cushion.

* * *

Quiet creaking from the bedframe filled the penthouse like an out-of-sync soundtrack. The low lights shrouded the living space in darkness, the alcove lit only marginally brighter. Every roll of my hips was punctuated with a quick exhale from me. Every squeeze of fingertips into my waist elicited another hitch in my breath. Neal's sounds of pleasure, quieted and controlled, felt amplified by the vibrations of his mouth against my throat. Each moan, each mumble, pressed more to my neck; more lips, more tongue, more hot breath.

Neal leaned against the front of the bedframe, sitting up, while I straddled his lap and rode him slowly, arms over his shoulders to grip onto the horizontal metal bar and use it as leverage. The artist mouthed at my throat, head tilted back to reach while I rocked astride his lap, holding myself half on my knees. The other half of my weight was supported by his hands as he guided how quickly I moved, how far off of him I came.

I would've preferred having my hands free, but taking my hands off of the bedframe for very long would've made me lose my balance. It would've been okay if the speed had been different, but keeping it slow required more control. I bit my tongue between my teeth and groaned, long and low, and bent my head while Neal nipped at my earlobe, growling softly. He knew I liked to hear him.

I rolled forward again, lifting myself up and closer to his chest. Catching my breath in my throat, I took my right arm off of the metal bar and reached for Neal's shoulder. I sat back, tossing my head to move my hair, and stilled long enough to follow his arm down to his hand, where I took his wrist and guided his hand up to my chest. Neal wrapped his right arm around my lower back and squeezed my breast gently. Moaning quietly, I moved my hand back the bedframe and resumed the pace.

The control we exercised was odd. It came naturally, despite that it really shouldn't have been able to. The last thing I wanted to do was convince him that we were something we weren't. We'd gone through a not-breakup once already and didn't require a second time through. This was the first time we'd done something so intimate; facing each other, moving deliberately, and drawing it out with such a slow, steady tempo was something we'd never done before, but I wanted to try it, and Neal seemed just as into it as he was anything else.

 _Mine._ It was marking ownership, establishing care, and as empathetic as it was, it was also shamelessly selfish. I wanted him to watch _me,_ to look at my face and my body and not have the excuse of breathlessness and exertion to justify forgetting who he was with. I didn't think he imagined I was his sister while we were having sex, but I was allowed to have my insecurities, and one of them was that he would prefer to have Moreau in his life than myself. Or, who knew? Maybe he would've enjoyed having a former flame with him instead of his arresting officer. Maybe he was only interested in me because I was the most convenient option. No matter what was going on in his head, after everything I'd done for him, I didn't want to let him have the chance to forget that the woman giving him safety and pleasure was _me_.

His arm slipped over my lower back. His left hand fondled my oversensitive breast while I arched my spine and he used his mouth on the other. My hips stuttered and Neal pressed his upwards, coaxing. I bit my lip and forced a relaxing sigh, tightening my fingers around the bedframe and speeding up slightly. The hushed noises of the protesting metal became more frequent.

"That's it," Neal whispered, kissing my collar wetly and dragging his tongue up to the hollow between my throat and collarbone. "That's it, beautiful." The arm around my back disappeared. The chill from the air conditioner replaced the column of heat from his skin. My eyes fell shut and a moment later I felt his hands changing our posture, putting more space between my pelvis and his abdomen.

" _Fuck!"_ I bit out, eyes flying open, not expecting the hand between my legs, slick fingers rubbing in soft circles. My knuckles must've been going white around the narrow bar.

Neal chuckled. His voice was strained, the smooth quality of his teasing reflecting something much less composed. "Shh…"

I sped up some more. Whichever direction I moved, I felt something – forward, back, up, down, and the whole time, Neal coaxed me onwards with his arousal-deepened voice and hand on my chest. The moans I withheld turned to whimpers as my stomach tightened, whines becoming more audible and urgency increasing. The sensuality had been nice.

It didn't take me long once he'd started trying harder to push me to the edge, and I kept riding in our fast, albeit somewhat ragged, rhythm until my convict hissed, head falling back against the wall, groaning out positive praises and _yes_ es. I kissed his cheek and shifted my knees in the mattress, pushed a hand between his head and the wall, and cradled the back of his skull while burying my fingers in his hair.

My mind drifted while I waited for him to come down. I enjoyed when I could witness him getting so blissed out that it took him a minute to think clearly again. I thought about Katie and how she probably knew without a doubt where I was – it would probably be okay with her if I slept over. I mused over Derek's and Diana's passive resistances to Fowler, the way they had fought back against OPR for someone they would scarcely admit they liked. I even contemplated Peter's assistance. Would he have cared as much about exonerating Neal if he had known that the first chance we got, I'd be naked in his lap, shuddering and shivering?

 _Probably not._ Had I admitted Neal and I were personally involved, Peter would have first balked at the violation of fraternization policies and followed it up with suspecting me of a ridiculously-high conflict of interest. I had known that when I'd called. It hadn't just been something that didn't come up; it had been specifically avoided. Did it count as manipulation that I'd left details out to receive help from the Burkes?

I cared more about the bases of the fraternization policies than I did my honesty. Although I didn't _want_ to lie to or take advantage of Peter and El, I would, if it protected Neal, Katie, Derek, or Diana. There was a line there that I wouldn't cross, but in most given situations, I'd deliberately spare them the truth.

As if that wasn't enough to make me feel bad, there were also the bureau's policies. Disregarding Neal's anklet and his status as a criminal, there were rules in place for a reason. An agent was _not_ supposed to have an affair with his or her informant. Not only did it prevent conflicts of interests complicating field work and court proceedings, it also protected both of the people involved. Most informants were _confidential_ informants by choice. Most of our criminal consultants had their identities protected and obscured because if their names were made available knowledge to the people they ratted on, it would put them in danger. Neal was no exception. I was sure there were many people that would bear a hard grudge on him for turning to work for the feds. As for the agents… well, an affair's conflicts of interests reflected more on them than it did the consultant, and given that the consultants were sometimes less-than-ethical contacts, it protected their reputation and their career more than anything else. Sometimes, though, it also served to protect them _from_ their informant, in case they were having their feelings toyed with for some illegal ambition.

I was immorally lying to people I called my friends, and I was disregarding rules designed to protect myself and the people around me – Neal included – and what was it for? A cheap thrill of not getting caught? A momentary rush and temporary stress relief? Was I _really_ so starved for intimacy that I was willing to take it this way? The only redeeming factor, the reason I kept coming back to it, was that it was mutual. Neal knew what was at stake and he encouraged it, continued it, made more advances than I did. I may take advantage of my coworkers' obliviousness, but I _never_ took advantage of Neal's willingness, or his vulnerability to my authority.

 _I should stop this. I know I should. So why can't I?_ Why couldn't I pursue someone more attainable, someone who I didn't feel insecure with, someone who didn't jeopardize my reputation and my friend's deal? The truth was that I just couldn't stand to give up Neal. It wasn't about the sex; it was about the man I was having it with.

The silence was good until Neal was fully back with me. "I'm not a nice person, you know," I pointed out to him honestly, both of us grimacing as I crawled off of him and sat down a little stiffly next to Neal on the bed.

_Maybe not the best pillow talk? … This is why I need to learn to turn my brain off sometimes._

I reached for the bottle of water on the bedside table while Neal got out of bed, disposing of the trash and getting clean blankets from over the edge of a chair. Drinking deeply, I soothed the rawness in my throat. My thighs felt a little sore from being spread for a while with so much tension in the muscles. I'd live. It was a good tension. Until I was nineteen, I never knew what the phrase _hurts so good_ had meant. Pain was pain, pleasure was pleasure – but dull pain that resulted from an activity like running or sex? It was a manageable reminder of an endorphin high.

"Yeah, and I'm an ex-con." Neal chuckled softly, his voice rough and raw. He settled back on the mattress, spreading out the blanket. I put the water back and shifted closer to his side as he picked up an arm, inviting me to cuddle.

"No, I mean it." I insisted. It was important to me that he understood I wasn't like him. He didn't want me to shoot the Chinese in the warehouse because he disapproved of violence. I didn't shoot them because it was impractical. "I appreciate that you seem to look up to me, but don't forget that I can be mean. I've shot people before. Sometimes they haven't survived. And that's not my fault," I amended, wrapping my arms around him and throwing a leg across both of his. "In violent crimes, I didn't always have the luxury of a realistic choice. I'm nice to you because you're nice to me and Katie. I've been really rude to other people who haven't treated us with respect."

"Kenna…" Neal didn't know what to say at first. I prepared myself for taking a shower and going home. _Apparently I'm not doing too well with intimacy tonight._ When I braced myself to move, he tightened his arm, holding me in place, and so I took it as a request to stay, leaning my cheek on his shoulder. "I've known you fight back since you said you'd kill me if I didn't stop flirting with you," he laughed into my hair. I bit the inside of my mouth to force back a smile and turned my face to hide my reddening cheeks against his chest. "I know there's a reason you're good with guns. I just like being on your side." He kissed my forehead and then casually stretched his legs, shifting into the mattress.

There was more I could've said. There was more that I probably, in all honestly, _should_ have said. I felt like I'd just told him something he should seriously consider, and he had all but written it off. The acknowledgement felt sincere, but was he really listening to me? Did he hear me trying to tell him that I had done things I wasn't proud of and that he shouldn't be, either, or did he just hear me being dramatic?

The only way to convince him that I wasn't being melodramatic about the dangers of my former job was to tell him the story of how and why I got the scars on my abdomen. The part of me that had been brave enough to try to talk to Neal about my character flaw in the first place shrank back. I couldn't go there on my own most of the time, much less with someone else.

Physical intimacy tricked me into thinking I had emotional security with him, but I was deluding myself. Just a month ago, he'd chosen the empty promise of a stranger over his loyalty to me, all for the sake of a woman who had left him first.

I pursed my lips. Being optimistic, maybe one day I would feel safe enough to have an open discussion about my past and the repercussions it had on my psyche and my behavior, but that day wasn't going to be in the near future. If Neal got his way, then he and Kate would be reunited and long gone before the day ever came.

I did the cowardly thing and let him close the discussion, covering his heart with my hand and closing my eyes. "Goodnight, Neal."

"Goodnight, darling."

* * *

It's hard to be in the dark. The absence of light is scary when you can't see ahead of or behind you. It makes you feel alone, isolated. The absence of knowledge is, in a way, worse. What's the point of being able to see the danger in front of you if you don't know that it's dangerous? The absence of both is a nightmare in itself. Not only are you oblivious, you're also painfully ignorant.

Since that first day I met Neal and I saw his last visit with Kate, I'd been wondering which kind of darkness he'd been in. Was it dark around him, or was he clueless to what happened right in front of him? It had always seemed strange that someone who he had claimed as part of his own small little family had decided to just leave him like that, with practically no advance warning. That's the kind of darkness I was afraid Neal was in, while he merely mistook it as an absence of light – or, in this case, the absence of Kate Moreau.

Maybe I was a bad person for keeping him in the dark, but once you've been there for too long, having the lights switched on can hurt a lot more than just slowly pulling away the wool.

That's why, when I finally heard back from a friend, I went to confront Kate on my own. I showed the clerk at the front desk my badge and offered some half-lie about why I wanted to be let into the hotel room, and the helpful young woman let me in without a clue that I wasn't exactly there for straightforward work. Everything about this, how I found her and how I got in, was off the record – finding her had taken a lot of work and even more guesswork, and I would have wanted to wait until I'd had some time to reassure my sister that we were safe and give Neal some comfort after his short but stressful ordeal before I'd gone off the grid for the night, except I had no way of knowing how long she would stay.

She was still going by the name Kate Perdue; Kate Lost.

_"Is she lost to me? … Without me?"_

I already had a missed call from Neal and a text asking if I was going to come over for coffee and paperwork, with an offer of Monopoly thrown in. I wanted to take him up on the offer, but after what was going to happen without his knowledge, I knew I'd feel too guilty to face him for a couple of days. Just because I was trying to look out for him didn't mean that it wasn't a bad thing to do. I was surrounded by poor choices. I was just trying to do the best I could for the people I actually wanted taken care of.

 _Kate Lost._ What does that mean, exactly? Was it what Neal thought, that she was lost without him or lost to him? Or did it mean that Kate, as in the Kate that Neal knew – or thought he knew – was lost, possibly for good? Or as in _get lost, Neal?_ Neal was a romantic trying to be a realist, and the most depressing interpretation he came up with was that she was lost to his efforts. He didn't come up with anything that suggested lies or malevolence.

By sheer luck, I wasn't left waiting in the dark for that long. Maybe twenty, thirty minutes. I was patient, more patient than I had been in a long time. I almost didn't want her to be back. I wanted her name at this hotel to be a misdirect because I didn't want to talk to her. I didn't want to face a reality of my worst fears about her coming true. How was I supposed to kiss someone, knowing that their sister abandoned them, or was playing them?

The door beeped when a card was slid into the lock, and then clicked as the handle was twisted far enough to open. The horizontal light at the bottom of the door was joined by a tall vertical streak that widened, but didn't expand far enough to illuminate me in the comfortable reclining chair before Kate crept in, turned around, and pushed it shut, dragging the chain up to fasten the lock.

Just seeing her was surreal. I recognized the shape of her body and the length of her hair and all evidence told me it was her. It was the girl Neal had been after for the entirety of my relationship with him. It was the woman who had been kidnapped, whom I had told Neal to let go of. She caused him so much pain and here she was, sneaking into a hotel room, only miles away from the heartbroken man who loved her enough to double his prison sentence just on the off chance of finding her.

"Hiya, Kate," I said casually, and I sickly enjoyed the visible jump she made and the way her balance in her heeled shoes wavered. She had to stumble and throw a hand against the wall to catch herself.

There was a short table right next to the chair I'd made my temporary residence. My eyes had adjusted to the darkness a long time ago, and I flipped on the lamp by the button on the wide, round base. Light flooded the room, taking us out of the dark. As predicted, my eyes hurt. Kate squinted and threw her right arm up to shield her face, turning around and stopping barely a foot away from the door.

Her eyes adjusted and she lowered her arm. She stared at me with piercing blue eyes that eerily reminded me of Neal's. If Neal hadn't already told me otherwise, I would've believed they were biological siblings, just because of her eyes, although hers were paler and more like ice. Neal could make me feel like I was his entire world. Kate made me feel like she was looking past my skin and into my soul.

Her shoulders sagged, not entirely from the weight of the messenger bag whose straps were wound around her shoulder. "Hello, McKenna," she greeted with a tone of defeat.

Taking care of Neal always felt like what it was, but sometimes when he held me it felt too soft and too protective for someone who he'd only known six months, no matter how close we'd gotten in that time, and I wondered if sometimes he pretended that when he woke up, it was Kate he was holding, cradling her in his arms after an arduous adventure that rescued her, his sister returned to him, and he didn't want to let her go ever again. It was a horrible feeling, to think that maybe the person you wanted to spend time with wanted you to be someone else.

I tilted my head to the side and smiled insolently at her. "You're a hard woman to find, you know that?" If I was wrong – if she really was a victim, if she was being threatened or blackmailed or manipulated – I would apologize for my attitude, but as it was, it was hard to see her as anything other than the antagonist that broke my mate's heart and left me with the difficult task of picking up the pieces in whatever way I could.

 _My mate._ I swallowed. I'd never referred to Neal as my soulmate before, not even in my own head. He was always my artist, my conman, my consultant, or my friend. I had been careful not to think on the other term, yet now it slipped out without warning. Acknowledging him as my mate gifted him with an acceptance as someone I bore an unbreakable commitment to. _When did that happen?_ I was getting in really deep, too fast.

Kate stared at me dully, her lips pursed as she waited for me to continue without saying anything. She blinked a few times, quickly, like she was hoping that maybe one of those times she opened her eyes I would no longer be there. She opened her mouth once, wet her lips with her tongue unsurely, and then hesitated with nothing good to say.

"What, no chit-chat?" I almost mocked, uncrossing my legs where I had lazily made myself comfortable. I pushed myself upright and leaned forwards to put my elbows on my knees, cocking my head to one side while my hair fell over my shoulder. "Okay." I accepted it easily. I'd rather skip the niceties, anyway. I had a sister to get back to and an honorable job I had to do in the morning. It turns out that paperwork piles up when you spend all your time working on a case no one is willing to admit might have something more to it. "Let's get right to it, then.

"I think we need to have a talk about Neal."

* * *

**Well, my uncle's been arrested. To tell the truth, I think Dad was secretly delighted to finally have some concrete form of revenge for whatever it was they fought about before I was born. Pressing charges must've been the highlight of his year.**

**I'm tailspinning. I can't do this for much longer, I just can't. I can feel it. I can't live in a place where I'm expected to fall in line, believe whatever I'm told, behave like the daughter they want. They don't get to have a child and then dictate how that child feels, who they grow to be. Ten years ago I'd have bent over backwards for their approval but now I just don't care. I want to leave. I want to be gone and be someone else, someone who's free, and if the cost of that is never having my parents in my life again… well, I hardly feel like I have them now.**

**I tried to do what they wanted. I went for a while not breaking any rules, not doing anything wrong. I haven't seen my girlfriend outside of a public space – and definitely not where Mom or Dad could've seen us kissing or touching – in almost a month. I tried to be good. I'll admit that I got freaked out when I realized what I'd have to do to run away, to be a completely new person separate from them. I made a last-ditch effort to repair what had already been shattered. All I'd gotten for that trouble was more cracks in the foundation. I hadn't done anything wrong, and they'd still blamed me for something I hadn't done. They'd called the cops. They'd threatened to push for legal discipline. I'm seventeen, I shouldn't have to deal with this. I shouldn't have to deal with this for anything I've done. They wanna get on me about fake IDs, fine, but that's a far cry from what they were harping on me for.**

**My girlfriend and I broke up yesterday. Zarra LaMontagne and her family's too much for her, she said. I guess that's okay. I know I'm a mess and I can't really fault her for that. I'm just glad I didn't tell her how I plan to escape, because I doubt she'd have stuck around after those beans were spilled. She doesn't like that I have so much more money at my disposal and she still thinks my parents aren't as bad as I make them sound. She's from a middle-class family, so she's not one of the elite privileged prep school brats, but her family is very close and loving, so she can hardly imagine the discord mine's in.**

**So, that's another relationship that's ended badly. I'm counting the days until I turn eighteen. One day I'm going to get a relationship where everything's out in the open, I'm not just being dramatic when I'm upset, and my significant other will want to be with me enough to work through issues.**

**And in the meantime, I have to testify against my uncle. This is just fucking great. So much for family, right, guys?**

**Love (without losing yourself),**

**Zarra L**


	15. There's a Crack in Your Perfect Smile

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As McKenna takes on a case to build Neal's rapport with other agents, a breakdown in communication places them both in more than one kind of danger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Lucy Hale's "Empty Handed."
> 
> Halfway through the story! Yay!

**_Chapter Fifteen – There's a Crack in Your Perfect Smile_ **

I walked with Special Agent Arthur Landry through the bullpen of the New York office. We were slow, the leisurely, time-consuming pace of a couple on a date, but what was really happening was we were having a cooperative, inter-agency discussion in a limited space. In the wake of Fowler's attempt to put Neal behind bars yet again, I was trying to become more sociable when other agents were directed my way. In this case, I had Peter to thank for the reference. Arthur, Peter, and I were all the leading field agents in the WCCDs of our field offices, and when Arthur decided that he needed to take a team and travel, Peter gave him a nudge in my direction.

My motives weren't entirely pure. While Arthur did have an interesting case in a boiler room con being run by a couple of suspicious partners, the real reason I was volunteering my services was because I wanted Arthur to appreciate the role that Neal played in the New York office. It had become apparent, thanks to interfering, nosy little bastards, that a lot of agents were still unsure exactly how much Neal could be trusted with. It was a consequence of keeping him to myself. Few other people had very direct experience working with him. The more people that worked with him would see what I saw – or, at least, share Peter's change of perspective in how to consider the conman's character, and the more people we had to call on if Fowler tried to come back and turn the bureau around on my C0I again.

"You trust him?"

Arthur, however, was not privy to any of the thoughts going through my head, and was notably more cynical about letting a known con artist take on his very important case, no sarcasm intended.

I held out both hands in front of me, one carrying a cup of coffee and the other empty, but still gesturing. "I _cannot_ express enough exactly how perfect he is," I swore again, tactfully refraining from directly answering the question. The conditions on which I trusted him weren't the most reassuring for someone else to hear, and I got that, but I didn't want to allow doubts the environment that they needed to grow. "For this job, anyway. I mean, I could do with a bit less backtalk." I grinned to make light of it and show that I didn't really mind. Neal's insubordination wasn't always taken in the manner it was meant as, so I thought it was best to establish up front that he could be a little mouthy.

Speaking of, the elevator doors slid open outside the glass doorway. Neal waltzed out, immediately turning to walk backwards and continue to foster the debate he was having with Diana, who was carrying coffee for herself, as well. Diana looked like she was enjoying herself at least a little, but trying to pretend that Neal wasn't particularly entertaining to her. She motioned for him to walk faster, so he moved to her side and twirled around, falling into step beside her and following my probie into the office.

Arthur reached for my shoulder, concerned, and caught my avoidance. "Wait, you didn't answer my question…" he protested, clearly realizing that there was a reason for that.

At that point, Neal looked up, scanned the room, brightly waved over at Derek, and offered my brother a loud and cheerful "Hi!" I'd been a little worried that Derek's unintentional supplying of evidence against Neal to Fowler would've caused some distrust or grudge between them, but although Derek had apologized to Neal, the artist didn't seem to take much worry to it. I knew it had bothered him a _lot_ when he'd thought I was responsible for it, but he didn't give Derek any grief. I still had no way of knowing if it was because he didn't care about Derek's opinion as much, if he was putting up a mask to hide that he was bothered, or if it was because it didn't feel like a betrayal now that he knew it had been unintentional. Derek looked up from his desk and waved.

I kept my eyes on Neal for a second as I turned my head to look directly at the other agent. Props to my consultant for unintentionally exemplifying the role he played in an enthusiastic and friendly work environment. "Please don't quote me on this," I warned him before earnestly continuing, "But I'd trust Neal Caffrey with my life." Hadn't I already a couple of times? Even though one of those times, he'd been the one who put my life in danger to begin with… but it had been done without intending to, so there was that. _Water under the bridge._ "You put him on the case and let me work with him, and you'll have the smoothest con you've ever run," I vowed.

About that time, Neal (who by now had a hand on Diana's shoulder while she leaned back in her desk chair) looked up and saw me talking with our guest. His face lit up immediately – there was no mistaking how thrilled he looked in that moment, and it made me start to smile before I double-checked myself and made sure that my expression wasn't betraying any untoward levels of appreciation.

"Morning, Holls!" He cheered, looking down at Diana and excusing himself. Diana waved towards me like she was giving him permission and turned to her computer with a secretive smile as if she knew something I didn't.

I fastened on my amused smirk as Neal strode over to Arthur and I quickly. "Morning, Neal." My coffee switched hands and I held my now free one to the side at my comrade. "Neal, this is SA Landry from another white-collar crime team." Neal rocked on his heels while looking down at me happily and then turned his eyes to Arthur to size him up and see who was in front of him. I was oddly flattered to be the cause of so much joy being radiated from him.

Arthur was not the only one being sized up in that moment. I looked away from both of them and breathed out quietly. _Oh, boy._ "Former conman turned FBI consultant," Arthur said with a subtle hint of disbelief.

Neal's charming look turned a little bit plastic. It didn't take a genius to see that he didn't like being referred to like that, but what concerned me was which part he silently objected to. The "former" part? The part that made it sound like he'd been trapped and rehabilitated, that could feel like a constant reminder that he was now working for the very people who locked him away for four years? I'd be pretty mad if someone reminded me about that part, too. He was a hard man to read. It could've been any number of things.

"My reputation precedes me," he smoothly said instead of making a snarky comment, which I was internally grateful for.

Arthur lifted his right arm and pulled the newspaper folded up underneath his elbow. "Well, you're hard to miss," he wryly remarked, and held out the front headline. It was the issue from the day right after Neal decided to trick the judge and the bailiffs and went to ground hiding. Underneath the headline were his mugshots in black and white print. I tried to catch Neal's eyes and signal that this guy was important, and it mattered that we all managed to get along. "You took a swan dive out of a judge's chamber onto a bakery awning."

Neal shoved his hands into his pockets, but, thank the heavens, remained diplomatic. "I _really_ don't like that picture, but they _do_ have the greatest cake in town." He gave a winning, teeth-sparkling smile as if in demonstration that there were better pictures of him than prisoner profiles. "What's up?"

"Agent Landry is a guest from the field office down in Maryland," I explained, being the gracious hostess that I was supposed to be. A year ago, I'd have passed this kind of job on to Derek and had them just come to me with the case information, but _no,_ now I had to strategically befriend agents. "He's following the work of a hedge fund case in which-"

Arthur cut me off. "Actually, I'm still catching Anderson here up on the details." I shut my mouth and pursed my lips thinly. I _really_ don't like being interrupted. "Nice to meet you."

It was as clear a dismissal as anything, and if there had been any doubt that he wasn't entirely confident about Neal's reliability, then that blasted it out of the lake. He didn't want me giving my CI any of the details about it because he wasn't sure he wanted my partner to have anything to do with it. I wanted to be offended that my word wasn't good enough, but taking someone else's impressions for granted was a stupid decision to go with in the bureau, and anyone with a brain knew that. Trying to preserve the bridge had me biting my tongue.

Concerned, Neal turned his head to me. There were several questions he was nonverbally asking, mostly centering along the lines of _are you okay alone with this guy_ and _do you want me to get someone for you_. I just gave him a little nod of assent. _I'm okay, and I can handle it on my own, but thank you very much for being worried about me, Neal; it's very sweet and I'm probably not going to let you forget about it anytime soon._ Satisfied that I was alright, he took his hand out of his pocket to wave halfheartedly at Arthur, then swung around and went back to Diana, playing the role of a magnetized weakling. Luckily for both of them, Neal was totally cool with Diana actually not looking at him that way, and I think he found a lot of glee in having someone that he could screw around with and tease without having other agents in the building suspecting them of anything suspicious. I think he liked not being expected to flirt with her and took advantage of it, because aside from some well-timed winking and joking lines about joining herself and her girlfriend, there was never anything outside the realm of friendship. And really, everyone in the office made those kinds of jokes with Diana. She was very easy to get along with if you stayed away from certain subjects, and she was the kind of person who liked to make and receive good-humored attempts at flirting.

"So you think Caffrey's the right man for this job?" Arthur just reiterated earlier questions, still not sold, but with his voice dropped. He moved his feet to turn to face me exclusively.

"Absolutely," I promised, showing him the same courtesy of approach.

The agent's eyes darted towards Diana and Neal. "He's a criminal."

"He's a career con artist," I agreed, but then nodded towards the two. I was trying to indicate how well they were getting along. The agent was smiling and laughing, her smile stretching wide and her cheeks dimpled with joy. He lowered one hand down almost to her shoulder in a close notion before he animatedly picked up his hands and began to fervently gesture, telling a story with ease. They were a beautiful picture together. So I looked back at Arthur, full of pride for my team, and I continued with my caveat – the truth that I knew, but that others didn't seem to realize yet. "Whom we now have on our side." Warmly, I looked back at the two of them. "That's a huge advantage," I said without thinking. _I mean that_ _ **Neal**_ _is my advantage._ What Arthur took it as probably read more like 'his skillset is good for the entire department.' "It's not like he was arrested for homicide or anything."

Both of the man's hands went up to stop me. "I know the story," he assured me. "Busted for bond forgery, then the guy breaks out of prison-"

"With only months left on a four-year sentence," I pressed, making sure that he wasn't cherry-picking facts. The full story was that Neal had accepted his sentencing outwardly with grace and been a model prisoner. He only attempted to break out when he thought his sister was being threatened in some way, and he did so without hurting a fly. While slick like James Bond, Neal was also a gem among criminals.

Arthur just scoffed. "Then he's an idiot."

"It was for a girl," I defended, bristling like he'd insulted me personally.

He held out a hand widely towards the two talking at the desk. Neal was sitting on the edge now, his legs crossed. "Looks like he could have his pick."

The insinuation that he wasn't still loyal to the girl he'd been willing to throw away his impending freedom for made me even more agitated, and it was getting hard to conceal that the man was seriously getting onto my nerves. Neal was entirely devoted to Kate. Was it really so hard to believe that he's a good man, just because he decided to forge some bonds that no one even really cared about practically five years after the fact?

"The girl was his sister," I informed curtly. "And Diana is far more interested in taking shots at him whenever the opportunity presents itself." _Let him see that Neal may be playful, but not a womanizer. He's not that kind of person._ This isn't just me talking out of jealousy; it's me being affronted on his behalf at the slight to his integrity. "Kate Moreau is not an issue at the present time."

I was surveyed carefully by the DC agent and thought I may have been getting a little too emotionally invested in what he thought of the criminal in my government-appointed custody. Arthur may have thought exactly that, but he pushed it to the side and nodded once, a gesture of surrender or truce. If this was still a problem for him, then he knew well enough to pick it up later, after advancements had been made. As much as I wanted allies on Neal's side, he wanted to catch the people running his fraud case and ripping people into financial insecurity.

"You've got a tracking anklet on him. How's that work?" He queried instead.

Both of us looked at Neal this time, but more specifically, we looked to his leg. The pant of his slacks on his left leg was pulled up just far enough to see the bulge of his tracker over his socks.

"The anklet itself is tamperproof," I said more calmly. This was a line of questioning I was much, much more used to going through. "Any damage to the device or the strap, and it sends an alert to the US Marshal's office. Does the same thing if he wanders out of his radius. The only exceptions are the most direct routes to this building and my address." I made myself look away from Neal and back up to Arthur, composed back into my professional, ass-kicking, white-collar-crime-investigating persona rather than that of someone who adored her confidential informant a lot more than she should. "I can pull a map on where he's been and when any time." I took a drink of my coffee while I shifted the majority of my weight onto one leg and leaned back onto my other. I pointed forwards at Arthur's chest. "You need someone who can act and charm his way into a high-stakes environment of sharks." It was a high-pressure situation where almost every choice he made would be scrutinized. Not the kind of place to send anyone short of the best, was it? "Neal can do that."

I swear, the criminal had a sixth sense to know when he was being talked about. He came bouncing back up with a couple of paper strips in his hand, about the size of ticket codes. "Got some Rangers tickets, box seats." He looked between Arthur and me encouragingly. "You guys interested?"

Most people would bribe good behavior out of their coworkers with coffee. I bribed mine with anything ranging from gelato to art exhibits to promising not to make him talk about hockey or baseball. There was no way he was doing anything but trying to weasel out of being taken to a sports game. Of course _I_ was the first person he tried to use as an excuse not to go – he found out early on that I'm an ice hockey fan. Nothing quite like alternatingly cheering and wincing as people got the daylights slammed out of them by another player or a weird thing known as a _wall_. The rest was just icing on the cake that was my enjoyment of hockey.

"You realize Diana's using you to get out of going with her girlfriend, right?" I just morally had to make sure he knew that he wasn't the only one using other people in the office. "Christy's a die-hard Rangers fan, and Diana's really not."

Arthur shifted and reluctantly caved in, seeing the huge grin that Neal was wearing and the exasperated way I was talking to him. "Okay," he decided.

Neal (probably deliberately) misunderstood what he was choosing to go along with. Happily smirking his congratulations, he stepped forwards into the personal space of the unfamiliar agent and pushed the hockey tickets into the chest pocket of his shirt. Arthur leaned back, and when Neal moved his hands out of the way, leaving the tickets there, he pulled his blazer together in front of him, rattled by the lack of boundaries.

"Boop!" The conman chirped playfully, bright blue eyes childishly innocent.

I raised an eyebrow at him. "You're overdoing it on the 'cute' thing," I informed him, reaching up to him and sticking my fingers into his hair, messing up the styling job he'd done on it. Immediately, his face fell and he ducked his head, trying to get away from me and comb through his hair himself, working to fix it. He gave me the same wounded look that a hit dog would, and it just made me laugh before I looked at Arthur. He seemed bewildered by the display. In turn, I held up two thumbs.

* * *

I called a session in the conference room to order with seven people in total: myself, Arthur, Neal, Diana, Derek, and a couple of the agents that had accompanied my new pal, Clinton Jones and Jennifer Grafton. It was obvious to see who was on whose side when they all sat down. Neal comfortably chose a seat in the center of one side of the table, and as Grafton made an offhanded comment about recognizing him from somewhere, Derek and Diana swiftly closed rank around him, sitting on either side of him as if just _daring_ any of the three newcomers to say something about Neal's criminal history. It warmed my heart to watch, and from the crooked smirk that hastily covered up Neal's surprise, I guessed it had a similar effect on him. Landry and his two underlings sat together on the opposite long side of the table with Jones in the middle, and I didn't sit down, instead carrying photocopies of the case file Arthur brought with him.

"Welcome, team!" I said, starting off like a pep rally and losing steam as soon as I heard how excited I sounded. "We're off the boring stuff," I added to my agents, tossing down folders in front of each of them. "Quick introductions – Berrigan, Caffrey, and Johnson, these are Landry, Jones, and Grafton. Any problems with each other come straight to me." I looked meaningfully at Arthur's side of the table, making it obvious which problems I thought there might be. I couldn't have anyone else convinced that Neal was trustworthy if we didn't have a strong partnership, and only a bad partnership would let one of them stand by while the other was being badmouthed. Derek flipped open the front cover on his copy of the file and Diana skipped over the preliminary, diving straight into the profiles on the suspects. None of the three from DC bothered to look – they all had been studying it for too long. "Agent Landry has brought us a fraudulent hedge fund con. There's an entire office of roughly a dozen Wall Street-ish brokers selling stocks that turn around and put shareholders in debt."

"People are losing their homes over this," Arthur stressed to the entire table. He was looking at Diana as he said it. I rolled my eyes. _Maybe I should just try to keep these teams separated._ "A guy last month got taken for fifty thousand dollars." Derek opened his mouth and made a sad sound in sympathy, shocked at the amount. Arthur pointed at him to capitalize on his reaction. "He's got three kids and no roof to put over their heads."

"The average victim of this kind of scam loses much less, typically around thirty grand, but those are still really big numbers in a really unethical practice, so this needs to be put to an end." I met Jones's eyes, trying to get a read on the agents I didn't know very well. Jones seemed attentive and respectful, and a little empathetic to what the victims were being put through, but not overwhelmed, and not particularly intrigued. I was comfortable with attributing it to having been on the case longer.

Neal looked up from his copy of the file, which he'd dragged over the edge and into his lap so that he could read it on his knees without being stared at judgmentally for whatever aspect of the papers he was focusing on. "The room's mobile?" He twisted a pen between his hands and twirled it between his fingers, flipping it the other way and going back to pressing it back and forth.

Arthur confirmed it tersely. "They've run this scam four times now. Every time they dump the stock, they pick up and move to another location."

"Who's the guy in charge?"

"That's what we're trying to figure out." Arthur indicated his side of the table. Grafton nodded, her eyes darting up to me and taking credit before she lowered her gaze to the agents who were sitting down at eye-level with her. That was okay; a shy agent could still do her job, and there might be enough competition for attention between Neal, myself, and Arthur all in the same enclosed space.

I cleared my throat loudly. _I'm not done with my debriefing yet, people. Save questions until the end, please._ I sounded like a high school teacher in my head. "Landry's already put someone inside, a female agent undercover. Problem is, whoever's in charge is more than a little, ah, refreshingly sexist," I chose to phrase it carefully, and Grafton scowled. Jones looked at her to see the reaction and shook his head. At least there were some things she was more assertive about. Myself, I sounded very irritated. "And none of the female employees are allowed anywhere near the shares or numbers. Our informant, Madison, isn't getting anywhere."

Arthur pushed his shoe against the carpet, sending his chair slowly rotating on the axis to face the center of the table – more accurately, to face Neal. He stared at my artist intently, waiting to be acknowledged. "That's why we're sending in someone who can. Someone they'll respect, who can hustle with the best of 'em."

It took a minute for Neal to look up from the part on the file that he was reading, and when he did, he did a double-take at all of the agents staring right at him expectantly, either prompting or waiting. Jones was particularly unsubtle, an eyebrow arched and a sassy drumming of his fingers against his coat sleeve while he waited with his arms crossed.

Neal never stood a chance outvoting that party. "I… guess we won't be drawing straws," he chuckled, taking it in stride.

I stepped behind Diana's chair, leaving the front of the room and moving behind Neal. Reassuringly, I lowered my hand to pet his shoulder a couple of times before I left my palm over his jacket, showing the other agents that I was entirely comfortable with my consultant. "For several reasons, we're using your Nicholas Halden alias again," I informed, giving him the opportunity to protest. I doubted he would, but if he had another secret name that was more suited to the task, now would've been the time to tell me about it. "Not the least of which being that he's already been granted federal immunity, and including that since the Chinatown operation, the name's been in New York. It won't look too suspicious."

"Chinatown?" Jones mouthed at Grafton curiously. The female agent kind of shrugged her shoulders without an answer. Derek coughed into his elbow. That case had no relevance here, and as such, it wasn't their business.

Neal leaned back in his chair by pressing his weight against it and he looked up at me. "Well, this should be fun," he drawled.

"Careful, Caffrey," I warned in as alarmed a voice as I could work up to. "Don't get too excited. You might sprain something." My push to the back of the chair made him sit upright again, and he blinked for several seconds. When he opened his eyes, he had on an entirely new attitude that was up to par with the puppyish peppiness he had mastered when he thought he'd cleverly gotten out of a hockey game.

* * *

I pulled up the page on the undercover agent through the bureau's database on my desktop monitor, then waited for the photograph to load while I grabbed the nice gift bag that had been left on top of my desk, waving for Neal to stop hovering by the doorway and to come on in. "Your interview is with a guy named Brad," I told him ahead of time so that he would be prepared. "We've set it up through email correspondence."

"Of course his name is Brad," Neal muttered, looking to the side.

 _What's wrong with that name?_ I wouldn't understand half of the problems that Neal seemed to have with his posh outlook. The gift bag was a sparkling silver bag, about five by eight inches, with a twirling pink ribbon stuck on the front. Inside was bright red and purple tissue paper with a slim silver pen inside, a gift tag wrapped around it with my name and _love, Abby._ Abby was my friend in the forensics lab who had a sense of humor, and I guess this time it was making a legitimate work prop look like a present.

I took the pen out of the tissue paper. It was only a little heavier than a normal ink pen. I used my fingernails to pull at the string that tied the gift tag to the body and loosened it. While I worked on that, Neal's eyes flashed down at the bag with something like irritation, and he vied for my attention again.

"You think I can keep up with these guys?" He asked, lifting his chin and leaning over my desk, moving my nameplate out of the way to give his elbow some room. "Oh, darling, I'm flattered."

"Don't start," I flatly retorted. I got the gift tag off and dropped it down onto my table. "You can talk people in circles and persuade the Amish to buy cell phones." He feigned innocence and held his hand over his heart. "You managed to win over Peter, you can get in with these morons." I rolled my eyes. It shouldn't've been too hard for Neal to act like a misogynistic jackass, but if he brought that role anywhere else, there would be hell for him to pay.

"I wouldn't call them morons," Neal objected thoughtfully. I turned the pen over in my hands. It was cold metal that warmed quickly in my hands and I liked the contrasting temperature.

"You probably shouldn't," I agreed, but smirked. "I, however, am free to do so." I tucked the pen under my middle finger on my right hand and above the rest of my fingers, then leaned on the table with the palm. My left hand pushed the monitor around, twisting it to face Neal to show him the image of the blonde-haired, blue-eyed agent. "This is our insider, Agent Madison Cookler. She won't know who you are, but listen for anything that indicates her cover is in trouble."

Neal looked over her picture to remember her face. "What's her role in all this?"

I wished he hadn't asked and scowled, wrinkling my nose angrily. "The boys' club transfers calls to her after making sales, but all she really gets is consumer information." I sighed loudly. Neal shouldn't have needed to go in, because Madison should've been able to do this on her own. _Sexist pigs_. "Still, she's managed to convey to us what kind of stocks they're looking to inflate. Landry set up half a dozen fronts, and luckily, they bit on Rhymer Pharmaceuticals."

"You've got a tap on every phone in the place?" He asked skeptically, amazed that that had even been possible, considering the nature of the operation. There were entire offices of telephones that the scheme entailed.

I nodded. He didn't need to know the effort that had taken – the more amazed by us he remained, the better. It might make him think twice before doing something illegal next time. "We record every call. The sales are real." People really were going to get hurt. "This helps us to find out which people we may need to talk to, and it should tell us who's orchestrating it."

I picked up my hand from the desktop and switched my wrist back and forth, waving the pen. I held my hand down, let the pen fall, and caught it swiftly to hand to Neal. He took it curiously and turned it over, clicking the top experimentally. The tip descended, filled with black ink.

"For me?" He showed off his cute dimples. "What is it, an anniversary?"

I took the pen back from him. "Don't be smart," I scolded, unscrewing the top and lifting it out of the pen's body. Along with the ink cartridge came a selection of wires and a tiny little device added in. It looked like something from a spy movie. To show him what it did, I pressed a very small button on the side of the chip.

The pen started to play back. _"For me? What is it, an anniversary?"_ Then, in my voice, _"Don't be smart."_

He looked significantly more impressed when I screwed the top half back on and returned it to his waiting hand. "It's a recorder, a tracker, and a transmitter all at once. Also, it's sleek." That would probably make him like it a little bit more. He took the clip and slid the pen into his shirt pocket, clipping it to his pocket. "So keep it on your person at all times."

"I love it," he said, pleased.

"We'll have to cut your anklet…"

"I love it even more!" He grinned widely.

"Don't let Landry hear you say that!" I rebuked sternly. _This isn't a game!_ He shouldn't have been so thrilled to get his anklet cut off for operations when it could've made people think that he would see it as an opportunity. "This is more than just fun, this is _strategic._ " He remembered being locked up behind bars in a boring orange jumpsuit last month, didn't he? There was a reason that had happened. Wasn't the recurrence enough of a motivation to avoid it happening again? "If this is a home run, we get Landry vouching for you as an integral player in the WCCD. If Fowler decides to attack you again, we'll need as many agents on our side as possible."

My jaw kind of hurt from how tense I was when I finished talking. It was stressful to be spending every day at work not just working, but coming up with plans to keep him safe and recruit other agents onto Team Caffrey. Last time, the only people actively working _for_ his case were me, Mozzie, and Peter, and it was a close call.

He kicked back in the chair and surveyed me. "I don't get to see this conniving side of you very often."

I put my hands on my hips. "Fowler thought he could break into my house and screw with my people. He's _wrong,"_ I declared forcefully. "I have a bad feeling you'll have to get more used to it." I lost the wind in my sails and looked down. _Why… why should I have to be conniving just to stay safe? I do my job as a civil servant. Doesn't that earn me at least a sense of security among my coworkers?_

* * *

We sent Neal in armed with his pen and his natural good looks. He took a long elevator ride up while we waited outside and across the street from the front door, all of us ready to go in if we were needed. Derek, Diana, and Jones were all assigned to the surveillance shift with me.

We shamelessly "hazed" Jones into the NYC WCCD by telling him that it was tradition for the newest recruits to buy coffee for everyone on their team. I'm pretty sure he knew we were pulling his leg, because he grinned and said _is that so?_ very knowingly. Diana hadn't faltered in her explanations of why he needed to know where the nearest café was. Like a good sport, though, he came through and bought our orders, and to be nice, I slipped him a ten-dollar bill to pay him back while Diana wasn't looking.

 _"_ _Madison!"_ Someone called to our undercover girl loudly when the elevator doors pushed open and the uncomfortable near-silence, broken only by the mechanics of the elevator shaft, ended as Neal stepped out onto the floor. _"Give me some good news!"_

 _"_ _Two closes, thirty-two hundred shares,"_ Madison told him when she was asked from a little further away.

 _"_ _Yes! That is what I like to hear!"_ The overexcited man talking sounded annoyingly like he was doing fist pumps or jumps while he talked, so it sounded more like _that – is – what – I – like – to – hear!_ A few seconds passed and then he snickered, saying, _"Yeah, don't get your hopes up; I already got dibs on that one._ "

 _"_ _Does she know that?"_ Neal asked, his voice carefully measured on the fence between laughing and serious. I pieced together what had happened pretty quickly and almost wanted to pull the plug on Madison's operation, just to get her out of a place where she was objectified like that. In my time in the blue-collar divisions, claiming "dibs" on a woman without her knowledge and consent usually resulted in rape.

 _"_ _Since when does that matter?"_ He laughed boisterously. Neal made a noncommittal 'heh' as he tried to match the tone and build rapport, but even he couldn't pretend to fully condone that kind of sexist treatment.

"It's a good thing I'm stuck out here," I muttered in complaint so that the red-faced Diana wouldn't have to. She would've used more colorful language, and for all we knew, she might've offended Jones with her very sharp tongue. "I want to strangle him already."

_"_ _I'm Brad. So you must be Nick Halden?"_

_"_ _Guilty as charged,"_ Neal answered. Knowing about his criminal record, Jones thought it was funny and chuckled.

Footsteps resumed as they moved somewhere. _"Hey, your U-5 says you were terminated from Neiman Brothers."_

 _"_ _Yeah, the market crashed,"_ Neal explained, framing it so that he chose to leave rather than had been fired for being bad at the job. _"I wasn't feeling the love."_ It was probably a really not-good thing that when he said that, my first thought was that I clearly wasn't trying hard enough.

_"_ _Oh, and you couldn't find a job working anywhere else?"_

_"_ _Wasn't interested. I want to make some_ _**real** _ _cash."_

Brad sounded upbeat and fun. If he wasn't sexist and partaking in illegal affairs, I probably would have liked the guy – he seemed like a nice boss to have, who would make jokes and treat his employees like friends instead of just hired labor. Thankfully for his job, he also knew how to be serious. _"Listen, our turnover rate is huge. High volume, high money,"_ he added, like an incentive. _"You make sales, you get paid. Don't waste time taking down client information, just – transfer it over to the girls over there. They mop up."_ He giggled. _"It's women's work anyway, right?"_

I looked up from the paper I was lazily drawing on and stared at the recording equipment, the closest thing within reach that was saying such infuriating things. Derek touched my shoulder. "Chill out," he advised. "That pen is not his spine."

I glanced quickly at my female partner, who had taken off her headset and was clutching it with her eyes shut and her hands poised to break it, the muscles in her arms flexing as she fought to forget the remark. "You might want to remind Diana, since she's holding something more expensive to replace."

Neal psyched himself up. _"Yeah, okay. Let's do this!"_ He sounded more like someone getting ready to go play professional sports than someone gearing up to make a phone call.

 _"_ _Hang on a second,"_ Brad stopped him, jovially laughing at his enthusiasm. _"I haven't hired you yet!"_ There was a pause in the dialogue and then Brad said to someone else, _"You, take a break."_ He pulled Neal over. _"Let's start your interview."_

A chair squeaked. _"Want to give me some numbers?"_

 _"_ _Take your pick,"_ Brad invited. There wasn't any sound of paper or a booklet, so the list that Neal was supposed to choose from was probably digital and already on the computer at the desk of whomever had just been given an unscheduled break time.

Neal looked over it for a moment and then slowly said, purely for the benefit of the agents listening in to his conversation, _"This two-one-six area code feels lucky."_

"Two-one-six," I repeated to Derek, not bothering to cover the microphone in front of my mouth. The mic on the headset was turned off, anyway. Derek stood up from his chair and went to a laptop set up on the far left of the equipment table.

"Cleveland," Jones supplied. _Cool, we have our own Rain Man._ Or… maybe he just knew someone who lived in Cleveland.

Derek looked a little surprised, but then nodded towards Jones that he was right. "Getting ready to reroute the call… anybody in particular you want me to send it to?"

I grinned as Derek paused, waiting for a phone number. Keenly, I recited my own. This was one of those chances to be involved. Neal would recognize my voice, but Brad wouldn't, and I was going to make him work for his sale, damn it. With any luck, the call would be sent to Madison to collect my alleged information, and with a few short lines, we would tell her that it was another agent and the deal would be over with.

 _"_ _Come on, Newbie,"_ Brad teased, getting in close to Neal and calling up the number he picked. _"Miss Lauren Annise is waiting on the deal of a lifetime."_

 _Lauren Annise,_ I mouthed to myself, thankful that he'd unintentionally given me the name that went with the number. Taking my phone out of my pocket, I unlocked it and waited for the phone call to come in. In a few seconds, it was. The unlisted number came up on my caller ID as "unknown." I let it ring a couple of times so it wasn't suspicious that I'd been waiting with my phone in hand to answer.

_"_ _What am I selling her?"_

_"_ _The dream."_ Brad made that sound great, but then he realized he had to actually tell Neal what the dream was, and hurriedly added, _"Which, today, is Rhymer Pharmaceutical."_

Deciding it had been long enough for me to feasibly cross the room to get my phone, I accepted the phone call, put on a curious voice, and stood up from the chair to walk around a little further away from the equipment. There wasn't much room, but about half of the van was unoccupied by people, even if we were a little more crowded with an extra person on our team. "Hello?"

 _"_ _Miss Annise?"_ Neal didn't sound surprised, but he probably recognized exactly what I sounded like. We talked on the phone enough.

"This is she," I confirmed, sounding kind of bored now, like I did whenever I got calls from telemarketers wanting to sell me things I didn't want, or other callers who managed to get my phone from an eight-hundred registry to offer me free cruises that just required my credit card information, please.

_"_ _My name is Nick Halden, and I want to be your broker."_

_Really?_ That was the approach he was going with? He _sounded_ confident, but without being able to see his face, any sincerity or friendliness could have also been misconstrued as arrogance, which was a turn-off in a potential business relationship. At least, it was to me. I want someone who knows what they're doing, but who doesn't think they're capable of pulling one over on me. If I had a broker, I wouldn't want them to be tempted to try to pull wool over my eyes and go against my wishes either against my consent or without asking.

"I already have a broker, thanks," I said, making an effort not to sound like I was taunting him for his upfront attempt.

 _"_ _Really?"_ Neal scoffed condescendingly. _"And how's he doing for you?"_ At least the contempt was for my imaginary broker. _"Make any money last year?"_

"No one in this business made any money last year," I said with a roll of my eyes.

Neal disagreed. _"That's just not true!"_ I gave him another few seconds to say something to back up his previous statement. _"If you were with me, you would've netted three percent, and that's_ _ **after**_ _the crash."_

"That seems a little arrogant," I said, tackling him on the trait that was bothering me. Sure, he probably had to adopt it to fit in with the boys already in the scam, but I wasn't going to let it go. This was supposed to sound like a realistic sale, not a lucky pushover. "Coming from a telemarketer who got my phone number from – where, again? Because, see, I don't think I signed up for anything…"

In the background from my phone, I could hear the boys in the boiler room who had stopped their own phone calls to watch the new guy's interview. They were laughing at him when I tried to shut him down. Neal's fingers typed on a keyboard. _"You have an email address? I'll send you my earnings reports right now. Biotech and alcohol went way up, Lauren. I can call you that, right? And tell you what, you can call me Nick, we can make this into a negotiation, and we both walk away happier."_

It was pretty much the same shtick I heard from the few people who called the landline and I answered. "I'm asking again, how did you get my phone number?" I said more firmly.

 _"_ _Your old broker,"_ Neal deadpanned. For all I knew, that was the truth of how Lauren's phone number had ended up on the list that they held. _"He's not smart enough to keep you to himself, is he? What do you do for a living, Lauren?"_

"I'm in architectural design," I decided on the spot.

Of course, the suave liar had a line ready to go in two seconds, specifically fitted for my falsified career. _"Let me tell you, Lauren, if you weren't an optimist, it would be_ _ **impossible**_ _for you to be an architect. Can you tell me who said that?"_

It was just pure dumb luck that I recognized the quote and knew the name of its author. What was his excuse? "That would be architect Norman Foster," I said with a slight smile, letting myself buy into it a little more as Neal somewhat established himself as an educated guy.

_"_ _Yes, it was, and he was right. Have you heard of Rhymer Pharmaceutical?"_

"Doesn't ring a bell," I said, since it didn't officially exist. It was supposedly a small corporation that had barely even started reaching out into the mainstream, along lines like CVS and Walgreens.

 _"_ _Of course not,"_ Neal exclaimed, going with it. _"Your job is to design the buildings that bring life and pride to the cities, and my job is to know about companies like Rhymer_ _ **before**_ _everyone else. You know when you don't buy a stock?"_ Before I could answer, he responded to his own question. _"When your cab driver tells you about it. Now, if you'd known about IBM before the invention of the microchip, would you have bought in?"_

Disregarding that, no matter my salary for the bureau, I would never be in want of money, I envisioned the luxuries that would have come with taking shares in something like Microsoft. "Who wouldn't've?"

 _"_ _Well, Rhymer is poised for a breakout on the same scale. Monday, the FDA will approve them to begin trials on a quantum-confined nanotechnology that has the potential to transform cancer medicines, and I can get you in on the ground floor."_ He was lying through his teeth about everything there. There was nothing in progress and nothing working to pass through trials. Rhymer was an unexciting fictional company with nothing planned, but talking it up was how they got people to buy, only so they could dump them.

In my head, Lauren was a bright girl a few years out of college who may like the idea of getting rich, but who was too ambitious to risk losing her life just to do something that may or may not pan out. "I don't know," I said warily, winking across the van at Diana, who was watching this side of the interview approvingly for that I was making him work for it. "You're starting to sound like an inside trader."

 _"_ _Not at all!"_ He assured me, trying to keep my interest. It was interesting, to say the least, to consider how he was feeling about the hoops I was making him jump through. It wasn't much, but it was kind of satisfying. Could it be considered my calm, petty revenge for getting on my nerves, or was it strictly about making Neal seem like an even more competent and persuasive salesman? _"This is completely legit. Look, I've read over a thousand pages on jargon last week so that I can make intelligent women like you rich at only three bucks a share. Let's start small, okay, Lauren? A thousand shares. I double that for you next week, and then we get really serious."_

Six thousand dollars wasn't serious enough? In the grand scheme of shareholding and stock trading, it was relatively small-fry, but the numbers were still large enough for me to feasibly hesitate. It was a lot of money that could be used on other things if this were a real situation. "That sounds really nice," I said unsurely, brushing him off. "But I think I'll have to wait. My mate's a little more educated on shares and businesses."

Brad loudly snickered on my headset, but he was too far away from Neal to be heard through the weaker microphone on the phone. _"Oh!"_ He thought it was just freaking hilarious. _"Your sale just died, rookie!"_

Neal refused to give up. I recognized that he was probably running out of lines to say to sound good without becoming redundant, so I decided to let him finally win Lauren over. _"Lauren, if you invest with me, the only questions you'll be asking your mate are what kinds of flooring they want, and if they want an indoor or outdoor pool in your new permanent vacation home. Life comes down to a few moments, a few decisions. This is one of them."_

 _Asking my mate?_ Well, I didn't know about Lauren, but my mate's tastes were pretty easy to guess at. The flooring would be the most stately and humble of the more expensive quartile of the selections. He'd probably like an outdoor pool for the view, and preferably on the roof, like June's, so that it was private enough to not be too worried about other people getting onto the property, and I'd like the privacy, too. His idea of the dream vacation home was in the Cote d'Azur. I spoke French, and the place was gorgeous, so I could survive. Maybe I could convince him to let me get a dog. Maybe we could get a balcony or a veranda facing the water-

 _Whoa there._ I stopped myself and then realized that this whole hypothetical situation was taking over my focus and I was getting happy about it. At least this daydream had only lasted a few seconds. Neal didn't even _know_ he was my mate, and I doubted he'd be all too thrilled if he found out. I couldn't move to France; it would be asking for too much family drama, and I had a job here. His dream of moving to the Cote d'Azur involved Kate Moreau. I couldn't get a dog because Katie didn't want to share a home with a dog, and I lived with her to protect her. I love her. We wouldn't move anywhere out of a two-mile radius from June's, even if it was legal or even condonable for us to live together. We weren't going to furnish a house together, and we sure as hell weren't getting a nice house with a pool.

That hook, though – that hook was good. It had worked, it had been convincing, and it made me want. "Damn," I whispered, covering the receiver with my hand and looking around the van in amazement. "He should be illegal." Jones gave me a long look to remind me that, technically, a lot of his hobbies actually were. I uncovered my phone, took a deep breath, and jumped in. "Alright, you've bought me. But let's quintuple it to five thousand shares."

 _"_ _Thank you, Lauren, my girl!"_ Neal crowed. _"I'll transfer you over to one of our secretaries and she'll take your information down, nice and fast."_

I nodded despite him not being able to see and I handed my cell phone to Diana to tell Madison to just let the phone go. I resettled my headphones on correctly so that both of my ears were covered and listened in as Neal transferred the line and looked to Brad for approval. _"Whew. So, how'd my interview go?"_

Practically thrumming in excitement, Brad took a minute to hiss the 'Y' sound in his approval, then burst out with a shout, _"Yes!"_

 _"_ _Yeah?"_ Neal asked smugly.

_"_ _Yes! Yes!"_

Brad was more excited than Neal was. I should've been happy, but instead I just felt kind of saddened. Now that I thought about a nice life in France with my lover, I realized that I might actually like to have that, soulmate or not, and what was I supposed to do? Someone who just enjoys sleeping with her friend doesn't have a daydream of a perfect domestic life in a foreign country, isolated together with a dog and a fence and an ideal home that made both of us feel comfortable and secure. And not only was it a longing that conflicted with what I'd been trying to tell myself for months – it was something that could never happen. … _Could it?_

* * *

I spent way too long listening to Neal smooth talking his way into the heads of the people whose phones he called. Obviously he didn't sell with every call he made, but his pitch was spot-on every time. He was a thousand times better than the telemarketers who had the misfortune of dialing my home phone number. A little confidence and a way with words went a long way. It wasn't exactly dirty talk, but it sure was interesting to lean back and listen to. Derek got bored after the first fifteen minutes, but it remained fascinating in my opinion. Listening to him working his way into their thoughts and convince them to see things differently, persuading consumers that they could buy into the next big thing, picking up on every hesitation and laying it to rest – sure, he was not someone I'd recommend as a therapist, but _damn_ , he'd make a terrifyingly good salesman.

_"_ _Believe me, I wouldn't be giving you this information if I didn't feel confident enough to own a few thousand shares myself."_

I was texting casually with Katie while I listened through the headset, and I'd actually paused to express disapproval, regardless of that he couldn't hear it. It wasn't a direct lie. It was a very intentional insinuation that he also invested with the company he was marketing for without actually saying that he did. Just because he's confident about something didn't mean he was going to try it. For example, I was confident that if I really wanted to, I could learn to shred on a skateboard. Didn't mean I was going to do it.

 _"_ _What do you mean, you don't invest over the phone?"_ Neal boldly sounded outraged. _"Look, the Cuban Missile Crisis was solved with a phone call! We have to move on this right now!_ "

Kate had had to go to instruction time with her miniature humans, and that left me playing Sudoku on my phone for something to occupy my hands and brain with other than Neal's voice and picking out all the loopholes and implications he deliberately fostered. He was scarily good at that.

_"_ _You don't get rich buying into a high market. The market is down. What do you need, an engraved invitation?"_

I went back to playing Mahjong at this point, and Derek had traded off a shift with Jones. Jones was polite and brought coffee, having asked what my usual order was from Diana. I decided that I liked Jones. Jones was alright in my book, which was the strongest opinion I'd formed on any of the DC agents thus far. Jones pulled on a headset to listen while I told Diana that I'd go ahead and take her shift in the van if she wanted to finish filling out a report I knew was due sometime soon and then head home to Christy. She was very thankful and made sure I knew it before I got to go back to my Mahjong game and suffer the indignity of repeatedly having to restart the level to get the perfect star score.

 _"_ _You want the good things in life, what are you going to do? Work harder? No!"_ Neal huffed. I rolled my eyes. That sounded less like a sales pitch and more like his personal motto! _"You're going to invest smarter."_

I was careful to not let my thoughts on his convincing performance undercover drift into the territory reserved for outside of work. On top of everything else, I didn't need an insecurity spiral again – at least, not until this case was over. Whoever was running the scheme sure wanted to get all that they could out of it, making the guys work later than most companies were open. I looked at the time at the top bar of my iPhone and settled in for the start of a new hour, drinking up some sad water that was only half-chilled before considering the merits of sending Jones out again with a ten-dollar bill and instructions to the nearest coffee place.

* * *

 _"_ _If you double down next week,"_ Neal coaxed on the transmitter, _"The college tuition's going to be covered…"_

I took my headphones off. My ears were hot and it was starting to mess up my hair, since I kept having to readjust them every time the band over my head slid forward or backwards, depending on how I sat. "Ah, how much longer?" I asked Derek, stretching my jaw painfully open in a long yawn, letting my eyes half-close as I leaned back in my seat as far as I could. "I'ss jus' sales," I finished, garbled by my yawn. I held up my headphones so that both were close to one ear but I didn't put them back on just yet.

 _"_ _Now you're starting to talk like a smart investor!"_ Neal sounded proud and confident, both things that someone would want to hear from their broker. Neal's voice got dramatically lower. _"Look, this is a stepping stone to your first million. … Alright! I appreciate your business."_

Just as the line clicked while Neal hung up with the previous client, someone else started talking. This one was actually understandable, within the vicinity of the recording pen in his shirt. _"Come on, Crazy Eight,"_ Brad's voice from earlier laughed and it sounded like someone's shoulder or arm was smacked. _"Let's go."_

 _"_ _Crazy Eight?"_ Neal repeated dubiously, sounding less than ecstatic with his new nickname.

 _"_ _No?"_ Brad questioned, a little bit disappointed.

 _"_ _Eh,"_ Neal shrugged, not wanting to be the guy that hurt the other's feelings.

Brad got over it really quickly. Neal shouldn't have worried; the guy was like rubber. _"You land close to eight whales in one day, you can buy your own nickname,"_ he decided carelessly. Much louder, he yelled, _"Time to hit the bars!"_ and I winced at the noise right next to my ear.

The cheering that commenced wasn't too bad; Brad was a lot closer to the tiny microphone than any of the others were, so while I could tell that they were being loud, they sounded almost the same volume as Neal's voice when he was just talking normally.

Derek and I listened and waited with boredom while Neal and Brad talked back and forth, a mix of happy, friendly banter with a splash of commentary like 'let me grab this/that' before they were hanging up their phones for good for the rest of the work day. The other people got louder at one point, too, like Neal had started to join them, but before long, he was stopped and separated, and the happy people about to go get drunk and hit on some poor women trailed out of range of the pen and left Neal alone with Brad. Well, I assumed he was alone with him, anyway.

 _"_ _We're not going with them,"_ Brad informed, keeping Neal back.

_"_ _Why not?"_

Brad paused for just a moment. _"He wants to meet you."_ The initial hesitation had made me concerned that maybe something bad was going to happen, but I relaxed when I heard the excitement in Brad's tone. He didn't seem like he was clever enough to pull off sounding that sincerely keen if he was actually going to take Neal somewhere dangerous.

Of course, Neal had no idea who he was talking about. _"Who?"_

 _"_ _The man behind the curtain!"_ Brad must've been physically lit up with awe.

The van had been quiet while we listened, worried about what was going on and who wanted a word with our CI on his first day as an insider. There were always a lot of nerves on the first day of an undercover operation. What if the performance wasn't convincing? Would the mark refuse to take the bait? Would they lash out and do harm? What if someone or something outed the real identity? Hearing Brad's _Wizard of Oz_ joke, though, just made me feel good enough about the situation to make one of my own.

"They're off to see the wizard, Toto!" I chirped, putting on a falsetto.

Derek didn't think it was nearly as funny as I did. In fact, he thought it was so not funny that he gave me a hard shove that resulted in me falling all the way off of my chair and landing on my thigh and hands on the floor of the van. _It was worth it._ I giggled.

"If Caffrey goes out of range, we'll lose his audio." Derek adjusted the volume on the headsets, and although I had dropped mine when he gave me that hilarious push, he still had both of his on.

"It's okay," I giggled, sitting up on my knees and brushing myself off. "He's still recording." I resisted another yawn and pulled the back of my hand over both of my eyes. "I think it's time we called it a night and went home, anyway," I decided. "Their work day is over. I'll stay up and aware until I know he's out, but there's nothing suggesting that he'll need us."

* * *

It felt wrong to be going home while unsure what was up with Neal, but nothing could be done to keep an ear out for him while he was out of range, anyway. And if there was an emergency, then I contented myself with knowing for a fact that my personal phone was one of his speed dial options. I didn't need to think he trusted me to know about everything with Kate or his cons to know that he trusts me to get him out of trouble if he calls. At this point, it was just silly to think that I wouldn't; especially after the stunts I pulled getting him out of trouble with the _Le Joyau_ thing.

Kate had gone upstairs to work in her bedroom. There wasn't really a curriculum for pre-kindergarteners the way that public schools have, but she did like to give homework sometimes to give them a head start. She wasn't asking them to do calculus and write essays on ecology, but she liked posing them with the same seriousness as school assignments to get them used to it in advance. As such, she graded them. It was usually ten to twenty simple questions with counting or identifying shapes, she graded them with percentages (rather than with letters), and the kids who got one hundreds on their homework were given a choice between a couple pieces of miniature-sized candies as motivation. They were young enough for it to work in encouraging them to work harder. She went upstairs, put on a shuffle of iTunes songs from _Glee,_ and started grading about twenty minutes ago, leaving me to the entire downstairs to do as I pleased.

While Kate graded midgets, I "graded" Neal in a report to the US Marshals and Hughes. It wasn't really a report card, just verification that yes, he was doing the work he was assigned, I was checking and signing off on everything so it was all legit, and he was staying within his radius and not getting up to anything suspicious. At six months into his sentence, it had been starting to loosen up, but then Fowler decided to frame him for a prolific crime, and now the Marshals were breathing down my neck about punctual feedback again.

 _Eh._ It gave me something to do besides watching _New Girl,_ although Zooey Deschanel remained playing in the background. I could hear the television louder than the muffled strains of Mark Salling and a guitar.

My ringing phone triggered a yawn, and I set down my pen and picked up the television remote, pausing Netflix while I took the call. Briefly, I glanced at the caller ID, relaxed again, and unfolded from the couch, stretching my legs out along the length of the cushions. "Hey, pal," I said, voice ringing with the pleasure of a luxurious stretch.

 _"_ _I got the man behind the curtain."_ He sounded like he was smiling. His tone was the one that went with the proud, _look what I did_ expression. _"Did you hear it?"_

Far be it from me to discourage him from being proud of his (legal) accomplishments, but I actually hadn't, and there was no way that I could have. "No," I said, slightly apologetic so he'd know that I wasn't intentionally raining on his self-satisfied parade. "You went out of range, so your discussion with the Wonderful Wizard of Oz was not monitored by the bureau." Unknown to him, I made a face and rubbed over my hip, unwittingly reminding myself of the abuse I'd suffered the last time I made a joke about that movie.

Neal was not deterred. _"His name is Avery Phillips, and I've got the whole thing recorded on my pen."_

"Okay." Not being an idiot, I could tell that he wanted to talk about it in more detail. Using my sense of responsibility, I convinced myself to get off of the couch. Standing on my toes and arching my back, I added unsurely, "I guess, um, meet me in my office in forty minutes, and I'll bring food."

 _"_ _I'm in your neighborhood. Why don't we meet at your place?"_ Neal asked, now the one who sounded like he wasn't entirely certain about what he was saying.

"Mine?" I repeated. Sure, his anklet was programmed to let him come see me now that it had become evident it was impossible to discourage him from visiting, but it was a pretty late hour. In spite of his lack of concern about _my_ boundaries, he tended to be respectful towards Katie's, and he rarely came over when it was dark in case she was sleeping. My eyes slid towards my front door and I raised my eyebrows. Of course, it was entirely possible that there was a _reason_ he was quick to suggest it.

He didn't give me the correct explanation, but airily went on, _"It's a little late for the plain bureau walls."_ A shadow moved outside the window in the top panel of the front door and passed along the floorboards. I shook my head and headed in that direction. _"And you have a much larger kitchen."_

"You're on my porch, aren't you?" I asked knowingly, undoing the doorknob lock and the deadbolt before I pulled it open. Neal stood right outside on the mat, hat askew to one side stylishly while he smiled sheepishly, his phone still to the side of his face. I hung up the call from mine and then looked back up to his eyes affectionately, reaching up to flick the brim of his fedora in reproach.

* * *

"Here's some coffee," I said through a tired yawn, carrying a mug in each hand. I set down a coffee cup from _Café Du Monde_ in front of Neal while he fiddled with the recording pen and then pushed the other carefully across the table towards my place.

"Thanks, Kenna," he said, inhaling the steam and scent deeply, his eyes shutting for a minute.

I patted his shoulder. "Uh-huh," I noted dryly, taking the chair next to him along the long side of my kitchen table. Giving myself a minute to get comfortable, I sank down deep in the chair and stretched out my calves, a pleasant burn itching through my legs as I reached for the chairs under the table at the other side. "Okay, you can play it back."

Neal unscrewed the top of the sleek pen with deft fingers and pulled out the ink canister. He felt softly around it with the pads of his fingers before he found the depression in the mechanism. I presumed he clicked it, because then the pen started to play back. The volume was still surprisingly loud for such a small thing.

 _"_ _That's him?"_ Neal asked in the recording. The next voice the pen picked up on was that of another guy – Brad, I guessed, from what I remembered from listening to him talk to them live in the surveillance van. _"That's Avery. Guy on the left? He's the youngest guy to have a seat on the New York stock exchange."_

"Good!" I worked up the energy to smile at Neal. He was focused on the pen and didn't see it, so I shook my head to knock away the fondness and concentrated on the pen again. "It worked…" It was always nice when something went to plan.

"Are you surprised?" The artist asked, arching his back outwards and stretching his arms over the table leisurely before he settled back in his chair, subconsciously mimicking my position.

 _No, not really, but you never know._ "It's nice to know there wasn't a glitch," I answered halfheartedly while the pen continued to prattle in the background.

Brad and Neal had stopped talking in favor of waiting for the men to come out of the other room. Their voices were picked up by the bug, but only very faintly, and it was impossible to tell what they were saying. We still listened to the recording anyway, because I hadn't been there and I had to be responsible and listen to the entirety of the conversation.

Before the talking started again, Neal threw his head back with a bored sigh. "I'm going to go rummage through your drawers and steal your most precious belongings," he wryly informed me, starting to stand up and using the table as a brace.

I started to play along calmly without missing a beat. "There's a twenty-one karat in one of my dresser drawers that I haven't worn since I was a kid, you could probably pawn it for some money," I offered.

I think Neal was more surprised than even I was. He did a double-take. "Wait, what?"

I blinked. "What?" I feigned cluelessness.

Slowly, Neal just brushed it off, hesitating to believe I wasn't going to jump on him for his joke. I knew him better than that. If he was going to put something over on me, he wasn't going to tell me about it first. "I was kidding," he asserted, passing the pen to me so that I could keep listening. "I need the bathroom."

Nodding in understanding, I pointed with my other hand to the hall. "You know where it is."

For living in New York, Kate and I have a very nice house. We have a spacious downstairs with a guest bathroom on the first floor, and the second story has both of our large bedrooms with queen-sized beds, another bathroom, an ensuite bathroom attached to my master bedroom, a space we'd converted into a home office, and a guest bedroom with a twin-sized bed and a pull-out mattress underneath the frame. Typically our house guests are Derek or Diana, and one of us will leave our bedroom doors open so that they don't have to go all the way downstairs just for the bathroom.

The voices started from the pen about twenty seconds after Neal stood up, and I gave it my rapt attention. Avery came to meet the two men and Brad introduced them. Avery complimented Neal on his impressive sales and Brad invited Avery to go with them to their party. Avery agreed, but the moment was interrupted by tension when Neal questioned the working relationship Avery had with the other man in the room, noting how they'd seemed pretty frosty. Avery coolly told him not to worry about it, but commended his bravery in asking.

I picked myself up from the kitchen chair and padded over to the doorframe, looking up and down the hallway in search of Neal to see if he had come back yet. That had been a risky move, but it would have paid off for the character he was trying to take on. Neal was stationary right in front of a photograph framed on my wall, bending down a bit to look at it straight-on. Kate had been the one to hang it, so it was at her eye-level.

"I'll be damned…" he whispered faintly.

It was surprising that he was so stunned by a photograph. It wasn't new; he'd probably looked at it a dozen times before, with the amount of times he'd come strolling on into my house without waiting for permission. It was framed in a simple brown rectangle with a thin sheet of glass over it. The picture was of Kate, Diana, Derek, and I, all dressed up fancy but having fun. We'd been obligated to go to the event, and luckily, it hadn't been as intolerable as we'd thought.

"It was a commendation dinner last year," I edified quietly, preserving the peace in the household. Katie was probably fast asleep by now and dreaming about sunsets on beaches and soulmates or something cheesy like that. "Everyone was supposed to have a date, so Derek and I took Katie and Diana."

At the time, Derek and I had been the only agents of our group. Derek had taken Katie because he didn't know Diana, and I brought the curious trainee with me as my date. Diana had still been in the FBI Academy at the time. Derek was wearing a tuxedo with a bowtie and he stood behind Kate, one arm around her middle with a decent space between his arm and her breasts. She was wearing a pink dress that came to her knees with an empire waist with a thin layer of purple glitter embedded in the fabric, hair done in a French braid. Her hair hadn't been streaked yet. Diana's dress was natural, forest green and earthy brown hues smoothly blended together, while mine was a Basque-styled gown of dark blue with a matching shrug. The women all wore makeup and jewelry, but Diana hadn't done anything special with her hair – it hadn't gotten long enough to braid and it was short enough to leave down – and I had curled mine.

"You've known Diana a while?" Neal was staring very hard at Diana and me in particular. Diana had golden hoop earrings, a pearl necklace almost as tight as a choker, and a set of golden and pink bangles. I had on swirling spiral earrings from a trip to Europe, a chain necklace with a crystal pendant, and a ring from the bureau on my right hand. Diana and I were posing facing the camera, Diana's chin on my shoulder and her arms around my waist, while I had one arm touching where her hands were linked on my stomach and the other was reaching behind me to her thigh.

"I requested for her to work under me," I admitted freely. It wasn't a secret by any means. I had liked Diana since I met her, and she had shown promise, so when she expressed interest in white-collar crime, I had taken her under my wing. If I was going to be relegated to the division, then I would damn well have good agents. "I go to academy training events sometimes to keep up with everything they're teaching, or just to kill time. I met her there before her probationary employment began." He was a little _too_ still. "Are you okay?"

He finally looked away from the photograph. "Never been better," he replied, forcing a smile onto his face. It really did look forced. It was one of the few see-through smiles I had ever seen on his face. It worried me – what was the big deal about the picture?

I couldn't ask, because he turned his back to me and kept going down the hallway towards the bathroom. Had he seriously spent the last few minutes just staring at the image? I turned my eyes back to the frame.

"Hmm…"

What was it? What bothered him about me and Diana, specifically? Was he jealous? That wouldn't've made much sense – although he's made it pretty obvious in the past that he isn't fully content with being friends-with-benefits. _Shouldn't he remember that Diana has a girlfriend?_ _Shouldn't he trust that I'd have told him before fucking him if I was also in another sexual relationship?_ And whether or not Diana and I were intimate before I met him shouldn't matter, because I didn't know him. You can't cheat on someone you don't know and you can't be jealous over a relationship someone had before you met them. That's like being pissed that your girlfriend isn't a virgin – just because they had sex with someone else doesn't mean the sex they have with that person means any less.

The only other thing I could see him being reasonably concerned about was health, but I got regularly tested for STDs as a precaution, made even more necessary since I get so much blood on my hands in my work – whether it's mine or someone else's, I touch a lot of blood when I investigate murders. I don't investigate those exclusively anymore, but… I still get it done to be safe.

So what the hell was his problem with my photograph?

* * *

Partly due to Neal's late-night visit but also in part because of my poor sleeping habits, I didn't get to rest for very long before my alarm went off and I had to go back into the office. I sent Neal a text asking if he wanted me to pick him up on my way, but half an hour later, I hadn't gotten a reply. It was unlikely that he was still asleep, so I assumed he was in the shower, shrugged, and went about my business, eating breakfast, grabbing my keys, and fastening the holster of my gun onto my belt.

There was a reason I hadn't gone into business. I hated all of the sales talk when it got past the telemarketers and into the stats, but looking into their records and history was part of the job. It was going to be the key to finding illicit activity. Inconsistencies and oddities tended to be the biggest leads that white-collar crimes had, aside from eyewitness accounts, which were less common. I sat up as straight as I could while poring over stacks of bank activity and sales histories on the people that Avery represented. Already I wished I was back in the surveillance van, listening to Neal do his advert pitches. That was far more entertaining, and my brain had never stuttered to a stop during that. I'd also not needed Google to look up a term I wasn't aware of.

Speaking of, I was using a website I'd found through Google to explain the relationships in the GPCTBA criteria and murmuring the words that they stood for while I looked back at the paper I was holding up, looking between screen and file. _Field work beats this any day._

A knock on my door was followed by it being pushed open. I didn't have to give them permission to come in, which meant it was either Hughes, Derek, Diana, or Neal. It turned out to be the fourth option when I looked up, and I brightened immediately. My consultant always made things a bit more entertaining. Dropping the paper, it fluttered down to its place in its folder and I reached up to my face, pulling my hair out of the way and forcing it back behind my ears. I smiled at him.

"Find anything?" Neal asked, standing by the door and not coming in further. He left it ajar behind him.

Normally, he'd have sauntered in and abused my furniture, sitting on the edge of my desk or leaning back in the other chair to kick his feet up, so I looked him over carefully to make sure he was okay. He wasn't injured, and he wasn't holding himself any differently – aside from the obvious distancing from me – so I dismissed it as nothing. _It's just an office. There doesn't need to be a deeper meaning to where he chooses to stand in my office._

"I'm not sure. Avery is completely credible on paper, all legitimate and licensed and all that." I made a face to convey exactly how little I enjoyed 'all that.' Then I stood up from my desk chair to warm up my stiff legs, felt a twinge in my right calf as I stood on my toes, threw my arms over my head, and stretched. "According to all documents, we have nothing on him. But the mystery partner, that's less of a mystery." I'd taken a post-it note and stuck it to the side of my desktop monitor with the name on it. "He has a brokerage firm with a man named Daniel Reed. Reed is more than ten years older than Avery, but they've had the partnership for six years."

I bent over and closed up the folder I was looking at on – _oh, Jesus, I don't even care anymore._ Pushing it to the side, I found the one beneath it on Reed, opened it up to the front, and showed him the profile picture laminated in a glossy sheen. Neal lifted his head to look at it but didn't come any closer to the desk than he had to in order to see clearly. "I saw them arguing. They're the partners," he confirmed for me.

"Makes sense." At least that explained how they met and what their basis was on knowing each other. Judging by what I'd heard on the pen's recording when Neal tried asking about their argument, Avery had seemed very tense and tight-lipped about whatever was causing the rift. "They may be partners on paper, but they don't trust each other."

"Sounds pretty par for the course," Neal commented, making a point – you don't become a scam company by trusting other humans.

"I looked them up on FINRA. They're getting profits better than most firms, but I think Avery's done the boiler scheme before with Reed." I tapped the top of the photograph. "This time, according to the recording of Brad, it's just Avery working on his own. If that's true, then he's pushing out Reed with the intention of cutting him out of the profits." Avery was trying to play a dangerous game, considering that Reed could leave him in the dust without warning if he caught wind of the plan first. If either one of them took their stock and then dropped the company they were raising shareholders for, the rest would be left with useless money in a lot of disadvantageous places with incredibly difficult questions to answer. I crossed my arms, looking at Neal expectantly for an idea. Now that we knew what was going on, it was kind of his turn to do some of the lifting and tell me what he thought could be done to take them out.

He looked calculating, alright… but a lot less warm than he usually was. "So let me wrap my head around this for a second…" He folded his arms over his chest tightly and stared right at me across the table. _Am I missing something?_ On the surface, his voice was casual – but his enunciation suggested anger, and the inflection was harder and cautious. I frowned and my posture changed. "Let's just say I'm Reed, and you're Avery. I trust you. You're trying to screw me." I bit my tongue on a dirty-minded quip about the differences between trying and succeeding. "Why?"

 _Okay, definitely missing something._ I dropped my arms and put my hands out flat on the desk. I didn't know what else I could do to seem more submissive, besides sitting down or breaking eye contact, neither of which I was willing to do. Whatever his glitch was, I couldn't let him think that some well-hidden fury and very intentional, if roundabout, questioning was enough to make me step down to him. I didn't want this to escalate. I also couldn't let him think that either of us was allowed to bully or intimidate the other.

"Money," I said simply. That was the entire point of the case, right? If Avery was using both his resources and his partner's, then by cutting out Reed from the profits, he got to reap more in his own interest. Money was a motivator for a lot of things.

He narrowed his eyes. "It's that simple?"

I very slowly pushed my shoulders up. "It usually is, in cases like this," I made sure to specify. Money wasn't a good incentive for me – although I make the decision not to live like it, all I have to do is make a couple of phone calls to have my assets released, and I could be living much better than anyone else on a government salary. Neal didn't know that. I doubted Mozzie did, either. The issue was – if he was taking this _so_ seriously, did he realize that my answers were hypothetical?

"So you manipulate your friends and the people around you, all to get at me." His question was phrased with defeat and offense, and Neal's cutting blue eyes refused to look away from me. I wished I could have a reprieve, just to collect my thoughts and figure out exactly what the _fuck_ I had done to make him so angry. We'd been fine the other day.

"All to get at you," I echoed uneasily. The hair on the back of my neck was standing up and I was beginning to think that I should put a stop to the hypothesizing. It was never supposed to make anyone feel like they were in trouble, and I couldn't remember a time when I had _ever_ felt unsafe around Neal. Even when he was in a prison jumpsuit and chains, the guard had only been there on policy and protocol. Now I was paying attention to my peripheral vision, keeping watch for anyone outside of my office who could come inside and interrupt. Being alone with my consultant had never been so daunting, and as staggering as it was on principle, the context of my relationship with him made it even worse. _I should've picked up on this sooner._

He scoffed quietly and finally, _finally_ looked away from me, down to the table where he stared, shaking his head subtly. "And I never saw it coming," he muttered.

 _This is insane!_ I shouldn't feel the need to send an SOS to another agent just because my consultant is pissed off. It had never occurred to me until now that I'd never seen him really get angry at me. I wished it had stayed that way. Nonviolent or not, there was no longer any question that it was absolutely _not_ because he couldn't be frightening. I stepped around my desk slowly, reaching out for him and trying not to show that I was starting to feel afraid. "Are you okay?" I asked, worried for both of our sakes.

As soon as I touched his arm, he wrenched his shoulders away and stepped back from me. My fingers curled into a fist and I dropped my hand back to my side. _Touching is clearly not going to fix this, then._ Neal had always been more tactile with me than most other people, and as such, he tended to be less concerned about personal space, so refusing to let me touch him felt like a rejection.

"This is theorizing, not acting." Even as I figured out what to say, I knew that the best approach to diffuse the situation and feel safe again wasn't going to be telling him that he was behaving strangely. Posing it like I thought he was playing it up was both telling him that he wasn't being very subtle and avoided directly calling him out on something he may not want to talk about right away. "You don't have to look so intense."

"Oh, I'm _fine._ " He offered me a faux smile. Instead of being attractive, it just reminded me of a shark, and I kept my distance. "Believe me," he continued icily. "I understand everything now."

I bit my tongue between my molars and looked to the window. I saw Derek passing by on the mezzanine and waved to get his attention, then made gestures with my hands for him to get an assembly of the team working on the case. New information needed to be shared, and I needed an excuse to get Neal and myself back in a public forum before any bombs went off.

_What the hell is going on?_

* * *

Sometimes I wished that the bureau allowed us to stand on desks while we addressed people. Unless it was an emergency situation, that was frowned upon. Very strongly. By Hughes. So I learned my lesson the first time. That didn't mean I didn't wish that I could have had a higher vantage point to look out and talk to the people I was working with with some more clarity and ease of conversation.

I clapped my hands a few times above my head, hard enough for my palms to sting for a few seconds. I got the attention of most of the agents in the unit. Most of them stayed where they were but turned their bodies and/or heads, but a few decided to walk towards me. I set up shop on the first stair up on the mezzanine, holding onto the railing with one of my hands.

"Guys, we know who we're after." I did a victorious, but short-lived, fist-pump in the air. "I think right now we need to focus on Avery. He's the one currently raking up the benefits, and he's responsible for the cons we're looking into." He may not take sole responsibility, but he was definitely one of the culprits. "What we need is the proof." I looked around meaningfully, especially at the agents who were specifically assigned to work on this case as part of my team. This would be part of their responsibility. "A paper trail, or a wire tracing the money he's making when he deflates the shares."

"Can we get the boiler room's books?" Derek asked at a normal volume. Since it was so quiet while everyone listened to me, it was easy for everyone to hear him, and I addressed the question quickly.

"Best not to," I said before anyone thought to try to go through the channels to ask. "Once we make that request, either through Neal or through the bureau, Avery will freak and close up shop. Our op's gone kaput, and he still doesn't pay for it."

 _Speaking of Neal…_ I looked around the room for my criminal. I was glad that I wasn't alone with him – and that made me feel like the worst person in the world to even think to myself – but I wanted to keep tabs on where he was while he was acting strangely, and there he was, off to the side of the room, leaning against the wall and staying away from the agents of the bureau. I met his eyes, but instead of the warm kindness or facetious insolence or even the playful impishness, his gorgeous sapphires just looked cold and mean. His irises even looked like they'd turned a little bit lighter in color.

Diana ripped my concentration away from my unnervingly apathetic consultant before I could get too distracted by my own concern – both for myself and for Neal. "We've already given them a company that they think they're exploiting. What if we set up another insider to exploit them?"

Diana _would_ suggest that – she appreciated the karma.

I grinned at her and pointed eagerly. "I'm always down for exploitation of criminals!" I joked. I liked to exploit my knowledge of Neal to elicit various responses, ranging from laughter to lectures to mild agitation, and I certainly enjoyed exploiting sensual knowledge of him in a more private setting.

"I bet," Neal said, glaring, just loud enough to be heard.

I faltered, but then chose to ignore him – at least for a minute. Our problem needed to stay between us, _especially_ during the middle of a case, for God's sake, even if the problem had just decided to appear out of nowhere. "Explicate," I told Diana.

"Let's say that, theoretically, the CEO of Rhymer Pharmaceuticals is onto the scam, so he walks into Avery's office with a proposal: earning reports and a share of the illegitimate profits in exchange for silence." Diana set up and held her hands out as if in suggestion.

Derek nodded to Diana. "If we play it right and make the history believable, it'd fly." I could see them both gaining steam. Now that they were on this, I'd need a damn good reason to talk them out of it – thing was, I didn't have a good reason, and I could see Derek taking care of himself in the mission. "The question is, who do we send in?"

Neal spoke up again, this time louder than before. "How about McKenna?" He suggested pointedly, looking straight at me as he spoke rather than to Derek, who had asked the question.

Going undercover was usually my favorite part, but here it seemed like it would be a bad idea for two reasons – the larger one being that Neal and I obviously couldn't trust each other to play our respective counterparts if we couldn't even be trusted to be left alone in the same room.

For the public who was listening in, I offered the alternative rationale behind my reluctance to jump straight in the way I usually did. "Probably not," I winced to him, trying to look as if it had just been a normal suggestion – like when he'd wanted me as his undercover partner rather than Taryn. "We already know he doesn't exactly see women as equal, so he may think I'm bluffing if I threaten to go to the police." _I don't usually bluff about the big guns, but…_ "Which I actually would be, in this case."

"That just makes it better." I let out a breath and looked straight at Neal. _Why would he put me in this position? What had I done to piss him off between now and twenty-four hours ago?_ Neal had an eyebrow arched. The little bastard was challenging me. "He doesn't attribute the right intelligence to you, he thinks he can screw you, too, and he lets you in. You look like someone I could trust."

I rubbed my temple and sarcastically thought a thank you in his direction, opening my mouth to say something to Derek or Diana or even the entire bullpen at large just to get out of this awkward situation. A couple of murmurs met my ears and they were undoubtedly about Neal's frosty behavior.

"But I'd also believe you could be bought," Neal kept going without the sense of knowing when to stop. "For the right price. If you played it right, I mean." He shrugged like he didn't really put much stock in what he was saying, but I knew better. I shut my eyes and breathed, trying my damn hardest not to say something to him right there, call him out in front of all of the agents and force him to either make a scene or humiliate himself by telling him to apologize to me and treat me with the respect I deserved as his handler and his supervising agent. Shoving him down into his place like that sounded appealing to my ego, but not to the larger part of me that knew better than to exercise my authority for the sole purpose of satisfying my pride.

When he seemed to be done being a little bitch, I opened my eyes again and looked to my agents, commanding them. _Fine._ Neal wanted to see me go undercover and reel in Avery? I'd go undercover and prove that I was just as fan-fucking-tastic at my job as I ever was. I can do my job with or without him, and I certainly don't need to prove my integrity to a God damn _conman._

"Derek, activate an alias. Diana, you make a background." I sought out the agents I didn't know as well and found Landry standing next to Grafton, having been having a conversation with her before I called for everyone's attention. "Landry, check in with Madison." I made shooing motions with my hands. "Everyone else, back to work." I jumped off of the mezzanine steps so they'd be certain that was where the group discussion ended and stalked across the floor to Neal.

I burned in humiliation. I wanted him to feel the way I felt. Usually when he stung my ego, I would take it out on him either through remarks about his taste in careers or in the bedroom, with a little extra roughness – nothing that hurt him, and nothing that he ever led me to believe he didn't like, just scratching at his back a little more, pulling his hair a little harder, kissing with more force and dominance. This, though – all but saying he thought I would go corrupt – was a line that he had _never_ crossed. He had _never_ insulted my dignity or my pride as an agent. _Never._ And now that he had, it was a _much_ more serious offense than publicly commenting on my caffeine addiction or my temper or anything else that was small scale and didn't really matter, but that was a little embarrassing or annoying to be called out on nonetheless.

This wasn't something I could keep to levels of smartass-ery or exert with rough sex. This was much more serious – and I wasn't the only one extremely pissed off. If I waited to demonstrate my anger in bed, then we'd probably be doing less sex and more assault.

I stepped right in front of him, moved intimidatingly into his personal space, and lifted my chin to look right into his eyes. "I've been trying to let you straighten out your attitude, but I think we have a problem," I growled lowly, breathing heavily.

Neal cocked his head and a slow, patronizing smile grew on his face. "Why would there be a problem?" He asked, pretending to be oblivious. "I'm just excited to see you go undercover. It doesn't happen very often."

It stung that he wouldn't get to say that if it weren't for… well, _him._ Before Neal was around, before we had our own professional con artist, _I_ had been the go-to liar, the go-to performer. I had loved it. Then Neal came, and suddenly the bureau decided that I wasn't worth as much as an undercover agent anymore, and one of few parts of my demoted job that I actually enjoyed was all but taken away and reassigned. And I had never made a fuss about it, never complained to Neal, because I didn't want him to feel bad.

And then he had to go and say something like that, in a context where he'd deliberately trying to poke wounds.

"It used to happen a lot more before I took your custody," I heatedly hissed, still trying to at least maintain a fictitious semblance of privacy in the argument.

"Why did you stop? Too busy with other commitments?" He asked, looking at me intensely.

_Yeah – namely, keeping you alive through yours!_

I hated to admit it and I felt the tears rising in my eyes, but I tried to hold back the pressure and get through it. I didn't want to give him the satisfaction of seeing me cry. I hadn't let myself be sad about losing that part of my job, hadn't gotten around to it yet, and now he was shoving it in my face. "You're a bit more qualified as a hustler and liar than I am," I said with as much venom as I could. "And most supervisors would rather see me stuck behind a desk, for reasons I'm not sure I want to tell you when you're acting like I've betrayed you." I kept my fists balled at my sides, but I really wanted to poke him very hard in the chest. I refrained, but only because I didn't think I'd be able to remember to uncurl my fist first. "I don't know what's going through your head, but get it out _damn_ fast. We've already been through this phase and it got old a long, _long_ time ago!"

* * *

To say that I was entirely prepared for my first meeting with Avery would be a lie. Having Neal in the same vicinity… it, ah, _complicated_ my usual approach. The obvious sexism meant that I had one almost certain in, and that was sexual appeal mixed with threat. I highly doubted I'd get anywhere with Avery if I dressed in a pantsuit, so I dolled up with Diana's help and owned the outfit, walking around a little bit at the office to get used to it. I used the elevator ride to perfect my balance in grey suede stiletto boots.

I looked at myself in the reflection of the shiny elevator interior and pursed my lips, painted dark red like blood. My face looked healthily tanned and evenly toned, subtle wings of silver eyeliner and dark mascara bringing out the sharp, clear blue of my eyes. Diana did up my hair so that I could wear it styled and it would cover the bug I was carrying underneath the shoulder of my dress. The length went halfway down my thighs, the solid black interrupted by a collar and a waistline over my hips embroidered with tiny seed beads in checkered patterns. Thin grey leggings covered up my legs, disappearing down the cut of my boots. A purple knit scarf wrapped twice around my throat, both ends permitted to hang down my front. My hair was straightened on the bottom layer and sprayed in place, all pulled over one shoulder, then the upper layers were curled and set with a headband. It covered up the earring in my right ear, but left the gold-plated jewelry visible on my left side, along with the thin silver chain of my necklace. To cover up my soulmark, I wore closely-knit purple gloves with sleeves that gathered over my elbows, shiny golden bangles that looked more expensive than they actually were rattling over my right forearm.

 _I am sexy,_ I mentally reaffirmed. _And these heels are fucking killer. If Avery is a bit too into me, I can stab him with these shoes._ I just kind of hoped that Neal would notice how nice and feminine I looked. I dressed to impress, just not with the intention of impressing the man that I was here to talk to. It would kind of suck to not get any sort of later affirmation from Neal. _We may be fighting, but we're very good at communication in the bedroom._

The elevator dinged when I reached the floor I'd pressed into the panel. A second later, the doors parted and slid back into the sides. I inhaled deeply and walked out with long strides, reminding myself that anything I said would be heard and recorded. I could hear the doors sliding back together after I had left the elevator space.

 _So this is what Neal's playground looks like._ It looked like an office building. The floor was dominated by a very large room that I'd walked into, desks set regularly at fairly far intervals across dark blue carpeting. It was probably so that they could make their phone calls without having their colleagues' voices in the background. In front of all of these desks was a glass-encased office, walls made purely of translucent Plexiglas. On a smaller side of the room and in closer proximity, several desks and computers were set up for the female secretaries. I caught a glimpse of Madison Cookler leaning over a brunette's shoulder and pointing out something on the computer screen. Then I looked over the men again, seeing if I could identify Brad. I couldn't, obviously, I had no idea what he looked like; but I caught Neal's eyes briefly before I looked away, not wanting anyone to notice that we knew each other. Neal was indolently leaning back in a rotating chair, twisting a phone cord around the length of a pencil while he smooth-talked another shareholder.

I swallowed and bit my tongue carefully between my teeth. From the moment I'd walked in, although the activity hadn't ceased, it felt like the room had gotten thick, and I could feel more than one person staring at my ass. Thank God I didn't have to make sure no one saw me rolling my eyes, because I did that so hard that it almost hurt. _This isn't working right…_ I was trying too hard to forget that Neal was there, and I couldn't manage to get into my own character.

_Eleanor Hastings, corrupt CEO of a pharmaceutical company. Married at nineteen and divorced at twenty-three, no children, only child, dead mother and father with progressive cancer. College at Strayer University, Knoxville. My name is Eleanor, I've never heard of Neal Caffrey, and I want to make a lot of money illegally._

My steps changed minutely as I physically felt myself calming down. It was like throwing myself into a completely different person. I didn't have a sister to go home to or an illicit affair with my informant to worry about. The man I'd made eye contact with was just a really attractive person I'd happen to see. I rolled my weight forward, landing on my heels and walking forward on my toes. I disregarded any thoughts of McKenna's and focused entirely on the admittedly cute-looking twenty-some-year-old on a conference call behind the glass. I fixed my eyes on him and reached for the handle of the thin glass doors, letting myself into the boss's office without waiting for invitation. Confident. Assured. Bossy, even, and not afraid to make my demands known.

"I need that EBIT analysis by Tuesday." Avery looked up at me and his eyes dropped to the hem of my dress before he could catch himself. Deliberately, I walked slowly from the door to his desk while the doors closed on their hinges. My dress shifted and followed the back of my calf, showing off the toning of my legs from years of running and chasing. _"Tuesday,"_ the businessman repeated before he took his finger off of the button on his phone set, taking him off of conference.

Avery was a shark, for sure. He looked at me with thirst and made me question that the neckline of my dress was actually as high as I thought it was. He hadn't quite grown out of that boyish charm he had going, although the tight-fitted clothes and unbuttoned black jacket, combined with his haircut, suggested he was intending to progress to the 'rugged, handsome man' appearance. His eyes looked stormy grey and his smile was fixed. He reminded me of every other shark I'd met, every testy misogynist with a college degree, and every dirty businessman I'd ever walked out in chains, sans the cuffs.

"Mrs. Hastings, it's lovely to meet you." With a voice cloyingly smooth, he bent down, pushing one knee closer to the ground while he took my right hand. He raised my wrist to his face and pressed his dry lips to the back of my hand. I leaned back onto the supports of my boots' heels and I summoned up the sass and confidence I knew I had somewhere. I would find it, even if I had to fake it.

" _Miss_ Hastings," I corrected with a steely voice and a sharp tongue. "And I'd rather you didn't lie and instead just told me honestly that you wish I wasn't taking up your time." I pushed out one of my hips and rested my fist on the curve below my waist.

Rather than being affronted, Avery chuckled. "Direct." Yes, very direct; I didn't have the patience for taking much time to get straight to the point, and neither did Eleanor. He was still holding onto her hand, and she'd very much like it back. "I like that," he added, voice a lower thrum. "What gave it away?"

"You're gripping my hand very tightly." When I said it, Avery dropped my hand. I brought my arm back to my side and resisted the urge to cross both over my chest. The salesman took a step to his right, moving closer to his desk, and leaned against it with the corner pressing into his leg. It looked like it must have hurt, but he showed no sign of feeling it. I pushed onward since he wasn't blustering. "I know what you're trying to do to my company." Appreciating his appreciation for directness, I employed it again. "Rhymer isn't worth the attention you're putting into it, in spite of my ambitions. Why are you buying into so many shares?"

I advanced on him, a cat on the prowl.

"You have proof I bought any?" Dragging his tongue over plush and full lips, he raised a delicate eyebrow and pushed his thumbs into his pockets, his hands catching.

"I'm not here to play Risk with you, Avery," I retorted in character. _No nonsense, no wasting time._ And I wasn't entirely faking the indignation and annoyance that I talked with, because his demeanor was enough to incite raised fur and defensive manners. "I'm not exactly Wall Street material, but I know a shark when I see one, and that, sir, is exactly what you are – so stop treating me like I'm paranoid, and get down to business with me."

His eyes darkened. I guessed that not many women in his life talked to him this way. It was satisfying, to say the least, to be one of the few that did. He leaned forward, ignoring the bite of the desk corner into his leg, and narrowed his eyes at me. "Why are you here, Miss Hastings?" He silkily asked with the undertone of someone with intensity. He drawled out my name, holding onto the vowels and stressing the last syllable.

The corner of my mouth turned up into a smirk. "If you buy out enough shares, you take over my company." I stated mostly factually. It depended on how Avery chose to play it. I'd been given a loose run-down, courtesy of an accounting specialist in the division, and I knew enough vocabulary to be taken seriously, although I doubted that it would come to being tested on my book smarts when cons and scams were games of wit. "The profit margin goes through the roof with the inflation you're working out currently." Both of us looked through the wall and to the men sitting in their desks. I purposefully avoided looking towards Neal's direction, not wanting to risk the sight of him jarring me out of Eleanor and back into McKenna. I looked back to Avery to devote my attention. "Taking over Rhymer means I am owed a board membership to yours, and I really don't give a damn about controlling your interest, so don't get all protective and bitchy with me." _Damn,_ I whistled in my head. I hadn't known I had it in me. "All I want is a profit percent." _Take it or leave it_ was implied; _take it,_ I thought at him.

"Or what?" I clearly didn't know what I was talking about when I referred to his eyes as stormy, because if that's what passed as stormy, then what were they supposed to be called now? Hurricane grey? He wasn't any closer, but I could see the preparation in his muscles to move, and the ferocity with which he stared at my face wasn't to be trifled with. If he'd put his head to it, he could've been an amazing businessman without the cheating shortcuts that would lead to his incarceration. "What will you do about it, Miss Bachelors'-in-Business?"

It was a taunt, waving it in Eleanor's face that he had taken further education than she had, and mocking her for the control that she was trying to take.

"Or I run to the feds and I squeal like a pig," I threatened simply, rolling my shoulders back. I knew what that did in a tight dress. It pushed out my breasts and made the slim line of my back more noticeable. "Or I look into every shareholder on my company's list and I talk to them all in person and tell them exactly what you're plotting."

Avery stepped away from his desk finally, thrown off of his game forcibly and veered off of the track. "Do you know…" he asked, his voice going down quieter and deeper. He stepped closer, not walking, but stalking, taking advantage of every centimeter of height he had over me – to no avail, that is, because the ridiculous height of my high heels made me a fraction of an inch taller. "… Who I am?" He finally finished speaking after a melodramatic pause.

With no pause and no hesitation, I gave him my honest opinion, holding myself tall in front of him. "A conceited, misogynistic man who hasn't been told "no" enough, and resorts to cheating hard-working people out of their money to live a lavish life he doesn't deserve," I summarized harshly. "I know exactly who you are." Although he didn't seem pleased, he forced himself to take it lightly, mouth turning up in a laugh I suspected his heart wasn't in, and the light in his eyes artificial. It must've stung his pride. "The question becomes…" I stepped up, shortening the distance between us, eliminating the personal space, rising to his challenge. "Do you understand who I am?"

"A dirty CEO with a big mouth and ambitions that the world hasn't recognized." The tilt of his head brought out the unevenness of his smile and I realized that he considered his response to be an insult, getting back at me for the blows I got in against his ego. Playing along accordingly, I narrowed my eyes to flint. "So you're willing to lower yourself to the standards of this _conceited_ man to get what you don't deserve." He loftily dared me to either admit to my hypocrisy or back down.

Well, hell if I was going to do the latter. "Then we have an understanding," I declared slyly. I hadn't missed the insinuation or the repetition; I just had my own – Eleanor's – goals prioritized over her strength of character. If her personality had to suffer some negative points, well, then, that was unfortunate, but if it gave her more money, then oh well. She could always play it off like a sob story – _Daddy needs an expensive treatment, Daddy's doctors say it's not promising, Daddy can't pay his own bills._

I let my eyes dart down to his lips, let my tongue peek out to wet my own, and stepped back, amping up the sexual tension without any intention of letting it go somewhere.

His eyes stayed on my mouth. "I'm having a get-together this weekend," he said cordially, back to adopting his civilized, professional, winning tone, the promise of charisma and success hidden in the smooth charm and small, victorious smile. He'd have made a good Neal, in another life; they both had that same skillset for adapting to the situation and altering their behavior, controlling the way they sounded. His implications were loud as thunder.

I snorted. "I'm not here to be your friend or your bed warmer."

Without needing to look at what he was doing, Avery swiped up a post-it note from a dispenser on his desk. Then he fingered around some pens in a mug from Germany and selected one that he wanted to use. Holding the post-it against his hand, he started writing across it over his palm. "If we're going to be doing business off the books," he said slowly, "We should discuss it off the clock, wouldn't you agree?"

 _Getting close to his house might be a good plan – not only would it let him feel like he's won a small victory, but he might have things in his house that are of relevance._ I pretended to consider it reluctantly for a few seconds before I dipped my head into a nod of unhappy acquiescence. "Fair enough," I grudgingly permitted, but made sure to seem like I remained skeptical. "I'm still not here to be your bed warmer," I repeated myself from the first time. There was only so far I was willing to take the sexual component to the ruse, and while I didn't consider Neal my boyfriend, I was quite happy with him being my sole partner. _Not that I'd be emotionally happy with anyone else…_ "And I feel it's worth mentioning that I'm a karate black belt."

Avery looked amused. "Since when does that matter?" I wasn't actually a karate black belt – I wasn't any color belt, I never took a karate class – but I was very skilled in hand-to-hand combat and was one of the toughest instructors when I loaned my time to the new arrivals in the bureau, or to the future agents in training exercises.

I saw another opportunity to be cutting and I took it. Good thing Eleanor was a strong, independent woman with very little regard for hurt feelings. "Since when are women falling over themselves to be in your bed?" I jibed, and I nodded out towards the females working in their computer chairs. Madison had long since finished helping the other woman with whatever it was, and all were attending to their own business, a few on phones. "Because these walls are translucent, and not one of your gorgeous secretaries seem to care about what's going on in here, even when you were close enough to be breathing my air." He scowled. _I bet he's going to regret inviting me to the get-together._ Why he still passed me the card with his address was far beyond me. "Don't screw me, Avery," I warned with a positively dangerous air. "I'm not someone you'd like when I'm angry. I can be vindictive – like you, I imagine."

* * *

I had a taxi service carry me out to Avery's estate. Avery's manor in New York was actually on the outskirts of Brooklyn, not far from a very small but also very scenic lakefront. We could easily have made it a beach bonfire, if it weren't for that there was no way in hell I was going to play volleyball in my underwear with anyone, much less Avery.

The criminal in question was waiting for me on the front lawn. The cab stopped and I waited inside for a moment. The windows were tinted so Avery couldn't see in from as far away as he was, which was good – since I wasn't actually paying the driver. Derek looked up at me in the rearview mirror and he winked for good luck.

"Blow them away, Winslet," he joked. I rolled my eyes. He really needed to get some better material for when he was feeling funny. If he wasn't going to laugh at my _Wizard of Oz_ jokes, then I wasn't going to laugh at his poor Hollywood efforts.

Stepping out of the cab, I found my balance precariously on the rocky gravel drive. Derek dropped me off not far from the line where the rounded driveway met the neatly-clipped lawn, and so I was off of the uneven rocks in seconds. My walking was jeopardized by the black stiletto heels I had on, the color matching my new, fitted leather tights and the pencil skirt that almost reached my knees. I had a dark blue blouse that emphasized the vague hourglass of my waist. While the neckline didn't plunge or cut, it was low, and I just drew more attention to my chest with the necklace resting between my breasts, the pendant a fluffy blue and purple tassel. I dug some long, elbow-length, elegant-looking ebony gloves out of my closet, and Diana loaned me a pair of slim golden bangles for my wrists.

_Eleanor sure likes to dress sexy._

Avery was dressed up less, but that was okay. This wasn't supposed to be my casual; rather, my shark-like tendencies made it impossible for me to be anything less than impeccable and alluring. I just couldn't wait until I stopped being Eleanor and went back to being plain old McKenna, who liked to wear shoes that didn't pose a serious safety risk. He had on a sweater vest to shield himself from the wind, like most of the men on the lawn to the left of the house.

"Pull!" Someone shouted, and then something clicked. A machine made a noise like the mechanical pitchers in a batting cage, and something started to whizz.

I pulled my hand back from where I'd been reaching to accept Avery's politely-offered arm in favor of looking over in surprise at the collection of men. I spotted Neal almost immediately, standing at the front of the crowd by a table holding more than enough rounds of ammunition to supply the shooting range at the bureau. It seemed weird for him to be up there until I noticed his hands subtly in his pockets, keeping away from touching the bullets or the long shotgun being held by the person he was apparently trying to make conversation with.

The next thing was a loud blast of gunfire, followed quickly by shattering ceramic. Pieces of copper-colored skeets fell to the ground and littered the lawn. Avery probably had someone hired who would pick that up to prevent the boys from lifting any of their dainty little fingers to do manual labor. After the man shooting hit the target while it was still in the air, the guys celebrated, shouting _yeah_ s and _whoa_ s and high-fiving each other. Neal was the only one who didn't seem thrilled.

Absently, I retried to take his arm, slipping my hand into the crook of Avery's elbow. It felt strange; he was at the wrong height. He was shorter than Neal, and that threw off the adjustment that I was used to – that I _preferred._

Internally, I wanted to go right on over there, yank the gun away, check to make sure they had legal licenses, and then show them that it really wasn't too hard to skeet shoot – certainly not hard enough to warrant it being a "men's activity" when I, a female, could hand their asses to them on plates if they were keeping score. Unfortunately for my desires, that was not the way Eleanor would handle the situation.

 _"_ _That's_ how they entertain themselves?" I asked, wrinkling my nose in distaste. _What, are they animals?_ I tried to be serious to get myself in the headspace, but instead my mental mocking sounded amused. "Shooting at clay?"

"It's a very well-honed skill," Avery defended, and when I looked at him, he was raising his chin over in acknowledgment to a medium-height man with short, spiky blond hair. "It's not suited for all people."

Ah, the way he said it made me want to punch his teeth in and laugh as he spat out the blood. It couldn't have been more obvious that when he said "all people," he meant "women." The want to make them keep score and hang them all out to dry became even harder to resist, an even stronger longing.

I sniffed and held my chin up. "I just don't see the point in shooting clay targets when you can shoot the real things instead." I'd never been hunting myself – didn't see the need, or particularly want to kill cute animals – but a sport with a reward like that, of getting to snuff out the life of another species? Yeah. That seemed like the thing Eleanor might be into.

* * *

Avery showed me inside his mansion, obviously looking for praise. It was hard to muster it up, so I didn't bother to be very wordy about it, but I still fed into his ego for necessity. _God, I hate roles that necessitate sucking up to people._

"Nice," I said, deliberately looking around and peering up at the crystals in the chandelier. "Very… lavish."

 _Nice. Ha! What a massive understatement._ I bet the entire place had to be worth my house, my car, my closet, and all of my personal belongings combined – and then some. Perfectly-painted walls with exact, precise trim. Lacy white curtains that were held elegantly to the sides of the windows to let the light stream in from clear, clean windows. The damn chandelier, mounted to the center of the large parlor room with a ceiling so high that no one would have to worry about hitting it with their raised arms. The fireplace was covered in a silver grating. Paintings that looked like they belonged in a gallery somewhere were held in level frames. The furniture was velvet and suede and leather, color coordinated and with the look of one of those stupid furniture boutiques that want to suck out all of your money by buying a single chair. I felt like I was sullying the house just by walking in it.

Carelessly, Avery picked up his shoulder and brushed off some invisible dust. "What can I say?" _Smug bastard._ "I'm a boy with my toys, and what's the point of life without a little fun every so often, right?"

Through one of the windows that reached down to the floor, leading out onto a balcony of marble, I could see the others skeet shooting outside. I looked away before I noticed Neal and had my attention inevitably drawn back to him.

"How old are you, anyway?" I asked suspiciously. Was it really possible for someone to be this wealthy at his supposed age without also having rich parents or having taken a serious lawsuit to court?

He held out his chest proudly and lifted his chin. "Twenty-seven this month. You might say I'm in my prime," he hinted to me with a smirk and a handsome wink. Clearly, he was not just referring to his career prime.

I rolled my eyes up to the ceiling and curled my upper lip, baring the teeth that were sinking into my lower lip as I tried not to snicker out loud. "Your prime is still _way_ under my league," I taunted. I am very flexible with my "type," but Avery certainly doesn't fit into it. Sexism is a very definite turn-off for me.

He narrowed his eyes instead, smarting at the remark. "Just because I'm ahead of the curve doesn't mean that I can't enjoy my success," he haughtily snapped back at me before he rolled his shoulders, his back flexing, and then cooled off. He forced on a smile and held an arm out to the side of the room. "Would you like to see something really cool?"

I looked up at the chandelier and let my eyes linger in appreciation. It really was beautiful. The lights caught on the angles of the crystals and reflected it in shining lights and marks on the wall. I thought it would look even better if the light was colored. "Why not?" I asked finally, holding my hands to my hips after motioning for him to lead the way.

He smiled, pleased for the indulgence, and turned the toes of his shoes on the carpet, dragging the fibers in one direction. "Come this way," he beckoned, turning and walking, just expecting me to do as I was told.

I seethed silently as I proved him right.

* * *

Avery led me down a long hallway to whatever he wanted to boast about next. The walls were just a shade of off-white and the tile was masterfully laid. His home seemed unreal, from the crystal chandeliers to the frosted glass and the impossibly-even paint job on the trim, like something out of a touched-up interior decorating magazine.

It was no wonder he was running this long con over and over again. If this was the kind of money he made from doing it, it wasn't really surprising. People have killed for a lot less, and at least there wasn't a body count. _Yet_.

The hallway broke into a sideways T-split by a path going at ninety degrees from the corridor. Avery turned left down this hall and I followed. It was a long hall for a residential building, at least six yards, but then it opened up into a room. There were no doors separating this room from the hallway leading to it. A simple, four-legged, white wooden table was placed in the middle of the room with a brown box on top of it, innocuous in appearance but blindingly unsubtle in its placement. Behind it was a tall set of shelves extending from one side of the room to the other and reaching from the floor to the ceiling all across the back of the room, and each shelf had a full row of cardboard file boxes, each labeled with yellow tape and Sharpie. Over the shelves, offset from the center, were two air vents.

 _It's not a room,_ I realized. Avery started holding himself a little higher, the grey turtleneck sweater pulling across proud shoulders and falling gently down his back, not tight enough to cling. It made me more self-conscious of the pencil skirt's material holding onto the leggings and being unwilling to let go of my thighs. _It's a vault._ A glance upwards confirmed it. Instead of a door, there was a break in the ceiling in a solid line from one wall to the other. Inside was probably a glass layer that came down when a security system was triggered, sized deliberately just for this vault.

Avery passed underneath the line without hesitation, so I did the same, pretending not to notice that it was there. He couldn't see my face, still facing ahead of us, so I thought that the odds were good he hadn't seen the second of dawning understanding. I prefer to play oblivious sometimes so that I was underestimated. I love superseding expectations, but I find it's usually easier to survive if my would-be killer doesn't know how attentive I am.

Other than the table and the shelves chock full of boxes were the framed posters. While the shelves took up the entire back wall, the posters were spread out evenly but spaciously across both of the sides and in the front, up to a few feet away from the doorway. They were all hung in plain white frames with thick glass covers and dropped from magnetic strips adhesively placed on the walls. Those to the right were in color, while most of the ones on my left were black-and-white. After a few seconds of looking around, I realized that they weren't posters at all.

 _Crime Victim. Justice Lad. Zappo Comics. Action Detective. Atomic Science._ They were all vintage graphic novels, and most of them seemed to consist of a theme of justice and law. Pretty ironic, considering that the man who treasured them had taken justice and law and practically drop-kicked them both out onto the unblemished lawn.

"Comic books," I said aloud, unable to help but be surprised. I didn't think of Avery as a comic book type of guy. He didn't look like it; he struck me as a computer person. It was apparent now, however, that comics must be his first passion. The entire house was built around the vault at the center.

Avery held out both hands while keeping his elbows fairly close to his body. "These are my most prized possessions," he declared, his chest puffed in pride. He turned around slowly, trailing his eyes over the fronts of the preserved copies. "I've been collecting since I was a kid."

Eleanor didn't have much patience for childishness or irrelevance, so with her in mind, I scoffed and folded my arms, stretching long, delicate fingers over my gloves. "You still are a kid, sweetheart." I looked around. Was that really all there was? _Kind of anticlimactic._ Still, better a collection of books than a collection of dangerous weapons. "Grown-ups follow the rules."

He dropped his arms and narrowed his eyes. I moved to the left, looking at a black-and-white one framed first in the row. It was less a cover page and more like a comic strip of a big, buff man, probably a superhero, and a scrawny little kid with broken glasses and a fat terrier dog trying to hide behind the kid's legs.

"What does that make you?" The salesman asked pointedly, intending to turn it around on me, because I certainly wasn't exactly a law-abiding citizen. Well, Eleanor wasn't, at least.

Staring at the comic was easy, but instead I just lazily rested my eyes where it happened to be and let my lips quirk upward. "A bad girl that hasn't been caught," I answered loftily, hoping in amusement that he wasn't a 5 Seconds of Summer fan.

Either he was or he wasn't, but he seemed to take it as a response, and far be it from me to dissuade him from learning as much about his partner in crime as he could. His eyes stayed on me, but I kept my hands to myself. Even if I wasn't trying to avoid annoying him more than necessary, it would've been a real pity to get fingerprints smudged over the quite frankly incredibly clean glass. Derek probably would have recognized more of these than I would and he might have had more fun, too, but he and Neal didn't have as strong of a dynamic, and the stronger the bond, the better for most undercover work. I had to trust Neal to play his role and to alert me to a change of plans or any impending danger while we both lied about our lives and identities. Meanwhile, anything could go wrong in a matter of moments.

"These books are my inspirations," he pushed his hands in his pockets in the reflection off one of the frame covers. "For everything." _Are any of these villains hedge fund runners?_ The soles of his loafers hardly made a sound, even though we were standing on linoleum. He was light-footed. Avery looked over my shoulder and pointed at the page right next to the one I'd been looking at. "See this? Special edition, one of only a handful printed, and one of the two surviving copies. Worth more than your car, I guarantee."

I huffed. _That was just rude_. "You don't know what kind of car I drive." For all he knew, it was a brand-new hydraulic car imported from Japan, and I couldn't imagine a comic strip being worth more than some of the new models they're coming up with overseas.

He lifted his shoulders. I kept an eye on him in the reflection, unsure how pleased I was with his proximity to the back of my neck, but he made no move to attack, just kept his eyes on the waves of my hair that curled down. I itched to put it up and out of the way but refused to indulge that urge. "A Porsche, I would guess," he contemplated.

"Muscle car, actually." Triumphantly, I turned back to him, smiling at his incorrect musing. I was lying through my teeth – if he'd said a Jeep, I'd have said a Porsche. If he'd said a pick-up, I might've said a convertible. I just didn't want to let him think he knew me or could predict me. The moment I ceased being a variable factor was the moment he started trying to make a dozen chess moves around me, and he'd probably get even more insufferably condescending. "Silver sixty-eight Plymouth Road Runner Hemi. Not the best on gas mileage," I admitted, putting on a sheepish air. "But well worth the extra cost. You like superheroes, I presume."

He raised the eyebrow over his left eye while his eyes stayed monotone. "Those spectacular, noteworthy overachievers that go above and beyond ordinary humans? Past the law?" _Ah!_ It was sudden, like the pull and release of a guitar string, but then it was there, the excitement and thrill in his expression that reverberated soundly in his face and the tone of his voice. "Yeah," he breathed down to me.

 _Fuck._ I swallowed. He almost had me in a literal corner. He was attractive, I could appreciate that, and if circumstances were different then I probably _would've_ , but with things as they were, I had no interest in drawing out a scene of sexual tension without someone within earshot to hear me scream if it came to that. It wasn't worth keeping him on his toes to risk my safety.

"Oh, I forgot – that's you, without the cape," I mocked, darting lithely out from the corner before he got any closer. I took a few faster steps and then slowed down to a confident saunter, wandering past the table with the lone box. I turned around to walk backwards and met his eyes again. My stiletto heels clicked and from the way I was walking, my feet probably thought I was trying to do a ballet trick. It would've been so much more comfortable if I had worn sneakers instead, but that wouldn't have fit Eleanor's profile.

He chuckled. "A cynical witch like yourself will love this feature." He took his left hand out of his pocket and indicated the framed comics. "My vault is completely tripped out. If there's a fire, the room clamps down," he gestured in the direction of the doorway, where the glass screen would lower and seal, "And the air is sucked out in ten seconds." He pointed up to the two vents in the ceiling.

He said it casually, but something about it spooked me. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up and I made the effort not to swallow in apprehension. That was alarming – the way he'd said it with intrigue, matter-of-fact while still being almost excited about the prospect. I replied slowly, thoughtfully. "Fire needs oxygen to burn," I commented. "Take away the oxygen, and the fire dies before anything in the vault is damaged." _It wouldn't be just the fire that died._ Suddenly I was anxious to get out of the vault. "Very inspired," I praised, now visibly taking note of the line in the ceiling. "I can't say it's the first system of its kind that I've heard of, but it is the first time I've seen one up close." That was one of the first completely truthful sentences I'd said to him.

"Damn right," he nodded, sliding his hand back into the pocket of his slacks. He locked eyes with me and made sure that I didn't look away. "You steal from me, same thing happens." He turned steely and cold and I blinked, narrowing my eyes at him. It seemed like the best response for what was undoubtedly a threat. "The door shuts," he nodded to it again, "And you die with no air to hear yourself scream."

 _Jesus Christ._ I almost swore. _He's a sociopath._ I couldn't kick the feeling that there was something I had to be missing. Why would he go to this trouble to scare me just to protect some stupid comics that I had already expressed limited interest in? No, there had to be some other reason for the suspicious behavior, and I suspected it was in plain sight. Probably hidden just inside the box planted securely on top of the table in obvious view of anyone in the vault or the hallway.

_What's he hiding in that box?_

"Boys and their toys aren't quite enough for me," I said airily, praying that my dry throat wouldn't crack my voice. My prayers were answered, and I sounded as unaffected as my parents did when I told them I was sick of having so much cash I could bathe in it. "Thrill rides are so much more successful at making me scream." Laced with innuendo, I waggled my eyebrows and stepped around the table, looking intently at the box. I didn't try to open it. Once I came around the edge closer to the shelves, I saw a small hole drilled neatly into the back of it. From the little box led a few dark cords twisted together.

 _Ah. That's the trip switch._ Those wires were either connected to whatever was inside or they were activated by a pressure sensor. The comics weren't why he had insured that this room be a death trap.

I took a deep breath and sighed, taking my eyes away from the wires. "How do you get back into the room if it seals?" I asked, genuinely curious. Like I'd said, I had never been really up-close and personal with one of these systems before. I knew how they operated in theory, but not in practice. "You can't just hide your possessions in here forever."

"The glass seal is polycarbonate," he responded after a moment of staring at me, trying to see into my head and decipher why I was asking. "Takes a few blasts, but very possible to shoot through." Another threat, but irrelevant. I would die with the fire suppression system in place regardless of whether or not he had a gun. He must have decided that, whatever the reason, I wasn't dumb enough to try to take the box. _Not with him watching, I'm not._

 _Although, wouldn't that be the perfect time?_ Most systems like these are required by the manufacturers to come with kill switches just in case someone is trapped inside. Avery didn't have the background to competently modify it himself, and I bet he'd have had a very hard time finding someone else who was willing to do it for him. Why take out a kill switch, if not to cause serious harm? So, assuming that it's hidden in this room somewhere, if I made sure Avery was in the vault and then tripped the system, he would have to disarm it to save his own life, regardless of how many proverbial knives were in his back.

"And I take it there's a kill switch in case a wire is unintentionally tripped." I tested my theory to see if he would cop to it or if he would bluff. Reason and a basic understanding told me that there was, and I was at least ninety-five percent sure.

He started to scoff and pulled his mouth to a resting scowl. "A kill switch is for people without the stomachs to dole out discipline where it's needed."

I nodded slowly, keeping my eyes on him as I walked back around the table the way I'd come. Maybe trapping him in the vault with me was a good idea, but it would've blown the operation. If one of the other boys was in on it, then they might start suspecting that there were other infiltrators. Without a team ready to respond to trouble, I couldn't risk putting Neal or Madison in that dangerous situation.

"You're a sadist." I dragged out the vowels and looked back down the hall, longing to get out. Externally, I simply shrugged as if I couldn't care less who I was working with, as long as I got a major payoff for it. "And I think I'd like to go meet the boys who are buying my company."

* * *

The boys were still playing with guns and practicing their shooting when Avery led me back out to officially introduce me to them. I picked my way through the grass, keeping a subtle look out for uneven dips that could cause me to lose my balance. Thankfully, Avery was over the gentlemanly stage where he wanted to offer his arm.

"My damsel, these are the guys. Guys, this is Miss Eleanor Hastings." Apparently that was all the introduction that I got. He stopped by the ammo table and I stopped next to him from his cue. Neal and the blond were still up, but a chestnut-haired guy was giving the gun back to the blond for a new magazine. I got the feeling that the blonde – probably Brad – wasn't actually shooting as much as he was reloading and managing the supplies. Avery looked over the small little crowd of whooping men and was apparently impressed with their, uh, masculinity. "Who's up next?"

Brad grinned and whacked Neal with the back of his hand. "Nick is!"

 _Nick. Right._ I made another mental note to make sure that I called him by his alias if I used his name at all.

Neal smiled insincerely and pushed the offered shotgun away from his body. "No, I'm good, man. You go ahead."

Brad looked back at Avery and complained in good nature. "The dude's been passing on us all day."

Avery looked right at Neal in confusion and a little bit of irritation that he wasn't partaking in the normal activities. I thought that Neal was the only one that seemed mature enough to admit that there were better things to do for fun that shoot pieces of clay.

"I'm not really a gun guy," Neal explained to Avery apologetically.

I saw the opportunity to gracefully do exactly what I had wanted to earlier, and I thought for a second to word it in Eleanor's demeanor. "That's alright. Guns aren't a necessary facet of life." Then I stepped up behind the table, put a hand on Neal's chest, and guided him backwards a few steps, leaving enough space between himself and Brad for me to stand. I turned my back to Neal and held out my hands for the shotgun. "May I?"

One of the men behind me whistled. It occurred to me that these shoes, with their killer heels, could be _literal_ killer shoes if I tried hard enough.

"If you think you can handle it?" Avery chuckled and shared a look with Brad, but then he indicated that the blond should go ahead and give me the firearm. "By all means." He smirked, expecting me to make a fool of myself.

Brad handed it over very slowly, like he thought I had no idea how to hold a gun properly or how to use it. I ripped it away from him when it took more than three seconds for him to remove his hands and held it up in front of me, dominant right hand on the grip and the non-trigger hand on the hand stock on the underside of the gun. I felt the weight and guessed at the backlash based on previous experience.

"You fire at my prompt, yes?" I called to the man controlling the skeet pitcher.

Brad looked at me holding the shotgun and then waved over at the skeet pitcher's attendant. "That's how we've been playing," he confirmed, dropping his arms to his sides.

I cleared my throat and said, loudly enough for all of the men to hear, "Pull three times consecutively."

The clay was pulled. It sounded like a batting cage, first one, then two, then three items whizzing through the air after being deployed by the machine. I paid attention to the timing between the skeets. They arched over the lawn in front of the table. I looked for one and pulled the trigger a second before the skeet was where I was aiming. Then I recalled the spacing between the skeets being fired, and I fired two more shots using the same timing. My ears felt like I'd been deafened for a moment, but then the roar of the gunshots left me feeling refreshed, and all three skeets had been shattered into small pieces of clay that fell helplessly onto the grass.

" _Whoo!"_ Someone all the way in back whooped and cheered for my victory.

"That's hot," another random person said. I lowered my head slightly, smirking, and handed the shotgun back over to Brad, who, I was pleased to see, looked both surprised and a little awed.

 _I wish we were keeping score,_ I thought longingly.

There was probably trace evidence of gunshot residue left on my hands, but all I saw was a bit of grey. I picked up a rag from the table, leaning in front of Neal to reach it, and used it to wipe off my palms and fingers, and a smudge that had gotten onto the sensitive space between my thumb and fingers on my trigger hand. I made the mistake of looking up while I was scrubbing with the dry cloth and met Neal's eyes, his disposition stormy.

"Do I know you?" He asked abruptly.

I slowed with the cloth, tightened my hands into it, and then dropped it down onto the table. _Don't do this. Are you really going to do this?_ Neal still looked completely serious, very intense, and very expectant. _Oh my God. You are._ Neal was so mad at me for something I didn't even know I did that he was going to compromise our covers. In case he didn't realize, there were _guns_ here. _He could get both of us killed if he doesn't straighten up._

I crossed my arms and glared. Because my back was to Avery, he couldn't see the furious expression on my face that I shot Neal for all of two seconds before I replaced it with cool indifference. "I don't know how you possibly could," I airily dismissed.

Neal took a sharp step forward. I moved back on impulse and raised my arms in front of me defensively. Brad may not have thought that I'd be savvy with firearms, but I was glad to see that he wasn't a complete bastard and wasn't pleased to see me being advanced upon in a way that could be seen as threatening. He put down the gun as soon as Neal's tone turned something other than disinterested.

I didn't need the defending, but Brad still put his hand on my waist, pulled me back behind him, and stepped in between Neal and I. "Nick, back off," he said quietly but without give, staring up at the taller man. In spite of not liking being treated like a damsel, I had to appreciate not only the recognition of an unwelcome situation, but the willingness to intervene.

"It's alright," I told Brad, locking eyes with Neal over his shoulder. Brad noticed that Neal's attention wasn't on him and he looked back at me to see what the deal was. "Is there something wrong, Nick?" I asked, sounding a little strained despite my best efforts. There was just too much stressing me out at once, and him threatening to blow my cover was the last straw. I had never felt unsafe with him before. Now he was endangering my life. Thankfully (but upsettingly), no one seemed to think anything of a woman being upset by a man treating her like Neal was treating me.

Avery cleared his throat. "Nick, take the shot," he said harshly.

Neal audibly scoffed. His insolence wasn't going to be appreciated, by me _or_ Avery. He was probably freaking out his friend Brad now, too. He picked up the shotgun from the table with quick hands, found his grip, and stepped forward with his left foot to compensate for the rehash. "Pull," he said twice in quick succession, and when both skeets were fired, he shot both of them dead-on.

A chill went up my back. That had been good. Better accuracy and speed than the other men demonstrated, and it was – dare I say it? – about as good as mine had been. That was a terrifying thought. Neal's a _pacifist._ Gentle, careful. A lover, not a fighter. He used his hands to create art, to give pleasure, to play around – he didn't do the same activities I did, didn't build callouses from martial arts and weapons training. That was a side of him I hadn't even known _existed,_ and to think that I'd missed something that seemed like a pretty big deal made me wonder what else could have gone straight over my head.

He lowered the gun down where he'd had it up to aim, and he shoved it sideways at Brad's chest so that the blond could take it by the grip and stock. He took the same rag I'd used and rubbed his hands off on it. "Just because I don't like guns, doesn't mean I can't use one," he said gravely, straight to my face, without looking away from my eyes.

Terror sparked in my stomach. _He just threatened me. Not just my cover, but he threatened me himself._

"Damn!" Avery either didn't understand the meaning or chose to feign obliviousness to what had just happened. "That was crazy!" He clapped, applauding "Nick" for his humble modesty in not wanting to shoot and make the others look bad. We just kept glowering at each other. "Why don't you boys keep this party going? Come in, grab a cocktail, entertain Hastings before she shows you all up in sport."

I would've practically rejoiced at the change in attitude towards my abilities in this damn boys' club, but there were other things weighing a little too heavily on my mind. The others all murmured a general consensus and started to head across the lawn towards the house, Avery leading them. It was a slow procession, but one that moved nonetheless. People were talking about the stunts they'd just seen from the people who seemed least likely to be the most lethal marksmen.

Then I guess something more interesting happened over my shoulder, because Neal was distracted from our mutual staring contest and his head turned to look after Avery's retreating back. "Hey, man, why's Madison here?"

I turned around. Neal might've been pissed at me, but I refused to believe that I'd been wrong about his entire character. I couldn't be wrong about who he was in whole, could I? Not my best friend, not my confidant, not my Neal. He wouldn't jeopardize someone else's life because he wanted to shoot me instead of the skeets.

Madison was being led out of a limousine to the front porch, giggling and stumbling a little. She looked happy, but like she'd had a drink or two in the limo on the ride here, escorted by another man (surprise, surprise) who had an arm around her waist. For a party specifically about masculinity and the illegal stock work that Avery had excluded the women from, it seemed odd that she was there.

Brad looked back at Neal while walking staggeringly backwards in the direction of the house, along with the other boys. "Just shoot some birds, man," he said, waving to the table and the gun that he left resting atop it, clearly distressed by the fight he thought he'd just seen. If he thought that was going to be our fight, he was sorely mistaken. Whatever he thought we were arguing about, he was either completely wrong, or had only seen the very tiny tip of the ice burg.

Neal made an unhappy groan. "They know she's the mole," he told me quietly, standing close to my back.

"Yeah, and from what I've seen, Avery's sadistic enough to kill her for it." I rounded back on him again. Speaking of Avery's temper, what was the deal with Neal's newfound anger management issues?! "What the hell was that?" I spat, enraged. _I do all these things for him, risk my job and my life for him, and he goes and treats me worse than even Ruiz does?!_ "Were you _threatening_ me?"

"What reason would I possibly have for threatening you? We're partners, aren't we?" He was trying to goad me into something, I realized; I just didn't know what it was. Did he want me to fess up to something? What had I done wrong?!

 _Partners._ That had a lot of meanings. We were partners at work. We were partners in protecting our sisters. We were partners as friends and as the only people who we could talk to about unsavory aspects of our jobs, Mozzie aside. We were partners in a much more intimate way, too, and no matter how many times I tell myself he's just a friend that I sleep with and am emotionally attached to, that didn't erase that I could feel my chest physically hurting. In my mind, he had betrayed our partnership in all of its forms.

"When this is over," I said slowly, because it was hurting me to say – but I had to have the backbone to stick up for myself. I swore I would never let myself be someone who permitted others to walk all over me, no matter who they were, and I had to honor that oath. Neal, soulmate or not, lover or not, friend or not, partner or not, was _not_ going to be the exception. "I think you'll have to tell me." He didn't react like I'd hurt him. I almost wished he had, just because then I'd have known that I wasn't the only one suffering. "I'm going to get Madison out of this," I told him, prioritizing. "Play your part and back me up."

He scowled. "No!" He snapped.

"What the hell is wrong with you?!" It was all I had not to reach up and shake him violently back and forth. Some connection in his brain had come loose; that was my only explanation. "You did what I said and violated your deal when we first met, just because I suggested it, no arguments, and _now_ you're suddenly picky about my plans?!"

Neal took my shoulders in his larger hands and advanced and for a second I was honestly afraid that he was going to do exactly what I had wanted to do to him. "I saw your ring!" He snarled, as if that explained everything.

It meant nothing to me.

"… What ring?!" I demanded, my jaw dropping in complete shock. That's what this whole thing was about? Some stupid _fucking_ piece of unspecified jewelry?! _It's not like he found an Illuminati or KKK membership piece in my jewelry cabinet!_

"I know you took Kate!" He pressed, finally, _finally_ having an expression on his face that showed how he felt. There was anguish and betrayal and heartache – complete, seething anger, too. The only thing not directed at me was heartache, because that could only be for Kate. Kate, Kate, Kate.

Everything always had to be about _Kate_ , didn't it?! Kate Moreau this, Kate that, _my sister has been abducted_ wherever I look. I couldn't hug him without wondering if he wished I was _Kate_ half of the time! The only time I was ever completely sure he knew I was me and not a substitute for his missing sister is when we were having sex! _I'm a person too! I matter! My feelings matter!_ But what did I get for protecting him, for trying to find Kate, for trying to get the man who took her? I got violence and cruelty and emotional abuse and death threats. _I don't deserve this! Just for once, can't he look beyond his precious, saintly_ _ **Kate**_ _?!_

_I'm his_ _**soulmate** _ _! He's supposed to love me, not want to kill me because of some unfounded belief that I have spent the last seven months of my life manipulating him! I have better fucking things to do with my life! I joined the FBI for a reason, and it's to stop dicks like you who threaten to kill-_

Oh.

**_Oh._ **

My internal rant was interrupted when I remembered the FBI, because suddenly it made more sense. The ring the man wore in the picture of Kate in San Diego, his fascination with the photograph framed in my hallway, his hostility ever since. _The rings in the photographs are identical._ Of course they are, they came from the same place. But Neal, being stubborn and pigheaded and blind wherever his _darling_ Moreau is concerned, didn't think to do any follow-up sleuthing, just jumped to his own conclusions.

"I did not – oh God, that ring. Jesus _Christ,_ Neal, the ring is coincidental, I didn't take Kate, and I can prove both of those statements as soon as we get out of here, but if you don't go along with this, Madison is _dead._ " If he was allowed to grab me, I figured I was allowed to grab him; I dug my fingers into his upper arms. "I guess you don't trust me now," which hurt, it really hurt, because he had more reason to trust me than anyone. "But at the very least, you have to remember that if you don't cooperate, you go back to the super-max."

I saw his face twist from incredulousness to fury to righteousness and worry ( _for Madison and Kate, of course, why the hell would he care about me_ ), to the downright fear of going back to prison that then he covered up, just like always.

I didn't trust him to back me up, or even believe me that I would explain myself when we got out of here. _Why do I have to explain?! I didn't do anything wrong!_ So instead I shouted after Avery, just before he reached the doors to his manor, and went along with an improvised plan that I prayed to God would work the way I pictured.

"Hey, Avery! This guy's been playing you, you've got a spy!"

I wrenched myself away from Neal, but he refused to let both hands be shaken off, holding onto one of my shoulders. Avery's face became the picture of a hurricane embodied in a human. He muttered something at some of the men, cheeks turning red, and turned from the porch to speed-walk off the steps and hurry back onto the lawn, eyes fixed on Neal with nothing but sudden loathing.

"You're selling me out now?" My – _the_ – conman said in disgust – _disgust at me_ – a lack of trust in me, a lack of belief that I was a good person, not thinking that I would actually protect him. Damn it, I wasn't selling him out. I was selling out Nick for the sake of manipulating Avery into playing into our hands while saving someone's life in the process. I wasn't going to let Neal get hurt. I was closer to the gun than Avery was, anyway.

"I will _explain later,"_ I hissed back at him, yanking away from him a little too hard to make the scene seem worse than it really was. I stumbled in my stilettos and played it to my advantage, shaking and pointing my arm at him, letting my anger at Neal and my blinding envy at Kate flood me to make my cheeks turn red. I wouldn't have been shocked if my eyes had turned green, too. "I knew I recognized this son of a bitch!" I shouted, flushing.

"What do you mean?" Avery asked, voice dangerously even as he stopped to the left of me, a gaggle of his chosen ones jogging behind him to keep up with long strides fueled by the thought of being conned out of his wealth.

I stepped further away from Neal, pointing almost frantically, and moved closer to Brad, remembering how he'd tried to protect me. "Search him," I ordered, barking out the command. "Search him! Check his pockets!"

Brad didn't wait for another repeat, from me or from Avery, and one of the bigger men with more bulk and muscle stood behind Neal warningly and grabbed his arms to keep him still. Brad started patting Neal down, starting under his collar, then moving to feel along both arms, to his chest, and working down to his abdomen. Avery saw the pen in the shirt pocket and jumped on it, as I'd predicted, when attention was brought to it.

"What is that? Hm?" Without letting Neal answer, he slipped the pen from where it was clipped to the inside of his shirt pocket. He turned it over, shook it, clicked the ink tip out, and then started unscrewing. I knew when he saw the first hint of wire, because he forcibly pulled it further out and looked lividly in Neal's face. "What is this?"

Unintentionally pressing the button, he triggered the pen to repeat his own last phrase back at him. _"What is this?"_

Avery started to smile satirically. "Who are you?"

Neal dully looked back into his eyes. _Don't do it, Neal,_ I pleaded mentally. _Don't say you're FBI just to spite me. You'll get all three of us killed._ I'd given up my chance at grabbing a firearm when I'd let Avery get too close. Now that we were surrounded, could I grab the shotgun before the rest of the brawn stopped me? In _stilettos_ , no less?

"Like she said," Neal told him almost lazily, a suspicious lack of fight in him. "I'm a spy."

Coming up with a backstory on the fly, I jabbed my finger at him again accusatorily. "Two years ago, this man tried extorting me on insider trading. You can't trust him!" I emphatically yelled at Avery, thinking that was a reasonable reaction for a dirty CEO who didn't want to get beaten at her game.

"Oh, _I'm_ the one you can't trust? That's a good one!" Neal was still shooting daggers at me through his eyes, and that hurt. I tried not to take it too personally, pretend it was all part of the game, but it was hard to believe that when Eleanor hadn't ever lied to him before. Just… Just McKenna, the real me underneath the costume, but that wasn't part of the deal, and that one big lie that he couldn't find out was still a sleeping dog.

"Who are you?" Avery demanded to know. "SCC? FBI?"

"He's a corporate spy," I blabbed on the spot, wiping my forehead with the back of my glove. "Got to be." I shook my head derisively and laughed mockingly. "No way the FBI manages to afford something that nice."

_If only he knew…_

Avery seemed to buy it, though, and I hoped that Hughes wouldn't be too snippy about that if he ever heard the recording from the pen. Smiling slightly, Avery reached forward to pat Neal hard on the shoulder. I thought he was calming down until he threw the pen on the ground and stomped his heel down onto it. I heard metal cracking and snapping under his shoes and he kept doing it, furiously trying to stamp it into submission, maiming the pen in the process. The ink must've burst and soaked the ground, and probably the sole of his shoe, too.

_Well. At least now I don't have to worry about doctoring that so no one listening to the recording hears our argument._

Pen completely, irreparably destroyed, Avery cracked his knuckles. "Who do you work for?"

Neal's lip curled and he caught onto what I'd been trying to set up. "Your partner, Daniel Reed." I let out a long breath in relief.

"Reed?!" Avery drew himself up. As if he had the moral high ground to be pissed at Reed for playing unfair…

"You think he doesn't know what you're planning?" Neal retorted rudely, right to Avery's face. "He's been onto you for months!"

Avery started pacing. He raked a hand through combed hair, disheveling his appearance. Finally, after a few seconds, he stopped and waved for one of his employees to come closer. He obliged. Avery told the bulky guy, "You take Madison home. Put her in her car, give her a bottle of wine, tell her she's employee of the month."

"How do we keep this quiet?" Brad asked, more in concern for the operation than for the near mistake they'd made of slaughtering an "innocent" woman.

Avery looked at Neal like he was the dirt he was walking in. "We're going to put him on that trap," he all but shouted, about to give himself a brain aneurysm, "And we're going to launch him off the front lawn!"

As Eleanor regained her poise, I rolled my eyes exaggeratedly. "I knew you were obtuse," I snidely insulted, "But I didn't think you were _that_ dense." _As if I'd let anything happen to Neal._ He didn't look at me, but it was an improvement to directly challenging me.

Avery tried very hard to control himself, he really did. "Hastings-"

"No, listen," I snapped, not willing to tolerate being treated like an idiot. "You're not scary." I looked over the thin, if athletic, body that he possessed for emphasis. I certainly didn't feel like cowering. "And this is a horrible misuse of a potential edge on Reed. Instead of trying to maim him," I said with a distasted frown, "Buy him over. Flip him. You have an informant, and Reed gets misinformation. It's a double-win for us."

Avery seemed to consider it, although he looked even more frustrated that he hadn't been the one to think of it. He gave Neal a shove in the chest that would have made Neal step back, if it weren't for the muscle of the group holding him firmly where he was. "What's Reed planning?"

Neal winged it excellently. "He knows you're gonna cut him out of his half. He's hired me to find out how, so he could cut you out first."

Avery scratched the back of his head, fingernails sinking through short hair to dig at his scalp. "How am I supposed to flip him if I can't even trust him?" He questioned with a leer, as if it was _my_ fault that he couldn't figure out a sufficient motivation on his own. _God, and I thought he was supposed to be smart._ He sure was dumb when his composure was compromised.

"Pay me in stock," Neal said aloud before I could say it or something to the same effect. Avery twisted around and stared at him like he was crazy for thinking Avery would let him get in on the plan, but then he said the key sentence. "I help you, I get rich; I screw you, I get nothing." He lifted his chin and started nodding thoughtfully, realizing that, if we were who we said we were, then it would actually be a pretty reasonable means. "I want five percent."

Five percent is a small number. It doesn't seem like it should be much. In business, it's more than it sounds like. Five dollars out of a hundred dollars multiplies. It becomes fifty dollars out of a thousand dollars. It can further itself to five hundred of a hundred thousand. That's hundreds, if not thousands, of dollars that Avery wouldn't get to include in his own profits.

He pointed at Neal and laughed to Brad. "Got _cojones_ on this one." He turned back on Neal, despite having talked like he wasn't even there. _How disrespectful._ "I'll give you two," he bargained.

Neal made a disrespectful noise, like Avery had to be kidding him, and his loyalty was worth more than just two percent. "Three," he negotiated with an intense stare.

The comic collector turned his back to Neal and looked at me, pointing at the artist over his shoulder and again talking about him as if Neal were a thing, an item, or someone deaf. "He's pushing it," he tattled to me, clearly expecting me to do something about it. _How things change._

I snickered. "He's got you and he knows it," I told him with a wicked twist of my lips. "I like it."

Avery had to know I was right, and he did. He accepted it after another moment of pacing and frustrated attempts at coming up with another way to win that didn't cheat him out of quite as much money. I thought it was amusing that he was willing to risk it over a one-percent difference. Just as easily as Neal could've gone to Reed, he could also have run to the police; as far as Avery knew, the pen wasn't the only recording device he had worn at any given time around the work.

"Alright," he acquiesced with a malcontented snarl in his voice. "Three."

* * *

**Nothing hurts more than being betrayed by someone you thought you were never going to get enough of. It's worse than just being hurt. It's a deeper wound when it's in your heart. I feel like I can't breathe. My eyes haven't dried and it's been hours. I want to hide. I want to fight. I want to bury my face and cry some more and pretend to be someone else. I want to go on my knees to ask what I did wrong and beg for a chance to fix whatever it was because I don't know how I'll function without her.**

**That's all I really have to say. Maybe I'll write more at a later date when it doesn't hurt so much… but I'm pretty sure that you already know, even from this little bit, what I'm referring to.**

**Love, because I can't right now,**

**Zarra L**


	16. To Me It's a Bullet Out of a Gun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As McKenna, Neal, and Mozzie all try to reconcile their misunderstandings, the trio realizes that they're still being watched by someone they thought they'd already driven away. The case comes to a close with a terrifying climax.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Lucy Hale's "Just Another Song."

**_Chapter Sixteen – To Me It's a Bullet Out of a Gun_ **

Neal was furious, to say the least, but Katie was matching him pace-for-pace in the argument they were having in the kitchen. After updating the FBI on everything that had happened and finding the time to get to my house without drawing attention or suspicion, I drove us back and gave Kate a warning that our house guest might try to take my gun and shoot me with it. To say the least, my sister was stunned – what could've elicited this? – but as soon as the door was locked, Neal went off, and she found out what it was about in less than a minute.

I tried to plant him down in a kitchen chair, but he refused to calm down enough to stay in one place. I threw up a hand to shut him up and took off for the stairs, going up to my bedroom to find my jewelry collection, where I stored the things I didn't usually wear but didn't want to get rid of for whatever reason. While up in my room, I stripped off my jacket and loosened the tie pulled around my throat. It was too hot to keep wearing it and it was too close to my neck. I felt like if Neal was slapping me with accusations, then my clothes were strangling me, making me feel trapped, making the entire ordeal even worse.

 _"_ _Neal, are you completely insane?!"_ I could still hear them downstairs. Kate leapt to my defense without being asked. In the mirror, my face was red and my lip was trembling. I bit down on it to make it stop and crossed to the dresser. The sooner I proved I wasn't Moreau's abductor, the better; I didn't know how much more of this I could take. It was chaos in the kitchen and there was chaos in my head, burning in insult that Neal would accuse _me_ of being corrupt – that he didn't _trust_ me, after everything I'd done for him, after everything we'd done _together_ , from life-risking cases to quiet conversations in front of a muted television. It was hard to breathe. _"Kenzi doesn't have Kate!"_

 _"_ _Are you sure about that?"_ He raised his voice to her. My soulmate was shouting back at my sister because he thought I'd betrayed him. _Well._ Now I was glad that he didn't know what was hidden under my gloves; how much angrier would he have been if he'd thought the "betrayal" was that much deeper? Twist the knife, so to speak.

_"_ _Yes, I am!"_

I pressed my hands on the top of the dresser and leaned over it, pained. I panted once, twice, and then blinked back hard against rising water in my eyes. _No! Don't start crying!_ I pulled open the handle of the lowest drawer with my toes and bent over at the waist. Behind a rolled-up sleeping bag and a small box in which I hid Christmas gifts for Katie was a small pink and red music box from Austria. I didn't bother to wind it up, just pushed the top open and lifted it up to the top of my dresser, kicking the drawer shut. Weak string notes from _Edelweiss_ played from leftover tension from the last time I'd wound it up, and on the inside, purple felt lined the bottom and sides. A mirror was carved out in an oval-shaped opening in the top half, and various necklaces, bracelets, rings, and earrings were laying inside in no particular order.

I pushed aside ear cuffs and double-piercing earrings that were tangling around a beaded braid bracelet and saw a couple of rings underneath. One was silver and shaped like a violin with ornate black etching where the strings should be. The other was a dull bronze-gold pin less than an inch across, the shirt pin removed and the back fashioned into the base of a custom-sized ring. I unwrapped an undecorated copper chain from around it and took it away, letting the strains of the song continue to play with more and more time between the notes, taking the ring back downstairs.

"How often is she gone, Katie?" Neal was demanding. My overwhelmed sister placed herself on the other side of the table, physically putting obstacles between herself and Neal. _Good to know I'm not the only one who thinks he can be intimidating._ More importantly, I got a little more incensed that he was scaring her into moving away. "Because she's not with me every time she's not with you! How many late nights when you don't know where she's gone?" Kate looked at me over Neal's shoulder for a second before back to him. He didn't seem to realize that I was standing behind him. I clutched the ring – the cause of all this – tightly in my fist. "How many times has she been bent over the table and trying not to let you see what she's doing?" I scowled darkly and drew my shoulders up. Neal doesn't like when I shield my work, but it's a reflex from living with Katie while working violent crime. I had always tried to keep her from seeing gruesome crime scene photos and hadn't bothered to shake the habit. "You haven't known her her whole life. How well do you really know who she is?"

"Stop it!" Kate slapped the table to put an end to his tirade. "Stop it now before I slap you!" She kept her back straight. Although obviously unsettled, she didn't back down to him, and I couldn't have been prouder than I was as she defended me. "You don't get to talk about her like that!"

"Calm down, both of you," I snapped, giving Neal's arm a push to get him to move to the side.

Kate didn't listen. In fact, now that Neal was fixing his eyes on me and staring in loathing, it reignited the spark that convinced her to scream at him in the first place. "You'd be rotting in prison if it wasn't for her!" She spat, pointing at me indicatively. "McKenna got you out. She's the best thing that's ever happened to you and she's saved your ass repeatedly, and now you think it's okay to turn on her?! Not even looking into it?!"

"Katie!" I kept the ring in loosely-curled fingers and held out my free hand towards her, gently motioning for her to calm down. "Thank you, but calm down." Kate huffed and glared at Neal. I pretended I couldn't feel the hatred being directed at me and held out my other hand, showing him the ring resting in my palm. "Your only evidence against me is the ring you saw me wearing in the photo from the commendations dinner. Well, here you go. Here's the ring." When he dropped his eyes to look at it, I let it fall through my fingers and onto the table in front of him. "Look at it closely."

He glued his eyes to it instantly, swiping it up with fast fingers and without pausing to give me the chance to stop him. I almost rolled my eyes, but the palpable distrust, like I was going to stab him in the back, possibly literally, made it hard to feel anything other than hurt and a difficulty breathing.

"It's an FBI pin, genius." It had been hard to see any details in his photograph, but the color and patterns matched up. The FBI seal was engraved on the front of the pin, small and decorative, all in one color. "At least, it was. It's a recognition thing. When you put a certain amount of time into the FBI, you get presented with pins. They're usually fashioned into rings instead. It's like a fraternity thing," I used as an example so it would make more sense. We didn't talk about them, most of us didn't wear them, but we all kept them because we were obligated by the relationship between agents. "I haven't been in there for ten years, but what I have done is been seriously injured in service. Sometimes veterans are presented with awards for situations where they're gravely injured in the line of duty; same thing here. They gave me a pin and a Star medal."

He turned it over and traced the pad of his thumb over the edge of the dips and hollows creating the seal. "I've never seen you wear it," he stated. His shoulders had fallen and his voice got quieter. Neal looked up at me with careful eyes, now just a little bit uncertain, and my shoulders sagged. Not in defeat, but in relief; he wasn't as sold on his theory anymore. He wasn't dead-set on me being his antagonist.

"Did you not just hear me? I got it because I was seriously injured." He had seen more of the scars left on my body than anyone else; he should know best that I would never be able to forget it. Every time I saw my stomach in a mirror, I would be forced to remember the worst day of my life. "I should've died from what happened to me. Instead I survived, and instead of letting me get back to my life, the bureau knocked me down to white-collar and gave me a pin." I sneered. "Like that was supposed to be some sort of fucking consolation. _Here, you've been physically and emotionally scarred, have a pin and feel better."_

Both of them sobered as a result of my mocking interpretation of the government's reasoning. I may not agree with Mozzie's habitual distrust, but he was right about one thing – they are a unit, and only a community by definition, not sentiment. Aside from the people who knew me personally, only a small handful had actually cared when I'd been fileted on my own living room carpet.

"She's right," Kate backed me up, and her fingers flexed into half-fists around the edge of the table, the only sign of lingering aggression. "If you let her take you to the next dinner, you'll see literally hundreds of them." Kate usually goes with Derek or I, but she does it out of ceremony, not because she enjoys it. She'd probably love to let Neal take her place. "I know that ring better than I know my own jewelry."

"Don't you still have the pictures on your phone from the last one?" I questioned her thoughtfully. Kate nodded her head and looked across at Neal as if to say _I told you so._ "Show them to Neal for proof. And if we called Peter and El, they'd be able to verify." I sighed and put my hands down at my sides. I'd given my story, my explanation; and I hoped that he believed me, but whether or not he did, that wouldn't heal that he'd been so willing, so fast, at flipping on me and believing the worst of me. Strategically, it might have made sense. I slept with him to build trust and rapport, and he never thought I was a suspect. Given our characters and my emotions, however, it was just ridiculous to think I'd used sex as a tool. "Is that enough proof for you that I didn't heartlessly abduct your sister and yank you around in circles?"

Neal turned it over. Again. And again. And when he looked up to me, I was waiting expectantly for a response. Was I going to have to kick him out for Kate's safety, or was it going to be okay? His eyes were apologetic and looked tormented, dark circles under his eyes, cheeks flushed and hair no longer so neat and tidily combed. I wanted to slap him really badly, but I also wanted to hug him. He looked so lost and confused. I thought this must be how he really felt, without the time taken to shore up the smooth, suave persona he hid behind.

"I…" He was speechless, and my Neal looked between Kate and me, full of guilt, regretfully glancing between us like he wasn't sure who to apologize to first; or maybe he was just using Kate as an excuse not to focus his eyes on me and see how hurt I was and how nervous I felt. "I'm so sorry, Kenna," he offered weakly, and Neal made himself look into my eyes to show that he was being truthful as he apologized. I didn't know how he planned to make up for it. He swallowed, and he looked as anguished outside as I felt.

Although I had no clue how I was going to process this later, I accepted for the time being that Neal was wrong, and he was accepting it. Neal was sorry, and he was saying as much; he no longer blamed me, and he was trying to make it better. I could handle everything else at another time, but we couldn't keep being mad at each other or something like this would just happen again. "I promise you, I'll figure out who it _actually_ is," I promised him softly, staring earnestly into wounded blue eyes. "Are we okay now?"

Instead of answering, Neal dropped the ring from his hands down onto the table, where it clattered and almost fell off of the edge. With teary eyes, he held out his arms and reached for the back of my neck. The artist pulled me forward into his chest and I threw myself into his embrace a little too excitedly, gasping softly and pressing myself against him entirely. Neal wrapped his arms around me, keeping one hand threaded through my hair over my shoulder and the other held as far across my back as possible, fingers curling softly into the flesh of my side. I turned my face to the side and pressed my cheek to his shoulder. Kate politely averted her eyes and padded to the kitchen. The fridge opened a second later as she gave us a little space. Now that I had him back on my side, I wanted to hold him tight and not let him cross back over ever again.

His nose nuzzled against my hair, and then he pulled my head back from his chest with the fingers tangled through to kiss my forehead tenderly. I sighed softly, knowing that we couldn't stay like this, but enjoying being held with care and security rather than a hard grasp or being pinned where I stood with accusations and cruel, thinly-veiled threats against my life and health, especially coming from _Neal,_ of all people.

My not-boyfriend held me still, but gentled the urgency from his hold and pulled his fingers out from my hair. He started to stroke down my back as if he was trying to make up for how mean he'd been. "Whoever has her is with the bureau." He murmured, keeping me held close and lovingly – at least, I was willing to let myself believe that it fit the criteria for "lovingly" for the moment.

I exhaled and the hot breath ruffled the bunched up fabric over his sleeves. "That does make my life harder." I agreed, shutting my eyes and pressing my fingers against his back with more pressure, running up the length of his spine until I was touching the back of his neck, and then pushing through the soft and curled hair. "If you're done jumping to conclusions, you should focus on playing Avery. Turn Reed on him, put them at each other's throats." I could handle choosing what to do next, if that was what Neal thought we had to do to restore the shaken balance. It's not like it was any new information for me, but I wasn't being entirely honest when I had gone for so long without telling him that I knew exactly what the ring in his picture meant.

"Make him think his partner is betraying him?" Neal questioned back cynically, resting his chin lightly on top of my head.

"Hopefully, he'll do something stupid that proves he's in on it, too."

Neal pushed me away with his hands on my shoulders to keep me from returning. "I'm sorry." I guess he moved me back so that I could see how truthful he was trying to be, and then he cupped my cheek with his hand and trailed down my throat.

I turned my head to the side. His touch was familiar and comforting, but on the principle, I couldn't take more intimacy than the hug, not right after the huge fight we'd had that had given him enough reason to make me afraid of being alone in a room with him. "You should probably go," I suggested, rebuffing. Although disappointed, Neal didn't look even a little bit surprised, and he immediately pulled his hands out of my space. "I'm not-" I stopped, because I couldn't lie and say I wasn't insulted. "I'm mad, and I'm offended, and I'm hurt. But I understand." That was the important part, wasn't it? He knew I wasn't just going to get over it, it was more than a little tiny misunderstanding, but I was trying. "Thinking I'd do that to you…" I trailed off. "That's bad enough, but with the context? I'll get over it." Just to prove it to him, _I_ reached out to _him_ and touched his face, brushing my thumb over his cheek. "I just want to shower and sleep."

He nodded, turning just into the warm touch. "I understand." It wasn't just me, though, that looked depressed. He was pulling back up those masks and covering how badly he was hurting, and I was sad to see that he was hiding from me again, but I had to take care of my own feelings right now. As long as I knew he would be _okay_ , or what passed for okay, then I should have the right to tend to my own wounds before I started back on healing his. "I'm still so sorry," he added again, taking my hand in his to move it off of his face. He gave my palm a squeeze and leaned down to kiss my cheek before he let go.

I stayed standing by the table when he walked away, having not stopped to do so much as remove his shoes. The sounds of his footsteps left the kitchen and strode down the hallway while I found the ring lying abandoned on the wood and stared. That damn piece of jewelry that I had never wanted had just done a damn good job of kicking my relationship down. And why? Because some jackass of an agent was manipulating his power and position inside an agency that I devoted myself to. I sniffed, rubbed my eyes, and picked up the ring.

I weighed it in my hand as the door closed. Just a couple ounces of metal, and I'd worn it so few times that I could count them all on one hand. What would it hurt if I just… gave it a toss, and it happened to land in the trash? And then I left it there, because I just accidentally forgot that it was there, and I would never, ever have to see it again. … Until I saw another of the hundreds of agents who had or would be given ones just like it, and if the ring had so much relevance to this ongoing case, then maybe it would be best if I kept it. For reference, or for undercover, or for… oh, I don't know, but while I wanted to burn the damn thing, reason was telling me not to.

I picked it up and put it in my pocket while Kate checked to make sure that Neal was actually gone.

Kate sat down in a chair that she pulled out across the table from me. "You're already keeping his soulmate a secret from him." I looked up to the ceiling. Kate was never going to let me forget that. She wasn't even going to feign that she was okay with my decisions, but at least she had promised not to breathe a word to Neal. "How long are you going to hold out on telling him you talked to his sister?"

I reached across the table and stretched for her hands. Kate unwrapped her fists and gave me her palms, and I entwined our fingers. "Kate. I love you." I looked into her eyes as I said this with as much heart as I could. "But I think we both know I have enough emotional baggage to fill an airplane cargo, and I think I'd rather wait until I actually believe he won't flip on me again if he knows I talked to Kate and didn't forcibly drag her back to his side." It was hard to be jealous of a woman who had been kidnapped, but it was even harder not to be envious of that Neal was holding up Kate as a saint and wasn't willing to even ask me before he assumed I was a traitor. "I risked my job lying to Fowler to protect him because I trusted his word, and he couldn't return the favor and believe me, even when all he had at stake was some feelings." Why couldn't he have just asked me directly before he started leaping to the wrong conclusions? If he was wrong, we all won; if he was right, he was sucker-punched in the heart, sure, but come on! If _I_ had been proved wrong about Neal, I would have lost my _career._ Even without the romantic – no, _not_ romantic – interpersonal entanglement, hadn't I proved to him that I was in his corner? What would it take for some trust that would actually whether skepticism? Did _my_ sister have to be abducted, did _I_ have to become a victim, for him to trust me the way I trust him? It's hard to remain in a relationship when half of the time I'm not prepared to be in it and the other half of the time, I feel like I'm putting so much more of myself into it than he is.

Kate looked at me for a long time as if she thought she could find some secret hidden in the minutiae detail of my expression, and then she undid the intertwining of our hands. "Feelings are a lot more important than you sometimes give them credit for," she said cryptically.

* * *

"There isn't a paper trail because he _literally_ keeps it on paper." Neal leaned over Derek's shoulder as they looked at a laptop screen on the conference room table. I looked in through the open doorway and took a deep breath. I couldn't act like anything had happened or changed between Neal and me. For all Derek knew, nothing was going on aside from Avery and his fraudulent stocks. The problem was that I was still hurting.

I _trust_ Neal. I've risked my career for him. I've put myself in danger for him both physically and emotionally, on and off the clock with work. He's welcome in my _home._ I made myself available to him in one of the most vulnerable ways humanly possible… a lot of times. After he'd left the night before, I'd gone for a long, hot shower to soak myself completely through and then taken up comfort food and television, trying to focus on anything other than Neal and the fast-paced beating of my heart in my chest. I wanted to cry for being threatened, and for him thinking so little of me that he could be turned on me by something as small as a stupid ring. I hated it even more that my first desire when sad was to lean into his chest and wrap his arms around me. He made me care about him so much that I couldn't go a day without thinking about him and worrying about him and going out of my way to do things for him, and he was ready to just as quickly threaten to shoot me.

Trying to put myself in his shoes was impossible. I didn't know what it would feel like if Kate were abducted, and I didn't want to ever have to find out what I would be driven to. I did, however, hope that I would be smart enough to hold onto the other people who cared about me. That was just it, though, wasn't it? I was lying to Neal every day by wearing my gloves because I wasn't sure how much faith I should put in that he cared about me. Maybe he was having the same doubts. I didn't know how I could've made it much more obvious that he was quickly becoming one of the few people my life pivoted around.

"Whenever that sentence is used, I always remember that we should object to that horrible misnomer," Derek complained, startling me out of thinking. I looked up, unsure when I'd started to look down as I zoned out. I blinked at cloudy vision and rubbed at my eyes with the heel of my hand, surprised I was getting that emotional right after telling myself _now don't be emotional, you're not allowed to be emotional._ Actually, no, I'm wasn't surprised at all. That is exactly the kind of rebellious act my body would decide to pull against my wishes.

Neal crossed one leg over the other at the ankle and braced himself on the table. "We find this ledger and we'll have him," he proclaimed.

Derek looked over his shoulder at the conman. "We need to find where he keeps it." Intently, they both looked at whatever they were seeing on the laptop screen.

I cleared my throat to draw their attention. Both men jumped, so absorbed in their meeting that they hadn't been paying attention to the doorway. Derek hummed at me, otherwise disgruntled at being startled. Neal had a more complex reaction. At first he started to smile, the same reaction I almost always get from him, that lifts my spirits just by knowing that seeing me can cause that emotion in him. Then he caught himself and looked down, staring at the computer and not looking at me. I looked away from him. It felt like he was afraid he would be in trouble with me still, so he needed to… not act like nothing had changed.

And it had changed, of course it had, but in a little bit of time, I'd forget what it felt like to feel as if my heart was breaking (I think) and we'd do the same thing we always do when we disagree and bicker and have a totally awesome case-solving climax to a work day, and end up in bed together, where it doesn't matter if we're mad or upset, because either way it's just more fuel to the fire. What mattered the most to me was what Neal's opinion of me was now, and although it might take one of those dangerous, adrenaline-pumping misadventures to regain that trust, that bond, that willingness to be in his arms and kiss the smiles off his face, it could be fixed, right?

"I know exactly where he keeps it," I said, shuffling my feet and looking at both of them bravely. "The problem is getting it without dying of suffocation."

* * *

I walked behind the table while the projector screen showed off the blueprints of an elite security company's design. "It was just a little bit of backtracking to find which company installed his security system, and what we have is a fire suppression system, top-notch and newest model." I had Derek and Neal sitting on one side of the conference table, Diana on the other, while I paced along the shorter side at the front of the room. I worked out my energy through my legs, and what remained was dedicated to half a dozen things at once – the process we'd gone through of tracking Avery's name and properties to find the right model, the outfits Kate was helping me style for Eleanor's next appearances, keeping Neal on Landry's good side, and keeping him safe from the temperamental broker.

Diana looked over the blueprints and snuck her eyes away, landing on Neal and letting a taunting smirk play up along her mouth. "It's the same kind they use in the top museum, so Caffrey should be familiar with them, at least."

Neal didn't miss a beat before he kicked back into the chair, holding his hand over his heart overdramatically as if she'd mortally wounded his spirit. Derek and I both chuckled at the exchange and Diana's smile became more sincere. My first impulse was to reach over the corner of the table and cuff his shoulder affectionately; I didn't think touching him would necessarily be the best move I could've made, even if he had forgiven me for the wrongs I never even committed.

Diana talked brightly, her day made. "When triggered, a polycarbonate glass wall seals the room," she brought up the cursor on the computer screen which was connected to the projector and ran it along the top of the illustrated doorframe. "And then a hydraulic vacuum sucks out the oxygen." The roof or ceiling of the room in the blueprint example was missing, so after the top of the doorframe that the seal wall was built into, there was just the top half of the wall on the opposite side of the room. Diana moved the cursor up to that area and drew the attention to a couple of normal-looking vents. "The fire dies with no damage to what's inside."

"And, if I'm in there, no air to breathe," Neal pointedly reminded, holding his hands over the sides of the arm rests and swiveling the chair back and forth, rotating it a few degrees left and right over and over, controlling the chair's movements with his feet.

"Well," Diana looked at Derek for a second before back to Neal and winced. "There _is_ a kill switch," she promised, pointing out the separate part of the blueprints that illustrated the electrical connection between the vault seal and the switch. The switch wasn't shown built-in because it could be put almost anywhere in the room that the customer wanted, so long as it was accessible to humans.

"He told me there wasn't one," I recalled thoughtfully, trying to figure out again where it could be. The box? Hidden among all of those full boxes of comics and strips of paper that seemed to hold the worth of his entire childhood? Then I saw Neal's disgruntled expression and I continued, assuring him that that wasn't the case. "But that's not possible. The kill switch is worked into the very wiring of the rest of the system; the kill switch is damaged and the vacuum refuses to come on. He was lying, which means that I was too close to it for comfort." Which didn't mean much, since it wasn't that big of a room to begin with. "It's in that room, probably somewhere easy to access."

Derek pulled the front of his jacket open and reached into the inner breast pocket. He pulled out what looked like a harmonica, except the ends were narrower, and there was a circle in the middle that looked like it pulled apart. "The tech lab has another cool gadget for you," he said, holding it between his fingers to show it off to Neal. "This mini-breather will give you five minutes of air, just in case the system is triggered."

"It'll fit in one of these." I offered up my own hollow cigar tube from the lab and pulled it open with a half-twist. "Hopefully no one gets suspicious of cigar tubes anymore." I held out one end to Derek. My brother set the miniature oxygen supply on its end in the cigar and I closed the other end over it, twisting it shut before I handed it over to Neal.

Neal took it and turned it over, feeling along the split in the tube to see how obvious it was. Experimentally, he twisted it open to feel it himself. "The FBI's been watching _Thunderball,_ " he noted, pleased, and closed it up again. "You're breaking out all the toys on this one, guys!" Smiling boyishly, he slipped the case into the front pocket over his chest. His optimistic humor was directed at all of us, which wasn't alarming, per se, but he didn't look at me as often, didn't speak directly to me like he usually did.

" _If_ anything happens, not only will I be inside, but Derek and Diana will both be with a unit right outside the property. If this goes off, they have probable cause to enter." I pointed at the projector screen. "The glass isn't unbreakable. Once it's broken open, the oxygen will rush back into the room and you'll be fine."

 _And again._ I repeated it over in my head. _You'll be fine._ Neal would be fine. He would be safe. There was a kill switch and completely fallible glass; Neal may not be a fighter, but he's not a lay-down-and-take-it-er, either, and I wouldn't let him be alone. I was glad I had Eleanor in the game. It meant I had the perfect excuse to be within seconds of him as soon as he needed me.

"Five minutes' worth of air…" Neal sought out Derek's eyes. "What's your response time?"

Derek tried to look away from him and under-confidently estimated, "Roughly… five minutes?"

Neal blinked, and then he turned back at Derek and repeated, "Roughly?"

Sensing the objections before they came, I inserted myself back into the discussion. "Again," I said firmly, giving Derek a subtle look not to reiterate himself. _Neal will be fine. No point in scaring him, it just might knock him off his game._ "I'll be inside the house with my own cover." Meaning that I could come right to his rescue as soon as I needed to.

Although he sent another cynical, lingering look at Derek, Neal cocked his head to me. "How are you going to pull that off?" I was almost expecting to hear derision or frustration. Instead there was just an undertone of relief. I hoped that it was because he felt safer knowing that I'd be there with him.

"Avery may not trust me where business is concerned," I admitted, because the only reason Eleanor even had the invitation was because she was blackmailing the stockbroker. "But he has no reason to be suspicious if LaMontagne wants a party. It's what he expects from her, after all. It's a celebration for dumping the shares and getting the money. We're both supposed to be going."

Neal nodded his understanding, and for a moment, there was a lull of discussion where no one had anything to add to the lame idea of what to do to help ensure the safeties of the people who would be inside.

The pause didn't last long – only until Neal next caught a glimpse of the blueprints. "So just – I mean, just to be clear: if anything goes wrong, I suffocate." He sounded overly casual.

Rolling my eyes, I held out my hand. I knew how to either call him out on his whining or get him to just let me do the dangerous work. "Or, you can give it to me and I'll handle it myself. You distract Avery, I slip past the partiers, and get into the vault. I find the kill switch before I trip the alarm, and if I'm caught and followed, I can trigger it deliberately. The glass won't stop bullets for long, but I can get out of the way while they shoot, and worst case scenario, the vault's refilled with oxygen when the glass breaks."

I came up with about half of that as I was talking and hoped that it sounded like I'd gone to the effort of planning it out in my head, just so that they wouldn't start arguing that I couldn't put myself in danger like that. I'd rather I be in danger than Neal, but considering that the entire setup had been intended for Neal to do the spying and sneaking, I was skeptical that Derek or Diana would see it in the same light.

Neal held out a hand to me in agreement. "Or, instead of relying on brute force," he said, phrasing it carefully so that I could hear the disdain. Diana rolled her eyes at his attitude. "You could leave me to handle it and stay somewhat safe with the others and keep your cover as a bonus."

 _No. Don't worry about my cover._ I could never just leave him to handle it. How was I possibly supposed to forget if he was in danger? Did he realize that the most terrifying moments of my life involved the times when I thought his life was at risk? Right up there with the times I'd thought something might happen to Katie. Could he _really_ ask me to focus on myself, knowing he was going to walk right into a suppression system that could have him killed in moments?

"Don't be a martyr, Neal. It doesn't suit you." Shortly, I made eye contact with him. I couldn't let it be an argument. I also couldn't let him think that my refusal to let him do this was about a power trip, or a need to control and keep tabs on him. We'd just come back from that. I didn't want to risk crossing into that territory again.

"I'm not changing my mind!" Neal argued. Without raising his voice, he just sounded more intense. "I don't need to be bailed out of this!"

Derek and Diana shared a long look and then simultaneously got out of their chairs. Diana shut the top of the laptop down and the projector went dark. I watched both of them as Diana picked up her jacket and draped it over her arm, which she held to her chest, and Derek held open the door for her as they left. I looked after them, stunned. What just happened? What had I missed?

_…_ _Did they just abandon me to Neal's melodrama?_

Speaking of Neal, he huffed down at the table. "I'll practice holding my breath," he muttered, then inhaled shallowly and puffed up his cheeks like a chipmunk.

In an ideal world and one where we were in the privacy of one of our homes rather than the middle of an FBI conference room, I'd have slapped my hands on his cheeks and laughed when he indignantly spluttered, then kissed his forehead.

* * *

It was a busy day for the Manhattan streets. I was beginning to regret that I'd chosen to walk instead of take my car, but I wouldn't have been getting anywhere very quickly without abusing my privileges of having police sirens on my vehicle, which I wasn't in the habit of doing. I was forced to suffer like the rest of the population, taking care not to run into someone else, feeling the thrum of vibrations running up the sidewalk into the soles of my shoes, and pretending not to hear anyone else's conversations on their cell phones as I assumed they showed me the same courtesy.

I moved to the left on the sidewalk to avoid someone dressed like a businessman, who nodded to me respectfully when we accidentally made eye contact. I gave him a slight smile while listening to Katie through my phone, offering to cook me something for dinner so I could hurry and leave when I needed to.

She suggested bringing home a movie and planning on using any extra time saved by having a ready-made meal to catch up on the couch. I grimaced. As appealing as it sounded to spend some quality time together, responsibilities were ringing. "I can't stay long, so I wouldn't advise planning on that," I regretfully informed. "I need to get some paperwork done. I have this party I have to go to." I looked down to my shoes for a few paces before looking back up, shaking my fringe out of my eyes. As annoying as it was to have strangers in close proximity, I still liked traveling in the big city. It was hard to feel alone.

 _"_ _Party."_ Kate sounded confused and skeptical, and even a little bit indignant. Was I prioritizing a social event over time with her? It clicked before I had to defend myself. _"Like the rooftop party?"_ I hummed. More or less, yeah – the style would be different, but both were work-related. _"Can I come?"_

The thought of taking my sister anywhere near those pigs made me bristle, even without considering the clear signs of Avery's sadism and his oxygen-depleting vault, which raised the hair on the back of my neck. "If you try to come with me, I will have you arrested solely to keep you away," I promised her solemnly. I was not above giving Derek the command to make sure Kate didn't get within ten miles of Avery if I had to.

My refusal to let her accompany me only drilled in a concern that I should have realized sooner was in her head. _"You think it's dangerous,"_ she lowered her voice and sighed sadly. Once again, I wished I'd prepared some reassuring words.

"It has the potential to be," I agreed guardedly, not saying one way or the other whether my life would actually be threatened.

She perked up. It felt artificial, but she was still trying, so I didn't call her on it. _"Good thing I have your life insurance policy in the office, right? Whether you're murdered or come home, I still have the money to fund my grocery shopping."_

Rolling my eyes, I answered, "Good to know the role I play in your life." A beeping sounded really close to my ear. I blinked and started to look to the side before I realized it was my phone. "Hang on, I have an incoming call."

Kate wistfully said, _"I should probably get back to the kids, anyway…"_ My sister didn't sound very excited about the prospect. She punctuated it with a yawn. The fight between Neal and I had stressed her out and cost her some sleep, but at least it was resolved now. Wasn't it? Katie had seen the problem fix itself right in front of her, so hopefully she'd get a long night's rest in the near future. _"Their recess technically ended a couple of minutes ago."_

Though mindful of the other person trying to contact me, I spared the time to jokingly wrap up my conversation. I made a playful gasp. "Distracted by your phone?" I clucked disapprovingly. "Bad girl."

 _"_ _I know, I'm terrible,"_ she agreed with a giggle. _"Call me soon."_

"I will," I promised. There was no way I was going to go deal with Avery and his boys' club without a more conclusive conversation with my sister, entailing a more successful attempt at comfort and plans to do something once I was freed from the constraints of my job. "Love you."

 _"_ _Love you, too,"_ she returned with an audible smile.

I took the phone away from my face. Kate had already ended the connection, and her caller ID flashed on my screen before it was replaced with an unknown number in large font across the top of the screen. I frowned at it, but accepted the call and brought it back to my ear swiftly before they hung up.

"Hello?"

There was no hesitation between my greeting and the dry-toned reply. _"I don't mean to alarm you, but you've grown a tail."_

I reminisced to myself on the days when that sort of response would've been the strangest thing to happen to me for the day. "I'm alright, thanks," I sarcastically answered, pretending that, just once, Mozzie had done the normal thing and said hello without speaking in codes and opening with something disturbing. "A little parched, but I'll live. How are you?"

 _"_ _I'm not kidding,"_ Mozzie retorted. I shut up with my smart mouthing when I heard the more intense frustration. He sounded antsy. There were the noises of urban life in the background of the phone connection. I looked around to try to pick him out of the crowd. For him to see anyone around me, he had to be within sight, too – I didn't see him, but there were a lot of people, and Mozzie wasn't the most conspicuous character when just walking on the street. _"About twenty feet behind you. He's been following you for the last several blocks."_

Mozzie was not one of the first people I'd go to for life advice, but while his paranoia seemed exaggerated and silly most of the time, I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. Besides, it was better to be safe than to be dragged into an alley and kidnapped, right?

"Hold on," I told him, a note in my voice warning him not to take the opportunity to hang up on me and toss the phone. I took it away from my ear and held it up in front of me, angled to look over my shoulder. The plain black screen hit a glare from the sun. I frowned and tilted it so that I could see the reflection of the people behind me. I dismissed several casual people who didn't seem to care that I had slowed down and zeroed in on someone in black who had turned their side to me, turning to study the side of a fire hydrant with sunglasses covering their face.

It was clearly a _he_ , and the dark blond hair on his head was the lightest thing about him, aside from his skin. He looked big and broad-shouldered – not the kind of person I would've preferred to be stalked by, had I been given a choice – and wore a plain black three-piece suit, complete with an open dark blazer. His head was turned away from me, preventing my phone from picking up even an idea of what his face looked like. The shades weren't too weird, given that the sun was making me squint when I looked in certain directions, but the dark and wide lenses were a bit too _Men in Black_ for my comfort.

I moved the phone back to my face and turned around in a one-eighty on my heel. I just joined the flow of pedestrians going back the way I had come, slipping into the spacy gap behind a woman in a summery dress and her baby stroller. "I'll go talk to him," I announced to Mozzie, fully intent on putting this to rest and _then_ addressing why I had not one, but _two_ stalkers.

 _"_ _What? No, stop!"_ Mozzie commanded me as imperiously as he could. His orders didn't carry much weight with me, and he didn't sound too authoritative to begin with.

"And let him follow me some more?" I questioned with a snort. That wasn't going to happen. I'd rather confront him while in public than risk him tracking me all the way back to mine and Kate's house. "And, about that, for you to know he was stalking me, I think you'd have to be stalking me, too."

It took him a minute to think of a reason for that one. I closed the space from twenty to fifteen feet and narrowed my eyes to closely scrutinize the male figure. I felt like I'd seen his body shape before. _"Undisclosed reasoning,"_ Mozzie grumbled discontentedly.

I bit the inside of my cheek. That wasn't going to fly, and I'd have more words with him on that later. It was more interesting to me why the professional criminal sold himself out to his mark. "Putting the knee-jerk agitation aside, you blew your own whistle because…?" At a little more than five feet away, the man started to turn his head to the left. He saw me in his periphery, coming much closer than he would've liked, and turned swiftly from the hydrant to rush past the front of the baby carriage and into a small group of people leaving a boutique. "Oh, I think I spooked him," I remarked offhandedly.

 _"_ _He's armed."_ Mozzie gravely told me, lowering his voice since we were both in public. I craned my neck to see and the moderately exasperated frown on my face slipped off into an expression of neutrality. _"I got the feeling Neal would cut me off from his wine cabinet if I let someone shoot you."_

"Maybe he's just another fed," I murmured thoughtfully, feeling my heart pick up nervously. _Hopefully…_ I couldn't be the only one who wore suits and guns out in public. Maybe I wasn't even the only one headed to my neighborhood. I didn't know who lived in which houses; maybe I wasn't the only fed on my block. Katie was friends with the neighbors, but I generally kept to myself.

Mozzie scoffed cynically. _"Another fed who's carefully avoiding letting his face be caught by any storefront cameras, who is walking away from the known fed he's been trailing, who is stalking you in the first place?"_

The following part could've been written off as coincidence, but fleeing once he knew he'd been spotted didn't bode too well for anyone. I hadn't noticed many cameras, but if anyone was going to know where they were located and what it looked like when someone kept their face away from their view, then it would be a career crook, especially one with Mozzie's technical know-how. Though putting my faith in a conspiracy theorist wasn't the most secure decision I'd ever made, the fact that he'd apparently rather draw my attention to him than let me come to harm suggested he had a good reason to be concerned.

I wasn't dumb, and I could connect the dots. Mozzie had been following me, too, and probably for more than just the day. Neal had been very hostile and aggressive when he'd seen the ring in my photograph. He'd probably told Mozzie to stalk me for a while to try to catch a lead on Moreau or gather proof that I was up to something. When we'd cleared the air, it had been late, and we'd both gone to work early. Conmen kept strange hours, but there wasn't much time for them to have rendezvoused and collaborated. All of that led me to believe Mozzie likely still suspected me of kidnapping Moreau and betraying Neal, and yet he still would prefer I knew about potential threats. It was just more proof of the same reasons I tolerated Mozzie in the first place – he wasn't malevolent. He was unethical in about a dozen ways, but he didn't condone unnecessary violence, and he would take the route that involved the least bloodshed.

Keeping in mind that I was still on Mozzie's watch list, I opted out of giving him any orders. If I told him to do something, he was more likely to huff and do the opposite. I wanted the insurance of not being on my own, so I continued the phone call. If that meant I had to cede to his paranoia, then so be it.

"It does seem odd, I'll give you that," I agreed. With the blond moving away from me and the young mother in between us, I wasn't gaining any ground on him. I wasn't losing sight of him, either. "Is it just me, or does he seem familiar?" I asked aloud, the sandy color of his hair sticking out as particularly noticeable in spite of the commonness.

_"_ _You're suits. You're all the same to me."_

Then again, was an ally really worth being talked to like that? "Maybe I should go back to being annoyed that you followed me," I muttered, not entirely sure it was loud enough for him to hear. I slipped to the left side of the stroller and picked up my pace. We were getting to the end of the block and nearer to an intersection. Between the gathered pedestrians waiting to cross and the cars that would only get in my way, it seemed like a safer bet to corner him before he got that far. I raised my voice and started to job. "Hey, sir! Nothing personal, but it's rude to tail people, so-"

I barely got to think about how I was going to finish that sentence before it was rendered pointless, anyway. The pain-in-the-ass guy took off at a sprint the second he realized I was shouting at _him_ , pumping his arms furiously and shoving his way through a group of middle-aged citizens on their late lunch break.

"I definitely spooked him," I confirmed to Mozzie, moving straight to the left and stepping off of the sidewalk curb. While the blond raced into the street and through a passing throng at the crosswalk, I bolted in front of a small Nissan and hopped up onto the opposite side of the street, making it before he could push his way through the crowd at the intersection. "Where are you?"

 _"_ _Other side of the street."_ Mozzie answered raptly, focusing on what he could see unfolding. _"Look up. Okay, now to your right."_ I turned my head to scan to my right on the next block. Nothing and no one stood out as recognizable, but I jogged along the edge of the sidewalk to meet the blond where he was going to make it onto the block. _"Your_ _ **other**_ _right!"_ Mozzie complained.

"That's _your_ right!" I retorted. Straight ahead of me was the corner of a block that wasn't as busy, and to the left of the corner, one of the few people standing by a long row of trimmed hedges raised a newspaper. It was a yard owned by the parks district, not officially part of the residential section, but right on the outskirts of it. It separated apartment tenants from the bustle and invasive noises of the mass population. When they lowered the paper, I saw Mozzie's glasses and irritated expression.

As I watched, Mozzie pointed to the street in front of him. _"He's cutting past that Corolla,"_ he informed. _"I think he's headed east."_

The blond leapt up onto the sidewalk and bolted past Mozzie, running at a full sprint. I saw the warning lights on the crosswalk guide counting down the seconds until the stoplight would turn green again and bit my lip, springing forward into a sudden dash. I crossed the intersection with seconds to spare and banked hard to the left to pursue, whizzing by Mozzie and chasing the flighty mystery stalker.

Normally I'd have been annoyed that he wasn't doing much to help, but Mozzie was more tactical than he was firepower, and I was far more in shape than he was, anyway. I wasn't too sure how even I would hold up against the big guy I was trying to catch, but I knew that if he had any experience with combat whatsoever, the blond could knock Moz onto the ground with just a few blows. He had the size to do it.

The blond seemed to have a destination in mind. Instead of traveling into another group, he forced himself to move faster on the sidewalk in a straight line. We went past the buffer strip of green and the hedges on my right became replaced with a ten-foot-tall wrought iron fence, separating the public from the gated community. The blond approached the gates quickly while the security guard was giving directions to tourist with a map, and in spite of his clumsily loud approach, he slid in through the unguarded gate before the security detail had any idea he was there.

"He's headed into Gramercy Park," I reported.

 _"_ _Follow him!"_ Mozzie urged as if that thought hadn't already occurred to me. In the few seconds between my target and myself, the guard returned to his station and blocked the way to the gate. _"I'll wait at the exit."_

"Moz, there are four exits including this one."

_"_ _Then I'll choose one!"_

I planted my feet and almost managed to "stick the landing," so to speak, in front of the gates. I had to look up to see the security guard. Even taller than Neal, and wearing a visor which shadowed his face, I had second thoughts about trying to shove my way past. Those were quickly dispelled when I caught the tail of my new friend's suit slipping out of sight behind a tree, where gardened flora and vegetation gave him cover inside the residential section of the neighborhood.

"Excuse me, FBI," I said, pointing to my own chest and looking determinedly up. The brown-skinned guard didn't look particularly intimidating on his own. If it wasn't for the uniform and the holster of a weapon at his belt (it could have been a taser or a gun), then I wouldn't have been very worried about explaining myself. He was thin and looked a little gangly, but clearly his physicality was not congruent with his attitude. He turned his eyes on me stonily. "I need through," I pointed behind him.

He cleared his throat and made no motion to get out of my way. Growing irritation overcame my lack of willingness to pick a fight I didn't think I could fairly win. I had more important things to deal with than some hero who couldn't pay enough attention to stop a suspicious character from waltzing right inside the place he was supposed to protect.

"This is a residential park, ma'am," he informed, completely forgoing any sort of title where my career was involved.

I yanked my badge out of my pocket with the hand not holding my phone and let the billfold fall down, holding it up so my credentials were easy to see and illuminated by the sunlight. "And this is a federal badge, sir," I replied irately, holding my phone tighter. "Let me continue pursuing my suspect or I'll kick you in the jewels and climb the fence."

The promised assault turned out not to be necessary. Although he scowled at me in disapproval for my communication skills, he saw the seal of my badge and moved to the side compliantly. I ducked my head down and pulled at my jacket to slide my credentials into the inner breast pocket while I entered the gates, temporarily crossing through a shadow where I was covered overhead by a mix of welded iron and terraced leaves.

I got into the open of the inside courtyard but then stilled, turning my head to look from my left to my right, checking out the entire scope of my vision. The apartment complexes were to the left and more gardens and scenery extended in the opposite direction. The garden was nice, probably tended to by a hired company, and was littered with a few water fountains, picnic tables, and plaques that illustrated and explicated the plants that were growing in particular arrangements. Stone walkways cut through in symmetrical and organized paths. I knew from seeing pictures that there were several circular clearings in the garden, all connected by the stone trails. It wasn't a large space, but having vegetation that grew high made it feel more condensed in spite of the sunlight and city noises penetrating through and over the gates.

I saw plenty of people, but none caught my eye. Several were very obviously residents of the apartments. Others were dressed in bright colors that made me want to look, which told me without a second glance that they weren't the right people to be looking at. The person I was after didn't want to be noticed. He wanted eyes to slip past him like he wasn't even there. He didn't want any witnesses to know that they had seen anything worth remembering.

I thrummed the fingers of my right hand against the same thigh. "Where are you…" I murmured, debating the merits between hiding with civilians and hiding in a place where foliage would give him some, albeit limited, coverage. "Where are you…"

What with the dramatically intense turn that my break had taken in a very short amount of time, it was understandable that I had practically forgotten that I'd still been on the phone. The speaker by my ear made me jump as if hands had come to touch my shoulders from behind.

 _"_ _Hang on."_ Mozzie paused shortly. _"It's Neal. I'm putting us in conference call."_ Ah, so an incoming call. My chest clenched. Neal had some pretty bad timing, but if he was calling Mozzie, then there was probably a reason other than just asking to catch up. Maybe I was being followed by someone I shouldn't have been. Maybe I was being targeted by someone completely different, completely unrelated to Neal _or_ Mozzie, in which case I _wanted_ someone else to know what was happening and where we were. _"Hey, Neal-"_

 _"_ _Moz, I'm being followed."_ Neal urgently interrupted without pleasantries. His voice wasn't hushed, but it was lowered to preserve his privacy in that secretive way that was typically shortly followed by the throwing up of a façade for one purpose or another.

The worries that Neal's timing could be improved on dissipated entirely, replaced with what felt like ice water to my face. He was being stalked, too? It wasn't just me? There went my theory that maybe I was getting a break from all of the Fowler and Moreau baggage. Just once in a while, I'd like for something bad that happened to _not_ be directly tied to my consultant in some way.

"Yeah, so was I," I told him grimly, still compulsively clenching and loosening my other hand, deciding to walk at a normal pace forward into the garden. He had some time on me, but not a lot, and he would have known that I had a badge to get me in the gates before he had time to get all the way to the apartments. If he wanted to lose me, then the best way to do that would be to take cover where he could get it.

Neal's surprise was palpable and temporarily overrode his alarm. _"Kenna?"_

 _"_ _We're on three-way,"_ Moz shortly told Neal. He knew that there were more important things to worry about than having a third party to a private phone call. _"Where are you?"_

Sneaking into the garden in a prowl, I looked for anything that didn't blend in with the bright and vibrant colors. The only exception was the dull grey and bronze of the stones and the accompanying plaques. _There._ Something dark through the leaves on the other side of a curved bank, shored up with cinderblocks and mortared together to hold soil. The gardening plot curved away from one of the clearings I could partially see.

I stepped to the right rapidly, meaning to catch them off-guard. Like a rabbit, the color moved, hopping out. I stumbled backwards. It was just a kid, nine or ten at the oldest, in a jacket while he carried a toy truck.

I pursed my lips and looked up again, circling around the plot and coming out into the clearing. Someone who shared enough resemblance to the kid to be a relative clicked after him in heavy shoes with buckles on the sides. An elderly woman and someone thirty years younger were facing each other on a small picnic bench with a thick book or album between them. It was normal. It was disgustingly dull and uninteresting, until I saw another sudden movement taking another figure out of sight and down an adjacent stone path.

I looked up to see more of him. He wasn't as tall as the blond that I had chased inside, but I could still see pale white skin contrasting starkly with an ebony suit and a dark blue dress shirt. Thick, tinted sunglasses hid his eyes, and his hair, unlike my prey's, was a little bit longer, a lot messier, and a ton blacker.

My mouth tightened into a thinner line. "Let me guess," I predicted before Neal or Mozzie could speculate or answer each other's inquiries. "Gramercy Park."

 _"_ _How'd you know?"_ Neal asked, slightly out of breath, as if he'd run recently.

I started off in the direction that the brunet had slunk towards, intending to let him think he'd lost me. If I kept a little bit of distance, then he was less likely to dash into a sprint. Maybe he'd even think he'd lost his pursuer. Considering that he was probably in cahoots with the blond that caught Mozzie's attention, and since Neal had just confirmed his general location, I supposed that he didn't realize the woman on her phone was someone he shouldn't want to be seen by. Maybe he only knew what Neal looked like.

"I gave chase," I told Neal, murmuring softly through the phone connection. I wanted to hear if my new target changed pace or direction, and I didn't want him hearing me. "And my stalker came here."

Neal seemed to accept it. I couldn't know where he was. I didn't see him with my eyes and didn't have the time to put aside to pull up his tracking data and find exactly where he was in the park without losing track of his own newly-acquired shadow. He did, however, sound slightly distracted, focused on something else – identifying and catching up with the people who thought to tail us.

_"_ _Same guy?"_

"No, we came from outside your radius."

 _"_ _That can't be coincidence,"_ Mozzie fretted, going straight into his anxious mode of assuming the majority of the world was out to get him in some way or another. In this case, he might not have been far off the mark.

I rolled my head on my shoulders, pressing my phone to my cheek while I reached to my waist with both hands and tugged on my jacket, intentionally repositioning it so the blazer covered up the holster of my concealed sidearm. He wasn't going to take me by surprise, and I wasn't going to give him the opportunity to be spooked before he was given a choice to cooperate or to face the consequences.

"I've got eyes on one of the Men in Black over there," I addressed calmly. "I'm going for it."

Neither of them seemed to care that I was moving in on my own without backup, a clear contrast to working a foot pursuit with any sort of government-sanctioned team. If the government was aware of the awkward working partnership that the three of us managed to draw out of thin air whenever the situation called for it, at least one person would've had a heart palpitation, another fraction would declare it suspicious behavior on my part, and more would probably want to find a way to prohibit us from ever collaborating again.

However, similar to a bureau team, we all stayed in near-constant contact so that we would be updated. I didn't know for sure about Mozzie – he was still a bit of a wild card – but where Neal and I were concerned, if a member of the team was hurt, then we'd drop the attack plan to ensure that defensive action was taken before offensive. We couldn't let one of our own be hurt. If I'd hung up in that moment, without warning, without explanation, then I strongly believed Neal would jump to a conclusion that I was in over my head and would barrel around the park until he'd found me.

 _"_ _Moz, are you in the park?"_ Neal asked, taking up a leading role to try working out an ambush.

_"_ _I'm at the east exit."_

_"_ _Reposition. We're going towards the south."_

A light went off in my head where the directions were. First, if my sense of direction was correct (and it usually was), then Neal and I were both going in the same direction, which meant that we'd meet up sooner rather than later, unless he had entered from the northernmost gates. Second, the southernmost entrance was pushing at the limits of Neal's permitted radius. I wasn't entirely sure he'd be allowed to even leave the park in that direction without pushing his anklet into panic mode. Thirdly, if I had come in from the west gates, Mozzie covered the east, and Neal and I were both nearing the southern gates, then the odds were high that our suspects were almost in our grasp.

I countermanded Neal. It would've been rude, had he been an agent, but I took my responsibility as his protector very seriously, even with everything else going on. When he got to wave a badge and threaten to kick people in the pants without ramification, _then_ he could call the shots.

"No, stay at the east exit. Neal, head towards the west – if you leave through the south gates, your anklet will go off." _And,_ I added to myself silently, _it'll cover that escape route if the blond doubles back._

My orders were not to be heeded. _"I see him!"_ Neal shouted over the phone suddenly, wound up in excitement and startled energy. I bet my career on that he started chasing. Unsurprisingly, with the raise of his voice, I also heard another echo of his words outside of the phone line, coming from somewhere further into the garden and down another set of paths. I couldn't see him, but I got the notion of where he was.

"This is ridiculous," I griped. For someone who hated violence, Neal sure did seem eager to disregard the advisement of a seasoned agent in favor of getting face-to-face with someone we suspected to be armed and dangerous.

My own exasperated thoughts reminded me of the too-fresh wounds of Neal – gentle, passionate Neal, who used his hands to create art, not to punch and slap and pull triggers – being very armed and dangerous himself, holding a shotgun and aiming perfectly at moving targets, looking right at me, threatening me with a weapon in his hands…

I pushed that aside. A common enemy was more important than a living nightmare. I had lived through enough traumas that were far more scarring, even if less heartbreaking, and soon enough, that one would be added to the list of distant memories I didn't think about.

 _"_ _South gate!"_ Neal shouted, both through the phone and through the garden, bounding after someone. Neal's voice freaked out the brunet I was following. Something snapped on the ground, either a stick or a very crunchy leaf, and then he started to run in the direction of the nearest exit.

I heaved a sigh, gave up on the pretenses of stealth, and erupted into a sprint before he got away. One day, I was going to tell Neal not to do something, he was going to do the thing, his anklet would go off because of it, and then he would learn that sometimes it's actually wise to listen to what I had to say. That day may not have been in the foreseeable future, but it would happen.

I hoped.

"Sometimes, when I say things, they're not just friendly suggestions!" I yelled in frustration, stuffing my phone in my pocket without ending the call. If I was close enough to hear Neal, then I didn't really need the connection for much longer. Both arms free, I had better abilities to both push myself onwards and balance while taking sharp turns to stay on the path.

It wasn't as long of a run as it felt like. I was running only part of the block since passing Mozzie while fixated on the blond. The garden didn't extend as far as the conman had been standing and lying in wait, keeping tabs on me. The distance felt longer because the path wasn't straight or parallel to the sidewalk, and having so much clutter from the garden plots made it seem more claustrophobic. It wasn't crowded, not really, but when I was racing at my top speeds and focused solely on getting to the gates, getting to Neal, getting to my uninvited fans – well, the world narrowed and I got a bit of tunnel vision.

The south gates, for whatever reason, didn't have anyone guarding them. I burst through after drawing my shoulders in so I didn't body slam into the sides of the metal on accident in my haste. Neal was already standing out there, shoulders rolled back and chest moving noticeably while he tried to catch his breath, looking around frantically. Despite his eagerness to find who we'd chased, his feet remained glued to the ground.

"There was a brunet," I panted. "He should've left before me."

"He did," Neal confirmed, reaching up to the back of his neck to scratch his fingernails through his hair. "I don't know how… he had less than twenty seconds on me, I know it."

 _So where'd they go?_ How could both of them have melted into nothing? Being suddenly out of the enclosed space was like coming into fresh air again. I felt like I'd escaped an entirely different terrain. It was fresh air, even though the air in the enclosed park was almost certainly fresher than the air in public Manhattan. The sidewalk, the cars, the people – the colors and shininess almost blinded me at first, seemed unreal after so long in the immersive environment from Gramercy's foliage.

Neal's anklet was panicking, which explained why he hadn't moved to try to solve the mystery himself. He jerked up his pant leg to see. The small plastic box against the side of his leg was rapidly blinking orange as he stood within a foot of the edge of his perimeter. He dropped his slacks with a groan.

Mozzie arrived only seconds later, while I stood at Neal's side and put a hand on my chest while I looked around. Mozzie didn't seem nearly as out of breath, but he didn't look exactly pleased, either. He reminded me of someone who'd been rushed out of the house, looking partially belligerent, partially tired, and partially defeated. He saw the two of us, alone, and looked down the street.

"We may have been too late." His unwelcome fear was not boding well with my nerves, and right before I could tell him rudely to shut up, Mozzie raised his arm to point out an obnoxiously yellow car at a stop in the street, paused for a red light over a crosswalk. "Taxi at two o'clock."

The taxi was just like any other cab, which was why I hadn't thought anything of it when my eyes first passed over it. The light changed as the last of the pedestrians cleared out of the way and the vehicle started to crawl away, tires slowly rotating. A long-fingered hand rested over the rolled-down window, partially outside the door. A black sleeve and the reflection of matching hair and shades sold me on the rider's identity, but the ring that adorned the man's right ring finger was what drove the point home for Neal.

It was the same FBI ring that I had showed him, let him hold and feel and see, the night before, yet it was on another person's hand. It was the same ring that he had seen in the photograph of Kate Moreau at the ATM, the same ring from the photograph that made him turn on me. As my chest tightened, a pit of anger started to well up in my gut with an intensity that blinded me to my weariness, my security concerns, and my normal reservations.

Neal held his hands out to his sides uselessly. "I've found the end of my leash," he said, warring between helplessness and devastation. _So close, but still out of reach._

I hadn't needed anything else to fuel the desire to just punch the window of the taxi out, but if I had, then hearing Neal's defeated voice would've done it. I didn't like that someone had made him sound like that. I could handle him being snide, cocky, sulky, happy, mean – they were all moods I'd been privileged enough to be permitted to see without a mask. What I _couldn't_ tolerate was some coward too scared to show his face being brazen enough to do anything that made my lover sound so hurt and upset.

"Then wait here and I'll drag him back," I boldly spoke before I knew what I was saying. I lifted my arms and rolled up my sleeves to my elbows, stalking forwards intently. Traffic could go fuck itself. The intersection was still busy and the cars were still about as fast as my walking gait. He didn't get to do that to Neal and then get away clean. He was going to face the consequences, even if it meant that I had to stuff a cloth in his mouth and drag him back with rope and knots.

"He's in a moving car!" Mozzie shouted at my back.

"Gun trumps tires!" I hollered right back over my shoulder, eyes locked on the hand visible over the door. It pulled itself into the car as the window rolled up.

 _Try harder than that,_ I sneered, stepping right over the curb and striding confidently into the street. Thankfully, it occurred to me that my badge might be useful. Despite Mozzie not being the one collared to the sidewalk, he remained with Neal while I stormed straight into the street with moving cars. I couldn't make a straight line for the taxi, but I sped up my pace in case the traffic stopped being so sluggish and marched past cars parallel parked at the side of the street.

The wheels started picking up. The intersection was cleared and the light was green. The first car rolled up into the crosswalk and into the open street. The taxi was so close, just another car up and I would be there. Changing my pace into a jog felt like it stripped me of some of my control by admitting I couldn't catch it with my own authority. I took longer strides, one hand in a painfully-tight fist, the other brandishing my credentials.

Reaching the taxi right as it started to roll forwards, I hit the window with the back of my hand for the driver's attention and then smacked my badge against the glass.

The brakes were hit slowly. I just took a few steps to stay even with the vehicle while he let the brake lights show he was stopping to the cars behind him. A couple of people honked. I held out my badge and gestured to myself. I was dressed in a pantsuit, I looked professional, and I had a badge. They could just go screw themselves for all I cared – I had a goal, and it wasn't one I was willing to walk away from.

The window was rolled down. I took my badge away and tucked it into my jacket. The driver inside was wearing a beanie pulled down over his forehead. He was handsome, I guess, but my focus wasn't on the driver. He had a tag up hanging from the rearview mirror certifying the car as public transport.

He held a hand out and kept the car still with his foot on the brakes. He didn't shift into park. "Now I don't want no trouble with the FBI, Agent," he told me peacefully, antsy and nervous. I turned my head to look into the backseat. The brunet was there, his tie already loosened and blazer's collar adjusted, and his youthful face looked completely horrified. "I've gone and registered for the new license-"

"What?" The agent in me caught that he wasn't entirely up-to-date, but I shoved that aside. "Shut up, I don't care about you. Unlock your doors." I locked eyes with the dark-haired man in the back.

The driver looked to his left side and used the master controls on the door. The locking mechanisms shot up on all four doors to the car. Departing from the passenger's side, I yanked on the handle to the back door and swung it open widely while traffic honked and shouted through their windows.

"Out," I snapped, reaching in and wrapping my fingers in a vice grip around his wrist. I tugged him out meanly. "Come on, now, move!" The boy stumbled. His face was sharp and angular, a thick dust of freckles on his face and heavy around the bridge of his nose. His green eyes were wide and his motions were jerky and uncoordinated. He was tall and gangly and almost hit his head in his haste to get out of the car, knees shaking. I turned back to the sidewalk and slammed the taxi door shut, forcing the brat to come with me back to answer to Neal and Mozzie. "You're under arrest," I threatened, mostly to capitalize on his obvious fear.

"What did I do?!" He wailed, leaning back away from me. He was too smart to try to rip out of my grasp, which would have ended very poorly for him.

"I don't know, but I'll find something!" I promised, snarling. Traffic started to resume its usual flow, right as the light turned red again and they all had to stop. I yanked his arm harder to coax him up onto the sidewalk and led him to the side, back towards the park gates where my accomplices waited.

Mozzie looked vaguely respectful for once. I suppose ignoring moving cars and getting my suspect regardless was pretty badass. Neal had a mix of emotions on his face, the dominant ones being anger and relief. Fixing my jaw sternly, I dug my fingernails into the man's wrist and refused to let him have any slack. He was stalking my friend; he would just have to deal with the consequences of pissing off a viciously protective FBI agent.

I looked back over my shoulder when I saw that the shorter conman looked puzzled as he took in the face and expression of the brat I apprehended. I really looked at him. He was young and paralyzed in fear, legs shaking and constantly having to catch himself from losing his balance. The fright in his face made him seem like I was leading him to a slaughterhouse. I didn't slow down, but I did start to reluctantly second-guess myself. That wasn't the demeanor of someone who malevolently stalked after citizens in the street – he was practically a kid. Hell, he could have broken into my _house_ and I still wouldn't feel threatened _._ If he'd carried himself the way he was, I'd have slapped some cuffs on him and offered him some coffee while we waited for a police cruiser.

"How old are you?" I asked rudely.

"Nineteen!" He yelped.

"Nineteen?" I repeated. "Jesus." He really _was_ a kid. Nineteen was hardly old enough to be part of a conspiracy to abduct a woman and lead a criminal thief around by the nose for seven months. And, going off of this one's attitude, nineteen was hardly old enough to be alone in the big apple. "What were you _doing,_ stalking my consultant?" I checked his hand discreetly. Yes, he still wore the ring, but I began to feel a hint of trepidation. What if that was a misdirect? The blond had been armed, Mozzie had seen that, but this one didn't have anything but the suit he wore and the jewelry that caught our ire.

The blond hadn't seemed like a kid, from what I'd been able to see of him, although that admittedly wasn't much.

I pulled him up in front of my boys and stopped suddenly. He hovered behind me, unwilling to put himself in the middle of three strangers. "I don't know," he cried, his emerald eyes truly ready to well up and start bawling.

That it was kind of mean beside the point, I kept bullying him, just into finding out the truth of the matter. Niceness was a luxury I couldn't afford without risking him recovering enough composure to lie. "You don't know, or you don't want to tell me?" I interrogated.

"I didn't do anything!" He protested, rubbing his sharp cheek with the inside of his wrist. The ring glinted and Neal reached out, taking a swipe for the kid's arm. He froze, catatonic, and Neal's hand tightened, turning the boy's wrist so that he was looking right at the ring design.

"Where did you get this ring?" Neal demanded, equally rough.

The kid whimpered and turned his head away from Neal. He was unwilling to look at the sharp, cutting glare from my CI's blue eyes, nor Mozzie's disapproving, arm-crossed glower and defensive stance. He averted his eyes down to the sidewalk, flinching. Between Neal and I, he couldn't have run unless he was enough like a rodent to gnaw through his ownwrists and set himself free.

"He just gave it to me when he gave me the money?" He unsurely explained, his pitch going up in a pained and tearful whine.

I took a breath to calm myself while Neal shared an intense look with Moz. "What money?" I questioned.

He took his hand out of Neal's grip and moved for the sunglasses hooked over the collar of his shirt. "The big blond guy gave me three hundred up front to put on these glasses and this thing and do as he said!" His catatonia was replaced with fidgety panic as he ripped the glasses off and shoved them towards Neal. "He paid me. I swear I don't even know who you are," he begged us to believe him, directed mostly at Neal. He pressed his fingers against his ribs and worked the ring off of his hand. "He just said to follow you, not to talk, and to come to the south side of Gramercy for a cab if you saw me."

He pushed the ring at Neal, wanting nothing to do with it. With the background, I looked up towards the sky and rolled my head back. I could believe that… he didn't look gutsy enough to lie to us, and while fear could be faked, it was much harder to trick your body into trembling the way his was. Neal took the ring in his fist and held it to his side.

"Please don't arrest me," he pleaded, reaching for my hand on his wrist. Instead of trying to make me let go, he laid his palm over my hand and squeezed, begging for his freedom. I groaned softly. There was no way I could arrest some nineteen-year-old for doing nothing but following someone and evading arrest. Normally I wouldn't have hesitated – I had the grounds to at least hold him for seventy-two hours – but not with the context. It would raise too many questions. The blond was the real player. This kid was just a convenient pawn. "It's my first year away from home, I just need the money to pay my tuition-!"

Mozzie interrupted his teary blubbering. "Where did the blond go?" He asked, not meanly. None of us felt quite as angry with the apparent college freshman. He'd been roped into this by financial need and obviously knew nothing about what he'd been doing or who he'd been doing it for.

"I don't know," he swore.

Neal sighed, looking down the street in the opposite direction. If the taxi had been going to the west, then our blond probably split in the opposite direction while we were distracted. "We're not going to find him," he predicted heavy-heartedly. "The kid's a decoy. He's long gone."

I took his word for it. Neal was a conman – he'd probably run tricks just like the one we'd fallen for. "Damn it!" I kicked my foot into the sidewalk and scuffed my shoe.

After a couple of seconds of heavy breathing, I released the brat's wrist. He jerked it up to his chest and cradled his hand with the other, acting like I'd fractured his bones or something. I took my billfold out and slipped a card out of a slot, the thin cardstock containing my contact information. I was loathe to risk the bureau finding out about this incident. For the same reasons that I wasn't willing to arrest the kid even with my probable cause, I didn't want anyone at work to know what had happened. Everything about Moreau and the man with the ring needed to be kept under the table before another thing like the _Le Joyau_ heist happened.

I handed him my contact information. It was a risk I'd have to take, giving him my full name and work address. The alternative was letting him just walk and possibly take any advantages with him. "You see this guy again, if he contacts you in any way, you call me." I commanded, holding it out between two fingers. He looked at my hand and then plucked the card away with a squeak. "If you don't and I find out about it – and I _will_ find out about it – I really will arrest you for obstruction of justice."

 _Talk, talk, talk._ I'd probably just show up and frighten him half to death again.

He looked between Neal and Mozzie next, worried one of them was going to tackle him. "I can really go?" He asked hopefully, holding his arms close to himself protectively.

I gave them both a slight nod. I'd said what I had to say and gotten my objectives met. Neal turned around, running his hand through his thick hair and pacing towards the fence, too stressed to handle the kid. Mozzie took the lead instead, jerking his head towards the street.

"Yeah, get lost," he told, holding up a hand bossily. "And next time some sketchy guy pays in cash, run away! People like him chew you freshmen up for breakfast."

Looking suitably chastened and as though he'd definitely learned his lesson about pissing off the wrong people, he nodded, backed away slowly, and then turned tail and leapt into action, sprinting away as if the hounds of hell were growling at his heels. At least the worst people he'd had to meet for that lesson to be taught was the three of us. I pushed my hair out of my face and shook my head. I felt like I'd been played for a fool, and I hated the feeling.

The big blond guy had won this round, but it still left important questions. Who was he? What did he want? What role did he have to play in Moreau's disappearance, and why was he having Neal and I followed?

It had to be something about Kate. Neal was a stronger connection to her than I would ever be, so why - … I had talked to her. When I met with Moreau, a secret I elected to keep to myself for the time being against Katie's advisement, I had done so in a way that protected both of us. If anyone had found out, much less the man who had her, then it only made sense he'd be wary of me. What if he'd hoped I'd lead him back to her, or show how we'd gotten in contact behind his back? Of course he wouldn't give up his tabs on Neal, but I was more threatening to his plan than my consultant was.

Large, blond, and mean. I scoffed. I knew why I'd thought he seemed familiar. I'd met him before.

Neal came walking back over slowly, caught my eyes, and nodded slowly. He landed his hand solidly on Mozzie's shoulder. "Moz, I guess now would be a good time to tell you that Kenna's off our watch list."

"I knew it," I muttered. Neal _had_ enlisted Mozzie to spy on me.

Mozzie looked at me cynically. "I'm going to regret giving you the warning, aren't I?" He asked rhetorically. Giving himself away opened himself up to the retribution of me getting back at them for stalking me.

"We both will," Neal foresaw.

I agreed. "You will definitely both be feeling a lot of regret."

We all stood there outside the gates. Luckily, no one seemed inclined to exit the gardens through that exit. I rubbed at my forehead while Neal slid the ring surreptitiously into his pocket and Mozzie rubbed the lenses of his glasses onto the flannel of his shirt before replacing them on his nose.

Finally, Neal lifted a hand and gestured vaguely at the street. "So that was him," he concluded, his composure back. "The blond is the man with the ring."

"Big, blond, and has access to FBI jewelry?" I summarized what we'd found just from this fruitless chase and shook my head, looking into the street. A wind picked up and rustled the branches of the park trees. The gentle sweep of breeze into my face blew my fringe back and cooled me down like a calming touch. "I don't want to be the one to say it, but…"

I trailed off. Neal picked up for me with his fists in angry balls. "Fowler," he declared, putting voice to what I'd been thinking. He did so without hesitation, dead-set on Fowler's guilt the same way he'd been hell-bent on mine. At least now we were back on the same page. I knew he'd never stopped faulting Fowler for framing him for stealing the pink diamond, but the reaffirmation that Fowler had also taken Moreau compounded his wrath. "It was Fowler!"

"What's he doing back in New York so soon?" Mozzie asked us, properly trepid about the reappearance. We had no proof, but it was enough to convince us. I thought I'd chased him away for a while. If he wasn't visiting the bureau building, then he wouldn't be staying for long, but still…

"Tricking us into chasing our tails," Neal growled accusatorily.

"Literally," Mozzie remarked unhelpfully, referring to the stalkers.

I turned back to both of them. _What now?_ I projected. What could we do about Fowler? Why was he chasing us? Why follow us in the streets when he could just as easily invade through work, or look into Neal's anklet data again? Surely he knew that we'd pick up on it eventually. It was more conspicuous. It was weirder for him to tail other agents in secret than it was to find an excuse to cohabitate in the WCCD.

Neal looked at Mozzie and I both with a dark expression and a slump to his shoulders. He pushed his hand over his hair again, the wind catching the locks and ruffling them over his forehead. His other hand slipped into his pocket and he stood straight, leaning back slightly, distancing himself from us both.

"Come on," he invited, gesturing with a hand to enter the gates and cut back through Gramercy. "There's something I need to tell you both."

Something he kept from me _and_ Mozzie? The two of us shared a conspiratorial glance, worried and unimpressed, but Mozzie huffed, checked for a security guard, and then went back into the gardens. I paused by Neal before I passed him, held a hand up, reconsidered, and clapped my hand roughly on his upper arm instead. I squeezed his bicep comfortingly. I knew what it felt like to miss something so close by. It wasn't a loss, it was just another reason to try harder. Spite could be very motivational.

* * *

June was on some errands and she had supposedly given her few staff members the day off, so Neal took Mozzie and I to his residence for a private conversation. It was a convenient spot – out of the open, reasonably secure, and comfortable for all three of us. I wasn't too confident on my abilities to drag Mozzie into my house or convince him to take me to his, even if the places in question were the only shelters from a long-distance sniper rifle.

In place of the penthouse, we went into June's enormous, modestly-decorated kitchen, and Neal brewed coffee for the two of us and some tea for Mozzie. I had gone to set it to steep, but Moz had cleared his throat while pretending to look the other way, so Neal and I switched tasks and I added the creams and sugars to our drinks while he took over his friend's. I rolled my eyes gratuitously and intentionally grumbled loudly enough for Mozzie to hear that if I _really_ wanted to kill him, I wouldn't bother with subtlety. I _did_ have a perfectly-able sidearm fastened at my hip.

Nothing of substance was said until we had all sat down. I sent a text to Katie letting her know I'd be home later than I'd thought, that I was sorry, something urgent had come up and couldn't wait, but that it was nothing dangerous or too important. I hoped that I hadn't been lying. We'd caught onto him, made him run away, and hopefully Fowler would take a hint and get lost – and stop using barely-legal kids for his nefarious purposes. I almost preferred it when he'd conspired behind-the-scenes with Tulane.

Then I had to forget all thoughts of Katie, Tulane, and the ashen-faced brat who had probably gone to get some Ben and Jerry's to cry into by now in lieu of listening to a wild story courtesy of my consultant.

When my team had been celebrating Neal's exoneration and the recovery of the pink diamond, Neal had been on a short phone call with Kate Moreau, who had directly dialed the division. According to Neal, his sister had sounded panicked and breathed heavily, as if she'd been running or had been hurt. She yelled and had the phone taken away from her, and the call ended before she could give him any information on where she was or what was happening. This alone was hard for me to swallow, but I covered my cynicism with coffee. Knowing what I knew from my own covert meeting, I found it unlikely that Kate had been trying that hard to tell him where she was, anyway.

The day after Fowler was chased out of town and Neal's name was cleared, he had heard back from street contacts that he tactfully avoided naming. Fowler was staying in a five-star hotel for the duration of his stay in New York. Convinced beyond a doubt that it was Fowler who had taken the phone from Kate, he ran straight to the hotel.

 _Another weird thing._ Of all of the hotels in the entire city, Fowler had chosen one within a two-mile radius of Neal's known residence. _Coincidence or intent?_

Upon arriving at the hotel, he used the room number he was illicitly provided with and all but broke the door down trying to get inside. Fowler opened it for him and Neal shoved past, shouting for Kate. The hotel suite was large, larger than he had expected, and it had plenty of people in it – but not one of them was Kate Moreau. When recounting this, Neal gestured to me vaguely and said, clearly having trouble articulating it, that they had all had a certain way of dressing and holding themselves. Mozzie took his indication and tried to offer the suggestion that they had seemed like feds. Neal had shaken his head, said that it was close but not quite it, and he didn't know who they were or what they were doing there, but Fowler had been pretty upset when he demanded how Neal knew about Project Mentor.

Neal had no idea what he was talking about, and once he knew for sure that Kate wasn't being hidden, he made a quick escape – from Fowler and from the unfamiliar faces – but not before he accused Fowler of kidnapping his sister. He threw most of our information at him, saying we knew that her captor was an FBI agent, among other things.

The worst part of it all was the closing part of the story. Fowler had reached for Neal, who moved out of the way. Looking pained and sympathetic, the blond told Neal that he _knew_ someone in the FBI had taken Kate, and then asked him why Neal thought that he'd been looking into his handler.

The reason Neal had turned on me hadn't just been because of the ring in the photograph. Fowler had all but told him that I was OPR's suspect of corruption within the New York branch of the FBI, and Neal had been holding desperately to the idea that Fowler had been lying to him until he saw the ring. Not knowing that it was far from unique, he'd thought it was the last damning evidence, and twisted coincidences of our case history around to fit what he thought was the truth.

At the end, he admitted that it was a convoluted version of the truth when he reviewed his beliefs now, and Neal apologized wholeheartedly, reaching for my hand. He squeezed my palm tightly, rubbed his thumbs into the heel of my hand, and truly appeared devastated by that he'd been played into a betrayal of my own loyalty. I couldn't say it didn't hurt, so I didn't hold his hand, and he let go pretty quickly. I didn't rub anything in any further, though. His contrition was enough, and I had larger battles to worry about than something that had already been resolved. Mostly, I was ready to kill Fowler for what he'd done to my relationship.

The phone call was disturbing, but didn't seem too different from the setup of the phone call at Grand Central Station: Kate called Neal, hurriedly staged it to seem as though she wasn't safe and wouldn't be able to talk for long, and was vague and indiscriminant with what she _did_ say, presumably because she was scared of what would happen to her if she said too much. Then, without much of a warning, the phone call was abruptly ended, and by the time Neal got to the location she had been contacting him from, it was as if she'd never been there.

It was what Fowler had said to Neal that concerned me the most. The assumption that Neal had burst into his hotel room because of Project Mentor, whatever that was, made it almost a certainty that it had something to do with Neal and/or Moreau. That he said Neal wasn't supposed to know about it was even more troubling. Had he intentionally let it slip as part of a trap or sinister setup? Or – and this was possibly worse – was something going on that revolved around Neal that no one, not even his handler in the FBI, knew about?

"What's Mentor?" Mozzie asked me, just _assuming_ that I would know what it was. By the time the story was over, our drinks had cooled down to the point that they were lukewarm, and Mozzie seemed disinterested in finishing his tea. I shook my head with my hand still wrapped around my coffee mug. "An acronym?"

"I've never heard of it," I confessed truthfully. "But possibly. Mentor could also be a code name; it may not need to be taken as literal."

"Well, what's it have to do with you and Kate?" Mozzie turned to Neal appraisingly, wanting answers and annoyed that he couldn't seem to get them.

Neal leaned back in his chair, knees apart and hands fallen into his lap. "I don't know," he insisted. "All I know is what he told me, and that's not much to go off of. Kenna?"

"That's all he said about it?" It was infuriatingly little – enough to know it was something to be worried about, but not enough to know where to even start worrying. "That you weren't supposed to know about Project Mentor?"

"Yeah." Neal nodded, his expression a little dazed, still reeling every time he remembered what happened. The feeling of being overwhelmed was one that I could relate to, but I handled it differently than Neal did, and he was currently a part of the problem, so tactility wasn't going to help me, and stressing me out was only going to make it worse for him. "I was yelling for Kate, I thought she was there…"

"And then he realized you had no idea what he was actually doing," I clarified.

"And he stopped talking, just… told me Kate wasn't there, and said I should be getting back home."

"And you're sure you've never heard of it?" Mozzie asked me again, not fully trusting that a government employee didn't have infinite knowledge of all secrets and conspiracies. Or something insane like that.

"No!" I said, remaining firm. I faltered slightly after and looked down to my cooled coffee, sucking in my lower lip. "But then, that doesn't mean much… Fowler's OPR. I don't know what he'd be doing with a secret project, but whatever it is, it's not in my division, either."

Mozzie slumped back slightly, finally giving up and admitting that I was saying everything about it that I knew. "Could you ask the other suits?" He ventured, unwilling to give up entirely on that avenue.

I tossed my left hand up slightly, looking to the ceiling and letting my eyes roam to the corner of the room, then down to the kitchen tiles on the other side of Mozzie's shoulder. "I can ask Diana and Derek," I reluctantly agreed, unsure how much I wanted them to know. "But I doubt they'll know any more than I do. Look, the more people I ask, the higher the odds that the word will get around. If anyone's in a position to shut down someone asking too many uncomfortable questions, it's a corrupt OPR agent." It had been my own mouth that called it _career suicide_ to make a move against OPR.

No one could argue that logic, not even Mozzie. If I was thrown out, then Neal was thrown in (prison) and we lost our inside source of (albeit limited) information. Neither of those consequences were risks that Mozzie was willing to take, regardless of the personal consequences and how they would affect me. I had my own reservations where those were concerned, but since we were all in agreement for one reason or another, the specifics of why we felt the way we did seemed irrelevant.

"So, what's our next move?" Moz finally put voice to what I had been trying to decide, wrestling with ever since Fowler and the Burkes left town.

I looked across the table at Neal. He met my eyes, his own still looking upset and sorrowful. A spark of hope lit up in those sapphire orbs when I stared right at him and opened my mouth confidently – but I didn't have a plan; not one that would address the newest issues.

"We have to take down Avery and protect our inside agent," I declared fervently, smacking my hand on the table with a quiet sound to make a point. "Then we find out what Fowler wants, and, if possible, find out more about Mentor."

The bespectacled man scoffed loudly. The acoustics of the kitchen made it seem even louder when compared to the quietness of the nearly-empty manor. Neal grimaced at his friend's reaction, but neither of us stopped Mozzie from objecting. "So you can backburner this?" The conspiracy theorist accused me.

"Can you even tell me what _this_ _ **is**_?" I returned exasperatedly. It was like he didn't even know me. I was glad that he had the sense to think twice about plans, but sooner or later, he'd have to accept that we had common goals: protecting Neal and ensuring he stayed a free man… _or a man who isn't in prison, as the case may be._ "Fowler's protected, Mozzie. Unless I can catch him red-handed, there's nothing I can do about it, and I can think of several ways he could ruin us in less than a week if he really tried. We don't have the resources right now to fight back."

It was a headache and a nightmare waiting to happen. Those movies about a small gang being set against a huge conspiracy were beginning to seem less like fiction and more like my life, and truthfully, it scared me more than I cared to think about. The bureau had always been a safety policy, a second home. My demotion and its causes made me lose the comfortable security that enforced the latter, but the former hadn't gone away. As long as I was in the bureau, I had an extent of government protection, the respect of civilians and coworkers, and I would always have an ally to help me if I needed it – brothers-in-arms and all that applied to most field agents to varying degrees.

Neal reached for Mozzie and pushed his hand against the other male's knee. Mozzie puffed, not thrilled with me, but he grudgingly listened to Neal when the blue-eyed boy backed me up. "Kenna's right, Moz," he resigned himself to focusing on other priorities. "You both needed to know what I do, but we have to pass on this one. Just for now. We won't forget it, but we have to act like nothing's wrong. We have to seem normal or we'll raise suspicion. The more clueless Fowler thinks we are, the safer we are."

It left me with a bad taste in my mouth – cowering, lying, hiding in shadows and shields of ignorance, all because of the cowardice and repulsive practices of a bastard who deserved to be incarcerated far more than Neal ever had. Neal had done damage with his white-collar ways, but Fowler was ten times worse ethically and possibly much more dangerous, if he really _had_ kidnapped Kate.

I'd always seen myself as a fighter, so facing a problem that I couldn't resolve with a raised voice or some flying fists made me sit back, tilt my head, and think, like a dog confronted with a new item it wasn't sure what to do with. Peaceful resolutions weren't going to work with Fowler, but neither was force. What did I do? I couldn't call a cavalry, partially out of an unwillingness to force more people into my situation and partially because I didn't have any evidence to support what I was saying but for a unique, firsthand, hands-on experience. I was an elite agent, damn it, and two years ago, I'd been at a peak in my career; I'd just gotten a big, glittery gold star, several pats on the back, and felt like I'd had it all. Less than two years after that, I was reduced to having conversations about my biggest concerns while sheltered in an empty house with an ex-con and a street conman because I didn't trust my own residence not to be bugged.

 _How the mighty fall,_ I scoffed. It wasn't fair. None of it was. Not to me, for obvious reasons. Not to Neal, because he deserved to be atoning for his crimes and focusing on keeping a good record so that he could be freed from the law. Not to Mozzie, because he was being dragged into a ton of baggage he didn't sign up for because some lowlife wanted to try his hand at picking on Mozzie's best friend. It wasn't fair to my partners or my sister, either, and as much as I wanted the world to be fair, it wasn't. All I could ever do against unfairness was _fight._

Which brought me back to my previous issue. I was a fighter; not a lover, not a mediator, not a wallower. A _fighter._ What does a fighter become when they can't fight? What are they supposed to do?

I swallowed, throat dry and voice forcedly level. My eyes remained fixed on my coffee as I said what I needed to say to leave and go home with a clear head. "Neal," I said his name softly. "If you ever pursue someone following you on your own again, I will hit you so hard that you'll need surgery to mend your broken jaw," I promised in a melodic murmur. For all he'd known, that college kid could've been armed and dangerous. "Mozzie, if you start to tail me and invade my privacy again, I will handcuff you and stuff you in my kitchen closet until I feel as though you've spent long enough in time-out. I think I've given you both _more than_ plenty of reasons not to have me followed, or threaten to shoot me, so pull stunts like these again and I'll prove to you why no one in the division dares to piss me off." I looked up and locked eyes warningly with Neal, who had already lifted a hand to cradle the side of his face protectively. "Are we clear?"

"Crystal," Neal vowed, rubbing his thumb along his jaw and cringing.

Mozzie smartly raised his hand to ask a snarky question. "How much room is in your closet, and does this time-out include regularly-scheduled-"

He was interrupted by his own voice as he yelped. He jerked back and Neal's glower lessened slightly as Moz miserably bit his tongue. My consultant settled back in his chair and folded his arms obediently while we both waited for Mozzie to recover from the assaultive kick, myself with a single eyebrow arched. I wanted to look authoritative, not amused, and I definitely didn't want to be given grief about finding it funny that Neal kicked Mozzie.

Blowing out a long breath, Mozzie tried again, shooting Neal a scathing glare. "I apologize for my unexpected stroke," he over-enunciated sarcastically. "I meant to say that I understand your terms."

"Good." I commented flatly and let it rest at that. "I promised Katie I'd swing by for dinner. Be safe, boys." I added more sincerely, standing up to rinse out my coffee cup. Neal made quickly to stand up, but I motioned for him to sit down and let me do it myself. He turned his eyes back down to his and unconvincingly raised it from the table; Neal took a small sip and then made a dissatisfied face, putting it down and pushing it away.

Evidently, I wasn't the only one who wasn't feeling well enough to stomach anything more than I had already drank.

* * *

Avery brought the party in full swing, but his idea of a party wasn't the same as the kind we'd had in mind during Fashion Week. No – this was a more mellow party. The focus was chatter and champagne being served on stainless steel trays by hired staff wearing grey pencil skirts and ruffled collars that dipped between their breasts. The men were either dressed semi-formal or casual. None were in tuxedos, not even Neal. My usually dapper consultant was dressed down in grey trousers and a dull blue turtleneck. I was beginning to think that he could make anything look nice on him, but the turtleneck was nothing compared to the color of his eyes. And _there_ we go – slipping out of character again.

I dressed up myself, but not in my style – in Eleanor's. Thin nylons stretched up over my legs, a flowy grey skirt fell halfway to my knees, and a long-sleeved grey sweater-shirt with a bow tied at the front of the collar showed the slight hourglass to my waist and the slim length of my arms. I had pulled on golden stiletto sandals, straps winding around my ankles, and accessorized with a golden two-strand necklace, a four-row bracelet with alternating blue colors, silver earrings with pale pink stones embedded, and a black watch over the left wrist of my long, blue cloth gloves. I'd left my hair down, curled and bouncy, but had pulled on a slouching knit dark blue beanie hat. I had to confess that I liked Eleanor's closet, and might have to adopt some of her clothes as mine.

"You got the new Ferrari model yet?" Avery had combed his hair back and put subtle foundation on his face. I wouldn't have noticed if I hadn't seen him without it in his office, but he was evidently dressing to impress today. I wondered if he was looking to score with one of the female waitresses. He took two champagne glasses off of the tray of a passing waitress, who bent her knees into a curtsy before continuing past. The manager passed a glass to me, full of sparkling gold liquid. I didn't want to drink enough to get tipsy, so I held the bowl of the glass in my raised palm with the slimmer grasp between my fingers.

"Why would I want it?" I queried with a smirk, pretending that I was just too busy with the conversation to be bothered to drink. One thing I noticed about being the boss's guest of honor was that the others cleared out of the way when we came by, and when I was introduced, a few complimented me on my shooting skills (one made something more lewd out of it, but Avery smacked him upside the head and that was that). "I'm thinking a Chevrolet from the sixties. A little fixing of the mechanics and it could be good as new on the inside, the beautiful original on the outside."

"You think you know a thing or two about cars?" Avery looked like he was contemplating it before opting not to say something rude. "I should take you to the Ferrari factory in Maranello, Italy." Clearly, he intended for our partnership to last beyond a cash-and-split, and he also figured that his opinion on Ferraris over muscle cars was the correct one. "They've got their own wind tunnel. You can watch the cars being put together. Screw Van Gogh and Picasso; _that's_ art!"

I smiled thinly and changed my mind on trying not to drink; I raised my glass to cherry-red lips and took a long sip. I knew at least one con artist who would disagree.

* * *

"Ten more minutes and we're rich," Avery reported, checking his wristwatch and leaning back into the sofa. Not at all subtle, he reached his right arm up over his head and draped it over the back of the couch behind my shoulders. I started looking for a reason to leave.

"We're already rich," I pointed out to nitpick and hopefully irritate him into moving his arm. Not at all drunk enough to handle him, I drank some wine in several large gulps.

His arm stayed comfortably right where it was. Brad hadn't seemed to think it was important that he had a woman's consent to pursue her, but he drew the line at aggression. I hoped that Avery at least had the same boundary, but if he was cool with killing people in his vault, then… he probably didn't care as much, which made me a little nervous. Honestly, I would've found a reason to bring someone with me undercover as well if it wasn't for Neal already being in place. I just wouldn't have felt safe in this misogynistic boys' club. If nothing else, I had the minimal reassurance that I knew that if I needed to, I could scream and I'd have at least a few of them helping me.

"I'm talking _billionaire_ rich, Hastings." Holding his other arm out in front of him, he tipped his wine glass towards a short-skirted waitress carrying a tray of refills of both sparkling light alcohol and dark red champagne. "Huh. You know, I think I might want to go to space," he mused, looking out towards the girl. I followed his eyes and ended up looking at her ass as she walked away. Respectfully, I moved my gaze and fought not to roll my eyes at Avery. "Catch a ride on one of those Russian rockets…"

"You do that," I shortly muttered. _Coming onto me and ogling another woman at the same time…_ This wasn't _Casa Erotica_ ; that kind of behavior wasn't going to fly. I looked around, trying to find Neal or Brad, or at least a face I recognized, even if I didn't know the name that went with it.

My excuse to escape the couch and the uncomfortable half-discussion came in the form of my bra vibrating – well, more accurately, my phone. I didn't have pockets, and like hell I was going to cut myself off from any form of communication. The vibration against my breast made me jump several inches off the couch, and, taking advantage of that Avery was now staring at me like I'd grown another limb, I pulled down the neckline of my shirt and reached into my bra, taking out my phone.

Derek Johnson was on the caller ID. My heart skipped a beat. Why was he calling? He knew where I was. Was something wrong? Did he find proof of something that meant we could leave? Had something else come up that put us in danger?

Externally I rolled my eyes, scoffing melodramatically. "It's one of those administrative degenerates," I excused, putting my hand on the edge of the couch and standing up. I walked a little bit away from Avery before I answered, taking a path furthest away from other people and ending up standing by the wall without the window. "This is Eleanor Hastings."

Derek recognized that I needed to not be on the phone with an FBI agent and he got straight to the point. _"I'm giving you a heads up that this might be about to get nasty. Reed just went through your front door."_

Of course, maybe he just got to the point because it was an emergency. My eyes darted to the hallway on the right side of the opposite wall, which led to the front door, and then to the hallway on the left side, which led towards the vault. I wondered how quickly I could find Neal and tell him to be careful. Daniel Reed wasn't inside yet, but I was too worried that it was only a matter of time before he found the party and caused a scene. Neal was supposed to have talked him into just utilizing his supposed double agent, but people, when emotional, did stupid things and dismissed plans.

All that had to happen was for Avery or Reed to say they hadn't hired Neal, and the other would know that something was up, and his cover would be blown to hell. I turned my face away from the party and stood parallel to the wall, raised my free hand to muffle my voice to everyone but my phone, and transitioned from Eleanor to McKenna in the blink of an eye. My stance became less graceful and far more defensive, keeping my legs spread a little wider to better absorb a hit or move in either direction.

"Hold positions. Be ready to move ASAP," I instructed lowly, looking over my shoulder. No one seemed to notice my sudden strange actions.

_"_ _Got it, boss. All agents, hold positions."_

At that moment, a tall blond man came storming through the threshold from the front hall into the big party room. Daniel Reed – I recognized him from his pictures; tall, broad, and while not athletic, definitely not someone small enough to trifle with without a plan. The short blond hair was combed but messed up, like hands had been repeatedly run through it.

"Avery!" He snapped loudly, carrying over the music and the chatter and banter between the employees. His eyes hungrily roamed the room to find the man he had the problem with.

While he looked for Avery, I gave up on focusing on staying Eleanor Hastings and started looking for Neal. It was time for him to stop being Nick Halden and start being Neal Caffrey again – and it was especially high time that we skedaddled. This was an important job, but it wasn't worth getting ourselves killed over. I couldn't find him anywhere in the room. There were a lot of warm bodies and it was a big area, but I knew him well enough to spot him in a crowd – his hair and his face, especially, but no one in sight even matched his basic profile. The only person who came close had hair that was too light.

"Reed!" Smile growing, Avery hopped up from the couch and deposited his wine glass on the mantelpiece over the inactive fireplace. "What's up?"

Reed stormed over to him and stomped his foot right in place, face almost purple in rage that only increased when he was talked to with such liberties. "You're a son of a bitch!" He accused, starting a scene. Most people backed away, leaving a sort of clearing in the room around the couch and the few yards in front of it.

Avery chuckled and looked around, noticing the circle that had formed around them. Harmlessly, he rolled his shoulders back, palms facing his partner. "Why don't you ease back on the hostility?" He requested, smiling in polite bemusement.

"What are you celebrating, huh?" Tendons in his neck stood out as Reed looked around the house party. Most of the salesmen looked down or away from him, unwilling to make eye contact and become part of the scene. He looked back at Avery in betrayal. The anger was there, but it was cemented by hurt feelings. "We don't have anything to celebrate for another week!"

Avery looked around, searching out incriminating evidence on his own. "We're just relaxing. I figured the boys could use a little reward for all their hard work."

Reed breathed deeply, incensed, and looked for a moment like he was about to buy it. Then he shook his head. "Nah. I couldn't let this go." My legs itched to go find Neal, but when people had made space for the fighting men, they had taken away the space I'd need to move. I couldn't get to the hallway to the vault (which was where my gut told me Neal had gone) without drawing their attention. "I know what you've been up to."

Avery dropped his voice to a quiet threat. "Don't you come into my house, bringing all this chaos-"

"Shut up!" Reed spat at the hypocrisy. Face contorting between anger and pain, he finally settled on grim disappointment. "I've been talking to your spy buddy," he snapped, intending to strike a chord.

Avery took the bait, but not in the way that Reed expected. "My spy," he said quietly. I noticed Brad looking around the room, standing up on his toes to look over other peoples' heads. _He's looking for him, too._ "Um, _my_ spy?" Avery pointed at himself incredulously, chuckling with the calm aggravation of a very controlled creep. " _You_ hired him." He turned the finger back on Reed, literally. "I'm just flipping him back on you."

Reed reeled back, pointing at himself as well. "What are you _talking_ about?"

I swallowed and couldn't watch anymore. It was all coming out. It would only take a few seconds and Avery would realize it, too. There was no point in even trying to protect Eleanor. Within seconds, all of my thoughts had trained onto protecting Neal. Turning to my left, I slipped away from the wall and pushed between men, giving the ones that didn't move a shove and stumbling through on sharp golden heels to the hallway. A few people murmured. One yelled my false surname loudly, no doubt getting Avery's attention from Reed. I staggered out into the hallway towards the vault and took off into a sprint. The corridor was empty.

"I never hired a spy!" I heard Reed shout, and tried to speed up. I stumbled when my left foot landed awkwardly on the floor. The stiletto didn't snap, but it did send me falling onto the floor, my ankle twisting painfully.

I threw out my hands in front of my face, but still smacked down onto the tiles, gasping in shock. My ankle felt like it had been wrenched. Throwing one of my stinging palms out in front of me, I pushed myself up onto my elbows and struggled to get onto my knees.

 _"_ _He's getting a gun!"_ It was Brad's voice. As much as it shocked me, the gun wasn't a surprise. No, the real stunner was that Brad was screaming, very deliberately. _"Run, Eleanor!" Good._ Brad may have been in unsavory company, but it was somewhat reassuring that not everyone would want to see Neal or I executed.

The warning was what I needed to get over my fear that I'd broken something. I got my right foot under me, awkward because of the heel, and jumped up. I wouldn't even have to wait for Avery to catch up if he had a gun, just to get within eyeshot. I put some weight on my ankle and hissed. It hurt, but I didn't topple over again. Nothing was broken, just twisted. Hopefully it would go away in a matter of minutes. Ignoring the throbbing, I started to run again.

The turn off of the main hallway looked longer than it had during my guided tour. I turned around the corner just in time, too, because I heard a gunshot followed by breaking plaster and drywall as the bullet buried itself in the wall on the other side of the corridor. I gasped and sprinted for the vault, catapulting over the threshold without hesitation this time.

Neal was exactly where I had thought he'd be, but he had stopped what he was doing, probably when he heard Brad trying to give me the advance warning about the gun that had probably saved my life. His back was to the table and his hands were against the edge, prepared to turn around or to lunge away from it.

"Lift it!" I ordered, throwing myself to the side of the doorway and pressing my back to the space of wall between the doorframe and the first line of picture frames.

He didn't even stop to question me, he just turned around, reached into the opened box, and pulled out the big, black, leather-bound ledger. The trap was sprung. Neal held the ledger in front of him, breathing heavily in fear, and the glass panel came sliding down in the doorway to block us off and trap us inside. It was right on time, too, because right after the glass slammed to the floor and sealed us off entirely, part of it shattered. About four feet off the ground, part of the glass became opaque white, broken halfway through by a bullet.

I swallowed, realizing again how close I'd come to being murdered.

I thought the vents were quiet, but I realized they just hadn't come on immediately when the sound like a quiet house vacuum was added to the muffled, frustrated yell from Avery and Neal's terrified fast breathing. I looked up. A whitish fog was concentrated near the vents as the oxygen was being pulled out of the room. I couldn't tell a change in the density yet, but I knew I would in less than a minute.

"Drop the ledger," I ordered, and Neal let it fall to the floor instantly. "We need to focus on the kill switch."

Neal reached into his pocket, pulling up the hem of the long-sleeved black sweater he wore to get to it. He took out the fake cigar tube with the mini-breather inside and shoved it at me when I bolted over to look at the box. Maybe the kill switch was inside? It was empty, and the bottom wasn't hollow.

"Take this," he said, grabbing my hand and trying to put the breather in my palm.

"Uh-uh," I disagreed, taking my hand away and leaving it in his hands. "You're a civilian." Really, I couldn't last for very long without breathing, but at least there wouldn't be the almost-impossible fight at not inhaling, like there was when drowning. I could keep trying to breathe, it just wouldn't work. I could hold my breath a while, anyway. _It's not like I don't get semi-regular practice, which Neal should know perfectly well…_

"There's not enough time!" He insisted, and clearly he hadn't taken my whole _don't be a martyr_ statement to heart. He grabbed my shoulder and I shoved the box off the table. It landed on the hard floor and broke into two pieces, the top snapping off of the gold-painted hinge. "Five minutes for one person, two and a half minutes for two – you know the response time, and you're better at this than I am," he practically begged, and it bothered me. Conmen aren't supposed to be martyrs. They're supposed to think about themselves before other peoples' needs.

 _"_ _Stop,"_ I snapped, breathing deeply and realizing that the air was starting to feel thin. I had to suck in more just to get a normal breath, and too soon I wouldn't be able to get a normal breath no matter what I tried.

He moved in front of me and cupped my face in his hands, lowering his forehead to rest on top of my head. I glanced to the doorway. Avery had stayed out of sight, but he was probably just in the hall. I was glad that he wasn't seeing this, what felt like a private moment. Neal's soft breath fluttered out over my face.

"This part was never my game, Kenna." He murmured, touching his lips to my forehead as soft as a butterfly. "It's all yours." He pressed the breather into my hand again and this time I didn't pull away and force it back. This was a completely stupid argument. We were just wasting oxygen trying to fight about it. "I trust you," he murmured against my forehead.

By no means did I approve of his decision, but I had to be able to tell when it was dumb to fight and I needed to prioritize. "Look for the kill switch," I commanded, and in a fit of what must've been temporary insanity, I did something completely moronic.

I cupped the back of his neck and pulled him down, crashing his mouth to mine and kissing him furiously for a few seconds, pissed at Avery, annoyed at Reed for his abhorrent timing, and terrified and agitated at Neal for refusing to listen to me. Neal's hand stroked over my hair at the edge of my hat.

I tore away when I realized what I was doing. _Pathetic,_ I sneered at myself internally. I had to stop this back-and-forth where half the time I acted like he was a convenient lay and the rest of the time I behaved like he was my sole reason for living. "Look for the kill switch," I instructed coldly, mad at him for putting me in this position, putting the breather in my mouth like a harmonica and breathing in, holding my breath as long as I could to preserve the oxygen.

I was angry and I used that to my advantage. Frames and expensive comics be damned – I shoved them to the side, letting them swing and hit each other for all I cared. I _hoped_ they broke. It was the least I could do to get back at Avery for trying to kill me. _Bastard._ I pushed over all of the frames, sliding them around on the wall and finding nothing underneath them. I turned my back around to them and looked around. The boxes upon boxes on the shelves looked like the next likely culprit, a great hiding place, and so I darted across the room to those, tearing them apart while Neal looked underneath the frames on the adjacent wall.

I threw myself into destroying the room in my search. I knew that, logically, the kill switch had to be attached to wires. Finding those wires, if not the kill switch itself, would lead me to it. So I did the most satisfyingly-destructive, and the most efficient, action to search the shelves – I dragged the boxes out and threw them onto the floor, the boxes bending, papers falling out into a huge mess, and the tops falling off, creating one hell of a mess as I pulled box after box off of the shelf, finding nothing with any wires, nothing wiring into the wall.

With every box that I dragged off of the shelves, I sent it crashing to the floor and used a split second to look at Neal. When he moved from one wall to the other, I almost had a heart attack for two reasons – the first being that suddenly he was gone, and then when I saw him again, the second reason was that he was within shooting distance of Avery, searching behind the paintings on the wall that the corridor shared with the vault. I kept looking, making sure that he was still conscious. Then I would rip another box off of the shelf, toss it to the floor, and check on Neal again. Over and over.

I had cleared off almost two shelves by the time I looked at Neal again and saw something other than him progressing along the length of the wall. It seemed like it took a long time, but it had to be anticipation more so than actual time lapse, because it did _not_ take long to pull boxes off of shelves. When I checked on Neal again, he was leaning against the wall, waving his arms over his head to get my attention. The painting to his right had been shoved farther to the side, showing what looked almost like a light switch.

I leapt over fallen boxes and the spilled contents strewn around, stepping carelessly on papers and avoiding the bodies of boxes and tops that would've made me trip, and hurried to my consultant. He was sliding down the wall, his face awfully pale. I knew what it looked like when someone passed out, but it still scared me, even more so than the vacuums that drew out the air.

His eyes fluttered shut and he started falling down faster. I caught him under the arms and staggered under the sudden weight, lowering him down onto the floor gently. I set him down and leaned him against the wall, cupped the side of his face with one hand, and felt his breath on my inner wrist, shallow and quietly panting.

Oxygen deprivation can have serious repercussions, so my first thought was to panic and press the kill switch and raise the glass, but when I tried, I accidentally looked to the left, out the doorway. Avery and Reed stood in the corridor, Avery sickly fascinated. Reed looked like he was going to actually _be_ sick. Avery raised up his shotgun and cocked it, prepared to shoot when I lifted the glass.

I looked down at Neal anxiously. I was standing between him and Avery anyway. Which would be more dangerous to him – forcing him through the extra time without oxygen to move him out of the way, which would certainly be detrimental, or fighting back against Avery without reservation of doing too much damage and getting oxygen back into his lungs?

Both had the potential to do great damage, but I knew which one had the best chance of him being the most unharmed. I looked back at the gun-toting maniac and flipped him off before getting my own hidden gun.

 _As if I'd come completely unarmed._ I pulled up the front of my grey skirt, showing a _lot_ more of my thighs than I would've prefered, but I really didn't care about my modesty as much as I cared about getting to the smallest handheld pistol I owned, taking it out of the thigh strap high on my inner leg and taking the safety off, cocking the firearm and raising it to aim at Avery's heart. I'd kill him myself if it would protect Neal.

Staring him dead in the eyes in challenge, I lifted my left hand over my right arm to the kill switch. It was awkward, but I wasn't going to chance trying to shoot with my non-dominant arm. Taking in a deep inhale through the mini-breather, I slammed the switch down. The system instantly responded, the glass beginning to glide upwards and unsealing the room. Oxygen rushed back. I spat out the mini-breather to the side and took in a refreshing breath. My lungs stretched and it felt amazing.

At the last moment, I lowered my arm just enough to shoot right underneath the raising glass and blasted Avery in the lower leg before the seal was high enough for him to shoot at his target, my chest. Avery gave a blood-curdling scream and his leg, unsurprisingly, gave out. The gun fell beside him and he landed on his hip, screeching bloody murder.

And, conveniently, Derek, Diana, Landry, Grafton, and Jones all stormed around the corner right at that moment, but not any sooner.

"I had it handled!" I shouted at them while Landry shoved Reed down onto his knees. The man was scared into petrification and did exactly as he was told, even keeping his hands still so that the handcuffs could be slapped on. Derek confiscated Avery's shotgun. Jones got a good look at the injury to his leg and winced. "God, you guys are slow!" _But faster than they had guessed,_ I admitted to myself, but was too worried to be nice. I threw myself down on the ground, landed hard on my knees, and set the gun down on the floor next to me. I took Neal's shoulders and pulled him around to me. His knees fell.

"Alright. Neal." I said his name loudly as the glass finished raising into the ceiling. Lugging him sideways was hard with the mostly-dead weight, but in seconds, I had him so I could lay him down flat on the floor. "Come on." I straddled his waist and pressed my hands over his chest, starting compressions to get him breathing again. "Wake up." I pushed on his lungs. "Breathe! Come on, beautiful," I murmured, leaning forward over him to check his throat. Still the pulse, thank God. "Don't make me start CPR, Diana would never let us hear the end of it… Neal!"

His eyes opened and shut again quickly, squinting and turning his head to avoid the light. I laughed in stark relief, taking my fingers from his throat and stroking his hair. His chest heaved as he coughed, and then he gasped, panting, drawing in long, deep breaths of oxygen that probably burned his lungs.

I got off of him as soon as I could scramble to the side, then slid a hand underneath his back. He rolled towards me, body jerking. "Ah-!" He started to gasp, either in pain or in fear.

"It's okay," I promised, lovingly carding my fingers through sweat-slickened hair. "You're okay." For once, I decided to treat him like I loved him and damn the consequences. It's not like anyone would hold it against me if I was nice to a man who could have died, and Diana and Derek both knew firsthand that I could get a little freaked out and overly attentive and touchy when I got scared. Neal reached out for me and I leaned over, lifting his back up onto my knees and cradling his upper body carefully. My heart clenched when I heard him dryly sob, face pressed to my arm. I hugged him as well as I could. "Breathe. Breathe."

Landry escorted Reed out and Derek had gone to call for paramedics, but Grafton, Diana, and Jones were still there in case I needed them. They all, and Grafton especially, looked shocked and uncomfortable to see Neal so uncollected. I glared at them shortly to tell them that if they used this against him, there would be blood. Their blood, more specifically.

I was willing to give him however long he needed. He'd survived a traumatic ordeal. I kept murmuring to breathe and promising that he was safe. At one point he curled his fingers into my side as if to stop me from leaving, at which point I told him I wasn't going anywhere. In less than a minute, Neal was recovering his composure, shaking less and breathing more steadily.

"… That was a long five minutes," he said weakly against my arm, lifting his head and trying to sit up on his own.

I laughed out of nerves. My genuine laugh and my anxious laugh were fairly different, so he tried to look reassuring when he heard the difference. I was just glad that he was sitting up, because it meant that I was free to balance on my knees and hug him. I wrapped my arms around his neck and pressed a quick, relieved kiss against his temple before I hid my face and buried my nose in his hair.

We stayed on the floor holding each other for a few more minutes, Avery's agonized groans and shrieks the background noise to our own comfort. Every time Avery's voice reached a high pitch, Neal flinched. I held him tighter and whispered the word 'safe' into his ear, shutting my eyes and slowly rocking him back and forth.

* * *

Although I wanted it noted that I disagreed, Neal didn't think he needed any medical care. I gave in reluctantly, because I doubted that he would cooperate with any EMTs, so instead I just said that we were fine, glossed over the part where he passed out, and made sure that someone thought to handcuff Avery while his leg was seen to.

In most circumstances, I was all up for doing the actual arresting part. I'd have loved to see Avery's face when he realized that Hastings was actually a fed, but I didn't really trust myself to keep my temper, what with his activities resulting in me having to watch Neal pass out and almost suffocate. I talked to Derek and got the boys into squad cars of incoming police vehicles. Most of the boys were in on the con, but the women had been lied to and kept clueless, so I doubted that they'd be having charges held against them. Madison, of course, was being taken to the NYPD station for show, but wasn't going to be interrogated.

The entire ending wrapped itself up like a television show – an interesting scheme and personal drama, all tying itself into a pretty little bow with some danger and thrill, followed by a fast victory and takedown. Of course, if this was a television show, then this would be the part where there was an emotional heart-to-heart between the main protagonists, so I wasn't too pleased about it. Any time I tried having a serious, personal conversation with Neal, there was always my brain struggling between thinking he was honest and thinking he was scamming me.

He was out sitting on the back porch of the manor, so he was out of the way of law enforcement but within shouting distance if he was called for. I found him after going through the house, thinking he might've gone back to the vault for some reason. Neal's knees were pulled up and loosely hugged by his arms, back slouched and leaning forwards on the top porch step. The sharp heels of my gold sandals were too loud to come up behind him quietly, but I pushed at the glass door and walked out onto the porch wordlessly. He didn't look up at me, but after standing at his side for a minute, I stepped down the first two stairs and then sat down next to him.

"Okay," I said slowly, reaching up to my hair and self-consciously adjusting the hem of the knit beanie. "As much as I like that we're back on the same page now, I have to say that your actions in there were completely stupid." I kept my knees pressed together and scooted to an angle towards him, tugging my skirt down as far on my thighs as it would go.

So many things could have gone differently that it was truly terrifying to consider. Although a lot of bad things happened to me, and I ended up in a lot of risky positions, I seemed very favored by chance. So did Neal, when all things were considered, but relying on luck was irresponsible. The kill switch could have been harder to find; Neal could have been unconscious long enough to suffer side effects of oxygen deprivation; Avery could have managed to shoot either one of us, before or after the suppression system was activated; the FBI could have taken longer to show up. What would have happened if we hadn't already cleared up the misunderstanding with the rings? Too much fighting, not enough trust. Trust was what repeatedly saved our asses.

Neal sat up straighter. He leaned back, stretching his arms behind him to lean his weight against. He offered me a flattering little smile. "I have faith in you," he decided to go with. "I knew you'd take care of it."

He couldn't have possibly known that. Even if there wasn't a bureau policy about protecting civilians over agents, I still would have insisted that he stop trying to deprive himself of breathing if it hadn't been for the time restraints. I said as much so he didn't think that this was going to become a recurring pattern.

"The only reason I went along with it was because arguing was wasting time," I informed him through slightly narrowed eyes. "You've never been a martyr before, so don't you dare start thinking that way now."

He turned his head to face me. Sitting down, our heights were closer to the same. Not that we really had a height difference in these ridiculous, devilish heels. I mean, really, I could have used them as a _murder weapon_. "You've got my back. Right?" He asked, raising his eyebrows expectantly, prompting confirmation of the alliance we'd managed to make under circumstances that should have had us living in different worlds.

"Always." I lifted a hand from my lap and reached behind him, pressing my fingertips against his upper back through the soft fabric of his dress shirt. I kept my hand over his shoulder blade while I sighed, looking down to my lap.

What I really wanted to do now was tell him how glad I was that he was safe, and how scared I'd been when I'd realized Avery was going to try to kill him, but doing that would give too much of myself. It's not like our relationship was exactly based on truth. Meaningfully, my eyes drifted to my right hand, at the very faint coloring I could just barely see through a thin inside layer of solid sky blue underneath the crisscrossing stitches making up the decorative gloves. Almost subconsciously, my hand started to drift lower on his back, closer to the matching mark, before I stopped myself halfway down.

"I have something to tell you," I told him instead. Giving him information about Kate wasn't the same as making myself vulnerable, and I felt like he deserved to know. If there was any display of trust, it was what he'd decided to do today. "And I don't know how you'll take it, but… probably not well." I laughed, a little bit nervously, and moved my hand from his back, pulling hair back from over my shoulder and pushing it behind my ear. Touching him when I thought he might push me away wasn't an idea that I enjoyed. Neal looked at me, dryly interested, but not looking any more enthusiastic about hearing whatever was making me anxious than I was about speaking it. "I'd rather skip over the whole fight, break up, kiss, make up thing if at all possible, so can you promise you'll listen to the entire story before storming off?"

 _For someone who lives his life faking emotions, he can be awfully sensitive._ It was almost poetically ironic.

"For us to break up, we'd have to be together." Of course, Neal decided to zone in on that. I rolled my eyes. "Are we?" He questioned, his eyes bright with a sort of edge. I didn't know if it was hopefulness or analysis.

"Don't get ahead of yourself." _Yes,_ I wanted to say – but a relationship had to constitute more than friends who had sex. There's a reason the term friends-with-benefits exists. I had to at least imply that I was saying no. "It's an expression."

Neal's shoulders fell slightly and slowly. "I don't like the sound of this," he matched my sigh with one of his own and resettled, dropping one leg down and setting his heel on the step lower than the first. He kept his other knee up.

I nodded. He wasn't the only one. In the background, I heard someone shout something, but it wasn't either of our names, and then there was an answering pained and furious shriek that probably came from Avery. That didn't matter – nothing else in the house mattered right now, and I tried narrowing my focus of the world simply to the man sitting next to me and the beanie sitting lopsided on my head and the metal of the necklaces against my chest, by now heated by my body. I couldn't afford anything to remind me of the team I was deliberately excluding in favor of a felon I'd met less than a year ago.

"I know what he wants from you." I looked down at my watch just by chance and it reminded me of the one we'd given Neal that had had the recorder. Then I thought of the pen again, and looked at him quickly. He wasn't wearing his jacket anymore; the pen wasn't on him. I relaxed and continued. "Fowler. I know what it is he's after."

Neal looked up quickly, hope and anger battling across his face fleetingly before he neutralized his expression. It was amazing what one name could elicit as a reaction. While Katie's brought a smile to my face and a warm glow to my chest, Fowler's made even gentle, pacifistic Neal look almost murderous. I supposed that was what happened when someone abducted another person's sister. Kind of a rude thing to do.

"How?" He asked, matching my volume after looking over his other shoulder at the lawn.

"The man in the picture. Since we're agreed that it's Fowler, I think it's safe to say we can call him by his name, not just 'the man with the ring.'" Although my hand itched to go out to his knee, I kept my limbs to myself, leaning over my legs and holding down my skirt, hoping to bring some warmth to the skin protected only by thin stockings.

Neal nodded. "You've been talking with Mozzie," he guessed.

"Actually," I took a deep breath in and prepared myself for any number of reactions. "I've talked to Kate."

It was immediate. He sucked in a breath that I heard and his eyes snapped up to mine, demanding truth and sincerity with fierce and intimidating sharpness. "You talked to Kate?" He whispered intently.

I nodded quickly. I really wanted him to stop looking at me like that. It was better when he was gazing at me with admiration and didn't think I saw; then I didn't feel like I was pinned by his eyes alone. "While you were interrupting Fowler and whatever Project Mentor is, I was out at midnight in a hotel room."

"Fowler said he was investigating you. He said he was coming after you, and that was why he'd bugged your phone."

Coming after _me?_ If he was coming after me, then why did he put so much effort towards making another case against Neal? I clenched my fists around the gathered folds in my skirt.

"Coming after me," I repeated. "Did he say that?"

"More of an implication," he carefully responded, weighing the response before he dared to convey it. It was hard not to be curious if he did that often when he was talking to me, and I just didn't always realize it. How much work went into planning what he said?

I relaxed my hands and dropped my eyes to my lap, shaking my head. It was incredible what he was trying to do, thinking he could get away with; the lines he was willing to cross. Any time I had to ask myself what the hell I thought I was doing, I just had to remember that I was only reacting to an attack on my own territory. It was totally natural to defend myself against Fowler. What else was I supposed to do? Let him get away with everything? Stand back while he hurt the people close to me?

"Right." I forced myself to calm down, trying to keep my head clear. A temperamental or fast discussion wouldn't lend itself to a productive resolution, or a decision of what the next step needed to be. "Well, that's part of what he was doing. Playing us. Damn." Suddenly, I lifted my right hand and slammed my fist down just up from my knee. Neal's eyes flew to my hand, but I'd vented already. "I bet he was counting on you seeing my ring at some point. He was trying to make me look corrupt to drive a wedge."

I picked up both arms and set my elbows on my legs, doubling over in frustration and closing my hands behind my head, hair spilling down my back and tickling weight playfully over the arching curve in my spine. I breathed deeply, feeling my lungs expanding as I did so. Feeling my own bodily autonomy made me feel a little more in control of the situation, even though some jackass from OPR had decided that just compromising my mate's security wasn't enough and tried to separate us through manipulation and outright lies.

 _My mate._ I was startled by the way my head decided to reference Neal without my consent. Sometime recently, it must have decided that my mate was less of an abstract idea and more of a gap that Neal Caffrey filled, although the edges were blurry and the role unclear and undefined.

Hands pressed to my back, soothingly digging fingertips into the spaces between my shoulder blades and the center of my back – those areas were usually so tense, so it felt heavenly to feel fingers working the muscles loose again. I shouldn't have been surprised that Neal knew that.

I let him do that for a couple of minutes, soaking up the feelings physically for enjoyment and gathering and locking up the emotional ones so they didn't decide to make a surprise and uninvited guest manifestation in my behavior, then I sat up again slowly. Neal retracted his hands back to himself and I dropped my shoulders, my back feeling better when I hadn't even realized I'd been sore.

"Look. The thing is…" I let my knees fall to the side towards him and looked up to his face again. This was a conversation best had where both of us could take the most confidence in the earnestness of communication. "I remembered the photograph you showed me on that first case, when you wanted to go to San Diego, and one of the reasons I've refused to encourage you going after Kate is because I had the same picture on my desk, probably before even you had it."

Neal leaned away from me just a touch, and because I'd seen it coming, it didn't shock or offend me. _I'd be distancing myself, too._ Not only must it seem hypocritical of me, but also surprising that I didn't share this with him on my own terms before now.

"And you – you never said anything?" He swallowed. I could see the tension working in his jaw and appreciated the effort he was putting forth to control his first impulses in order to hear me out.

"Of course not. I recognized the ring, obviously." I held up my hand to make the point. It was my ring; I recognized it. It seemed irrelevant that I wasn't actually wearing it at the time. "It's part of why I was willing to lie to Fowler," I reluctantly added. "I realized when OPR showed up so quickly that he would be in a great position to pull the strings, and I knew someone in the bureau was after you anyway." I shuddered and faced forwards again, getting the impression that he wasn't feeling physically or emotionally close to me at the moment. "I hate dirty cops."

It's just sickening that someone can make a pledge to protect and then use it to harm. People trust the citizens in uniform, and they take cruel advantage of that instinctual trust and the assumption that they're good.

"You're not the only one," Neal muttered in agreement, but too low for it to be meant as an addition. So I went onwards without replying to that in particular.

"I started asking around. I was subtle, but some questions have a way of getting back to the subjects, which must be exactly what happened." I hung my head for a second, owning up to my own inability to keep everything completely under the table. When looking back, I thought I should've guessed that something like the diamond heist setup would happen. Hindsight may be twenty-twenty, but it's also a major emotional guilt-trip at times. "And suddenly Fowler wants to shut us down, getting you imprisoned and ruining my credibility."

"Of course," Neal agreed swiftly, following as fast as I was speaking. Really, I suspected that between the two of us, we understood the majority of the story. The problem was that we were unwilling to share every piece of the puzzle, meaning that we were both trying to solve it with key components missing. "You start digging around, and that's when he bugged your phone."

I lifted up my shoulders in a shrug. It was hard to pinpoint when he realized I was looking into Kate's disappearance; he'd sure waited a long time between the deal being struck and the diamond heist. For a rather long time, I hadn't been getting anywhere – like working hard to ride a stationary bike.

"I didn't really have anything until the Haustenberg case. I really didn't know how Kate had gotten away from the bridge when I was with you, but I have a friend who's an expert in technology and computer sciences. I had her look into the public security cameras at the time." This particular friend didn't work for the bureau, so that itself wouldn't have alerted Fowler; what I'd chosen to do next must've been it. "Kate's good, but she was caught by a couple of cameras, and a hotel had a room booked under the last name Perdue at the same time. She hadn't used her real name, but it seemed pretty obvious."

The expression Neal made suggested that he agreed. From what I understood, he'd been the mastermind behind the acts he and Kate had pulled together; Neal was the major player, and although Kate was skilled and crafty, she learned from Neal. She probably lacked a lot of the tricks he had up his sleeves to get hidden and stay that way.

"Well, I had a letter sent to the room anonymously, and used the same letter cypher she used with the note at Grand Central, and let me say, that was harder than it looked." Neal looked at me in surprise as I started complaining, and I let some of the frustration I'd felt wash over me again, pretending I was back in my bedroom and furiously shredding pieces of stationary before I finally found the right way to do it. Neal grinned. "I said I wanted to meet. I didn't get anywhere with it until Fowler came into town…"

* * *

_"_ _Hiya, Kate," I said casually, and I sickly enjoyed the visible jump she made and the way her balance in her heeled shoes wavered. She had to stumble and throw a hand against the wall to catch herself._

_There was a short table right next to the chair I'd made my temporary residence. My eyes had adjusted to the darkness a long time ago, and I flipped on the lamp by the button on the wide, round base. Light flooded the room, taking us out of the dark. As predicted, my eyes hurt. Kate squinted and threw her right arm up to shield her face, turning around and stopping barely a foot away from the door._

_Her shoulders sagged, not entirely from the weight of the messenger bag whose straps were wound around her shoulder. "Hello, McKenna," she greeted with a tone of defeat._

_I tilted my head to the side and smiled insolently at her. "You're a hard woman to find, you know that?" If I was wrong – if she really was a victim, if she was being threatened or blackmailed or manipulated – I would apologize for my attitude, but as it was, it was hard to see her as anything other than the antagonist that broke Neal's heart and left me the difficult task of picking up the pieces in whatever way I could._

_"_ _What, no chit-chat? Okay." I accepted it easily. I'd rather skip the niceties, anyway. "Let's get right to it, then._

_"_ _I think we need to have a talk about Neal."_

_Kate took a deep breath and held her chin higher, sucking in on her bottom lip. "I guess we do," she said, bracing herself._

_I took a minute to appreciate her. She held herself proudly and confidently, even if I had given her a fright. Her hair was dark brown and straightened down to the tops of her breasts, her eyeliner and eyeshadow were dark and dull characters that didn't draw much attention, and her lips were painted bright red. Large earrings dangled from the piercings in her ears and glinted behind the curtains of her hair. Her nails were long and given a French manicure. Her figure was slight and lean, athletic but small-framed, covered in a thick beige trench coat and a black skirt._

_I wished I could assess more than just her body, but I hadn't had the chance to get to know her well enough to draw conclusions from one-on-one interactions, and I was still desperately hoping that the thoughts I had in my head were incorrect._

_She turned her back to me again and moved one hand to the strap on her shoulder. The other went to the front of her canvas bag. Rolling my eyes, I picked up the firearm I'd taken from my waist and laid next to my leg on the chair, holding it on her – low on her, of course, because even if I had to shoot in self-defense, I really didn't think I could do any serious injury to her and still stomach it. My feelings aside, Neal still loved her._

_She got as far as standing up after setting the bag down to lean against the wall before I saw the handle of the revolver her fingers were elegantly wrapped around, and I sighed in boredom. Of course, I'd been right._ _**How dull.** _ _"Oh, don't even try it with the gun," I scoffed. Didn't she take me for someone smarter than that? Kate's head snapped up in surprise and then her eyes trained instinctively on the weapon pointed right at her leg. "I am really not in the mood for anyone, least of all you," I jabbed my gun towards her for emphasis, and she jumped, keeping her own revolver lowered to the carpet. "To threaten me tonight._

_"_ _I meant it on the phone. I want to help." I tried to hold her gaze, but Kate didn't seem to want to let me, looking away. I hoped that she was embarrassed by her first response of going for a weapon. "At this point, though, it's less wanting to help you and more caring about Neal."_

_Her eyes snapped right on up to mine when I said that part about not caring to help her. My priority had focused to my consultant – oh, what the hell. I was already feeling it, wasn't I? It was in the privacy of my own thoughts. What was the harm? – my priority had focused to my_ _**soulmate** _ _, not the girl who may or may not have been abducted and somehow still had a month in advance to pack up and move._

_"_ _I already told you what can be done to help me. I agreed to talk to you to reiterate it, not to have a gun pointed at my knee." Her eyes really were like ice, or like chips of blue flint, and she stepped forwards boldly, knowing that I wouldn't shoot her just for an attitude, keeping a tight grasp on the handheld gun held at her thigh._

_I dismissed this. I knew she'd already said something to that affect, but what she had said was of very little interest to me at the moment. I wanted a new conversation. I wanted all things in the open. I expected truthfulness, and in return, I intended to be honest with her, with only a few exceptions. I just wanted to stop this perpetual innocent-or-in-on-it back and forth game I was playing. Forget the past; all conversations, all questions, were to be re-asked and rehashed._

_"_ _I knew you were with the FBI," I started, thinking back to the ring in the photograph from the San Diego ATM. "But I didn't realize an agent was holding you captive until Grand Central Station."_

_Then I thought back to the scene she'd set up by the payphone. She was intentionally within our sights. She could have just as easily hidden somewhere less obvious, but she'd_ _**wanted** _ _to be seen. She'd been stationed in a place clear to see that also made it too easy to see us and track our locations. That seemed more strategic than a scared woman calling her big brother for help. The final nail in that coffin was that she'd known who I was, even without the chance to see me clearly. How could she have gotten that information without talking to someone else who knew me, who could show her pictures or videos?_

_"_ _Now it makes more sense why you wouldn't let me help," I thoughtfully kept going, trying to explain my perspective of the last six months before she tried to correct me. I was pretty sure I had most of it right – the only detail that might be wrong was a big one, and it would screw up most of my logic, and it was the one I was hoping was correct the way I told it. "I could try, but Fowler could crush me like a bug if he had the proof that I was helping Neal communicate with the same girl he broke out of prison for."_

_No wonder she would have rejected my help, with that being the situation. Not only would I get nowhere, but my career would be damaged, Neal had a higher chance of being sent back behind bars as a result, and her captor would know that she tried to reach out for help._

_Kate canted her head and swallowed, but she had a couple of tells. She looked a little too tense, perked up in anticipation and nerves, and they didn't relax or change when she heard the news. There was a bit of a surprise that I knew the name, but if she didn't know it herself, she wouldn't have registered even that._

_"_ _Fowler?" She tried to mislead._

_"_ _It's not a game anymore, Kate," I growled, keeping the gun aimed lamely towards her legs, more as insurance than intentional threat. She was still holding a gun. "It's serious business." I held back a taunting comment about letting the adults handle it. "Yeah, I know who Fowler is. Congratulations," I dripped sarcasm. "His power trip has extended from you to include_ _**my** _ _family."_

_Her hand clenched around the gun before it relaxed. Slowly, she bent her knees, lowering down closer to the ground, and she set the revolver onto the carpet before standing up again, giving up on her act. I exhaled, somewhat relieved that that was out of the way._ _**Now for the hard part.** _ _The sooner it was over with, the better._

_"_ _What do you want?" She asked flatly, keeping her hands in front of her._

_In return for putting down her gun, I turned mine away from her and set it on my thigh, safety still off and still quickly reached, but no longer quite such an imminent threat. "Like I said," I fought to keep my voice even and casual. "I understand that I'm not in a position to help you yet. Not without hurting Neal." I fixed my eyes on her. Neal was my priority, even if he wasn't hers. I hoped to convey to her with my eyes that if she turned on Neal, she would be the one paying for the last six months of his anguish. "And now I know how you recognized me. Fowler set it up so you would know all the players, but be too scared to go off-script. In the meantime, until I can get him, I want you to stop tormenting Neal."_

_Her mouth fell open, her lipstick glistening bright scarlet. "I'm not tormenting him," she argued defensively._

_I threw a bitch face at her._ _**Don't even try.** _ _Kate at least looked like she admitted that that was a lie, even if the torment was just an unintentional byproduct, but she still looked like a pouty, frustrated child._

_"_ _He keeps doing really_ _**stupid** _ _things for you, Kate." I stated harshly. That sounded like torment to me. What kind of family was she? I'd rather disappear on Katie entirely until I could free myself than force her to play a game of yo-yo, toying with her heart and chipping away at her hope, no matter how much I'd miss her. "He just violated his radius because he panicked and thought you were actually with Fowler. Leave him alone."_

_She pursed her lips furiously. "I_ _**can't,** _ _" Kate replied._

_I stared at her, amazed. Hadn't she convinced Neal that they were each other's everything? Although that had never really worked, did it – even in his ideal futures, there had still been room for his soulmate. Kate Moreau wanted his all, demonstrated by how she conveniently kept bringing him back to her. All I wanted was for his safety and his happiness. One sounded like a jealous possession complex, while the other sounded like love. I wasn't willing to go there with my feelings, I wanted to avoid the territory, but even I had to admit that I'd been in competition with Kate Moreau for longer than we'd known each other's names. I offered Neal a healthier relationship then she did, regardless of the opposing natures._

_"_ _What does he have that you're in such desperate need of having?" I breathed, finding it hard to believe that the man who was a master of other people's emotions couldn't seem to tell when his were being victim to another puppeteer. "What is the price of your freedom, exactly? Let me be a middle man," I volunteered. In spite of wanting Neal happy, I thought Kate might be more like a drug than a comfort – great while you had her, and hell when you didn't. Something that felt great, but that slowly poisoned. It made me feel ill to think about reuniting them, but if that's what it took to get her to stop yanking him around like this… I could take that bridge on another day. "Or a middle woman, as the case may be."_

_"_ _Why would you do that?" Kate questioned cynically, straightened lengths of hair falling forwards out from behind her ears. She reached up, the sleeves of her heavy coat falling down past her wrists, and pushed her hair back out of the way, surveying me like she was looking for my tells or the chinks in my own mask._

_**Honesty. Right.** _ _I had a precedent to set. "Because I'm worried for Neal," I truthfully confessed. "I'm afraid that if you keep playing this game with him, then he'll do something that even I can't shield him from the consequences of." Mozzie had told me before in a warning that Neal was like a kid in that he didn't always expect things to catch up with him. I had told him that he wasn't giving Neal enough credit, that you don't become one of America's most wanted by being a great big child at heart. Secretly, I thought he was more right than I wanted to believe. "I absolutely detest people that abuse their power, which Fowler is doing copiously. Because I actually care about Neal Caffrey and he considers you his family, and I am so completely sick of watching you jerk his chain and screw with his heart and head that it's actually making me physically nauseous."_

_I hoped that was enough honesty for her, and I finished with a deep breath and a soulful look into her cool eyes, asking for the same respect in recompense._

_She let her shoulders fall down, symbolic of letting down her guard. She stayed standing, rocking in her heels. "Neal stole a piece," she started delicately._

_I laughed a little wryly. "He stole a lot of things," I reminded her. Neal was a thief. It was in the definition. "My wallet included, several times."_

_Kate glared at me for interrupting her. "This one is special," she said slowly, taking her time talking in order to get back at me pettily for cutting her off. I just rolled my eyes dramatically and waved impatiently for her to get on with it. "It's a music box." She crossed her arms and shifted onto one leg, bending the other knee and lifting her foot so the toe of her shoe pressed to the carpet. "That's my price."_

_Her phrasing didn't get past me._

_Unfolding my arms, I picked up the gun from my thigh and rose to my feet slowly, holstering my weapon back at my waist as I stood. "That's… your price, huh?" I said after her, stepping closer and shortening the distance between us._

_"_ _Yes," she said shortly, intensely, eyes boring into my very being. "That's my price for my freedom." I swallowed and held myself stonily, staring at her with contempt._ _**God damn it!** _ _"Just tell him it's a music box. He'll know which one."_

_I wanted to pick up the lamp and throw it. I wanted to break the window and I wanted to flip over the table. I wanted to break the chair and hit the woman in front of me. I wanted to take my fist to the wall and my feet to the door. I wanted to run to Neal and apologize and hold him close and not let Kate get anywhere near him for the rest of her life._

_I did none of those, and instead put my self-control to the greatest test it had ever had._

_"_ _Your price," I said, again, seeing if she would notice where she messed up. "Interesting." I crossed my arms, moving slowly. If I moved too fast, then I would lose the minimal restraint that I still kept hold of. "See, the way you phrased that… it sounds like you're the one calling the shots."_

_There wasn't a visible response as she must've understood which part of it was so baffling that I had to keep reiterating, but her eyes flickered away from me and she looked over my shoulder rather than to my face, her eyes fixed on a spot on the wall. At least she had the shame not to dare keep looking me in the eye as she admitted that she'd been in on this the whole time._

_"_ _It's interesting how life works out sometimes," she said, sounding composed until her voice lowered at the last word._

_Needing to leave, I started to walk around her, giving her a wide berth as I made a circle. I didn't think I could be any closer to her without either feeling filthy or actively trying to scratch her eyes out with my bare hands. "We've had it wrong this whole time," I summarized, saying it out loud because I needed the proof that came in the form of her lack of refutation. "You were never kidnapped, were you?" I almost pleaded in my head for her to correct me, but several seconds passed, and… she didn't. "You're in cahoots." Contempt. Hatred. Condemnation, fury, disappointment, disgust, and repulsion were all fitting adjectives for my feelings at the moment. Alternatively, I could drop down to my knees and throw up if I didn't focus on keeping my composure. "I hope you're proud of yourself, because I'm_ _**disgusted.** _ _Toying with someone like you are with Neal-"_

_My precious, sweet Neal, who looked at me disappointedly when I swatted aggressively at insects and who I didn't think would hurt another human being for anything short of life-or-death circumstance. Who treated Katie like his best friend, with the utmost respect and kindness, because she was so sweet and considerate when she wanted to be and because she was the first person, aside from June, to really make him feel welcome. Who, for some reason, wanted more from me than sex, who was sweet to me almost all of the time, and who always tried to be the bigger and better person than the people who stared and whispered and treated him badly in the office – who not only owned his reputation, but worked to be the damn best consultant I'd ever meet._

_"_ _Go to hell," I hissed._

_She turned her head to look at me, shuffling her feet to turn around before I could reach the door as I violently swept past. "McKenna, I'm already there," she murmured._

_I froze in my steps, backtracked, and turned to her, holding up a hand and holding a finger to her, body thrumming in rage. "I don't think you understand who has it worse off here, princess," I snarled. I had no sympathy for her, not when all of my energies were being spent feeling sympathy and hurt on Neal's behalf. I paused by the door and then I slowly turned back to her. Kate stood in place in the middle of the room. "Do you actually_ _**want** _ _to return to him?" I desperately needed to know. "Did you_ _**ever** _ _love him?"_

_Kate never even looked up at me._

_Blinking away tears, I nodded slowly and breathed shallowly. So… the one that he treasured above all else… didn't love him in return. Worse than that, she pretended to, and lied constantly to him that she did. Stringing him on like a pathetic loser, only to dump him whenever he became more effort than she thought he was worth. There was nothing I could do about it… I couldn't shield him forever. He would learn eventually. One day, I'd have to stand aside and watch him crumble when this came to the light._

_If I thought I'd hated Fowler, then I had an actual loathing for Kate Moreau, both for having the power and intention to destroy Neal, and for putting me in a position where I would have to watch it happen._

_"_ _Then you stay away from him," I commanded lowly. "Because if you won't take care of him, then I will. He deserves-" My voice broke off and I had to stop for a moment. I wanted to say that he deserved someone who really would love him and treasure him, knowing how special he was, but who was I to say that? How could I say that even I understood when I constantly lied to him? There were two things in the entire universe that I knew he wanted the most – Kate Moreau, and his soulmate, and not only was I intending to keep Kate a secret, at least for the time being, but I had no intention of telling him that we had the same soulmark at any time in the foreseeable future._

_"_ _Tell Fowler I know," I tried to say instead, voice growing strong again. I'd cry about it later. "Tell him I_ _**know** _ _." I stared ahead at the wooden door, glaring at the silver handle like it had personally offended me. "You don't have to specify. He'll understand."_

_With more strength than necessary, I tugged at the chain and pulled it out of the lock on the door._

_"_ _McKenna," Kate broke her silence and then paused. I kept my back to her. So what if she picked up her gun and shot me? I didn't think I could feel any worse than I already did. I already knew she was a cold-hearted bitch. I didn't need to be shot in the back to know that. "You really don't want to push him."_

_I took a deep breath in. "Either you're threatening me, or you're spontaneously growing a conscience. Either way, Kate – Back. Off." She doesn't get to threaten me or give me advice. I don't have to listen to her, and I certainly won't be taking anything she has to say to heart, not when Neal did more than enough of that for the both of us. I exhaled and opened the door. "Which is exactly what I won't be doing," I promised, both to her and to myself. No matter how bad this got, I had an oath to make good on._

* * *

By the time I finished recounting my meeting with Kate in as much detail as I could, Neal was shaking his head in firm denial and his hands were shoving down against the stairs beneath us. "He has to be controlling her," my friend objected, refusing to let himself believe anything else, which just made my heart break further for him.

Neal… has his flaws. I want to smack him sometimes, but other times I want to just give him a hug or a kiss or a praise in general to lift his spirits. He makes Katie giggle and cheer, and he takes all of Diana's remarks with grace and tongue-in-cheek retorts, and he and Derek have this thing going where he pretends to care about football and Derek, in turn, pretends to care about artistry. He forced a place into my life and he filled it perfectly. I can't imagine going back to the time when I was the one who had to listen to Derek excitedly relay the events of a game in terms I didn't know, when Diana would make passive comments to me about Derek and as a result I had to buy him coffee to suck up, when Katie and I spent actually _less_ time together because we were doing our own things. Neal is a great man for me, but more than just making me happy directly, his involvement in my life changes my relationships with other people _for the better._

He does all of that in spite of being someone whom I conventionally shouldn't trust. He offered his loyalty and his experience to me, and all he wanted in exchange was a pass out of prison. I don't have to be his biggest fan to acknowledge that he's a hell of a character, and it's occurred to me that once someone has his affection, it's probably hard for him to let go. Which would explain the friendship he had with Mozzie that lasted strong through four years of radio silence. Which explains his near-obsession with finding Kate Moreau. Just because I can be afraid of him playing my emotions for his gain doesn't mean that it seems like it's characteristic of him. Having it all but told to me that his sister, whom he loves, whom he added another four years to his prison sentence for, has been using him the whole time… it breaks my heart for him. The very thing I was terrified of him doing to me had been done to him. As much as I'd wanted to hit Kate, I wanted to take the man somewhere safe and wrap him up in a blanket for a while.

I'd felt guilty at the time that I was going to see his sister without him, but as soon as those particular understandings had passed between us, I was beyond relieved that Neal wasn't there to experience that rejection being given to him face-to-face.

"I don't think he is," I said plaintively, turning my hands over so my palms were up. It was an invitation that he was allowed to do with as he wanted – he could ignore the gesture or he could take my hands if he wanted something or someone to hold on to.

It was a failure on my part to think that he'd want to hold my hand while I told him I was almost sure someone he loved was using him like a toy; useful for a while, but one that got boring when there was better offered to her. Neal launched himself up to his feet, breathing heavily.

"She's not working for him, Kenna!" He declared stubbornly, locking his jaw and glaring at me. I bit my lip and met his eyes, willing him to see the compassion in mine. He looked more hurt than angry. It made me really sad.

"Neal, please, don't do this." _Don't ice me out, don't disregard me, don't let yourself get played for a fool because I'm telling you something you don't want to hear._ I rose to stand more smoothly than he had, although the pressure of the stilettos on my heels came close to making me wince. "Think about it logically," I appealed. "She may not be-"

"You're wrong!" He heatedly interrupted.

"God damn it, Neal!" I ran out of patience. It was wearing thin already, though not because of him. It was so emotionally confusing that I wanted to both slap him and comfort him at once. Settling for taking his wrists so that he couldn't just up and leave, I gingerly wound my fingers over skin and squeezed softly. "Come on! I talked to her. I looked right into her eyes." Proving my point, I looked up at him and held his hands between us. "There was no concern, least of all for you," I whispered, feeling horrible for saying it. It needed to be said. Part of being an adult and being in this situation was being willing to accept truths that I didn't like. Neal had to take the same responsibilities. "She's playing you, just like you played Avery."

Neal wavered, certainty slipping. His wrists twisted in my hands as he turned his hands to get a grasp on my wrists, too, slipping over the gloves. "This is just an angle," he murmured, his forehead creasing unhappily and soft lips being tugged down into a deeper frown.

I just breathed for a second, not changing my expression, but I dragged my thumb over his pulse. If that was what he needed to think – if he needed time to get it through his head, I could do that, as long as he wasn't flat-out refusing to accept that he could be wrong. "To get to the music box," I tried, the phrase tasting weird in my mouth. "Do you know what it is?"

As he looked less like a flight risk, I loosened my fingers, not wanting him to feel trapped or unwillingly contained. Conversely, he tightened his, holding on tighter to my forearms.

"I might," he admitted, his eyes flashing to the side again, checking that we were still alone.

I picked up one foot and stomped lightly on the porch step, understanding on my face transitioning to irritation. "I've broken so many rules I should be drop-kicked out on my ass, and you want to start being noncommittal and ambiguous _now?_ " I demanded shortly. Neal blinked and looked apologetic. I twisted one hand free and raised it between us, tapping at the tip of his nose. "Think again, Pinocchio."

The art thief looked up towards the sky over my head and then nodded slowly. "I know what it is," he confessed, pulling at the wrist he still held while he sank back down onto the steps. I bent my knees rather than my waist as I sat, still conscientious of my short skirt.

"Much better," I told him approvingly.

"Catherine the Great had a room in her palace in St. Petersburg made entirely out of amber." Neal sure loved his history. I wasn't sure that this was the best time for it, but then he moved our hands to his left leg and extended his right, crossing it over mine like he wanted to keep me there with him. "You've heard of it?"

"No, I'm an uncultured swine who never heard about the Amber Room," I replied sarcastically, already huffing. The Amber Room was supposed to be an incredible sight, one of the manmade wonders of the world, but although I could envision the breathtaking aesthetic of it, no one would have the luxury of actually seeing it ever again. Nazi parties had taken it apart, stealing and destroying and reducing it to a shadow of what it had been.

His lips quirked, just for a moment – a flicker of what might have been an almost-smile at my sass before he was solemn again. "Well, one of the things the Nazis looted was an amber music box."

"Oh." I could see why Kate and/or Fowler wanted that. "Well, that's worth money for the amber alone," I figured, because an amber music box had to be expensive and very difficult to make. "Let alone the historical value."

He started to nod, but then his eyes dulled and half-closed, looking down in depression. "It's not worth all of this," he said, doing a poor job at containing his displeasure. It radiated off of him, practically in vibes, and I swear that I absorbed more than I deflected.

"Maybe not on its own," I considered. I kept holding his wrist, but introduced my free hand to his arm as well, tracing over the line of the rolled-up sleeve on his forearm. The tanner skin tone stood out against the white of my hands and reminded me how much I liked the contrast of our skin together. "You know, the thing about music boxes – a lot of them have compartments. I have one in my room that I keep my bracelets and rings in."

The conman cocked his head as he listened. "It's holding onto a secret," he stated, low and quiet. I wasn't sure if it was something he was saying to me, or something he said for his own benefit that I just happened to be around to hear.

"We're just getting in deeper and deeper…" I trailed off, continuing to admire my fingers against his arm in a very basic aesthetic appreciation. "Kate, Fowler, music box." All things we weren't supposed to be concerning ourselves with. "And maintaining our covers to the rest of the bureau while we're at it." We had more than just the pretense of being dutiful, undistracted civil employees to keep up with: we also had to keep it a secret that we were anything more than friends, which was hard enough when I almost constantly wanted to be touching him somehow. Although it's usually the same kind of want I have to touch Derek or Katie, for the reassurance they're there and the comfort that another person brings me, it's so much more frequent that it's more conspicuous and noticeable.

"We can do it." Neal assured me with that quiet stubbornness again. I lifted my eyes to meet his gaze. He was doing it again; staring at me with kindness while I had my head down.

I let go of his arm and he let go of mine, taking the hint when I averted my eyes and didn't quite want to look at him. When I woke up first and his fringe had fallen down close to his eyes and I brushed it away before getting up, did I look at him the way he looked at me? The look didn't make me uncomfortable because of the attention; it made me uncomfortable because it wasn't lusty. It was a deeper thing that was much harder to quantify.

* * *

I wasn't asleep when someone came knocking on the door, but I had been getting close. I was in my signature position for falling asleep on the couch – lying down on the cushions, facing the back of the sofa, blanket over my entire body and a throw pillow cuddled close to my chest, because a habit I haven't been able to shake since I was a kid is having something to hold while I sleep. The rapping on the door jolted me awake from the half-conscious daze I'd been in, and when it was repeated, I grumbled unhappily and threw the blanket off, rolling onto my back and tossing my legs over the side of the couch to stand up.

I was not happy to be getting up, so I marched over to the door with every intention of throwing it open and demanding that the person on the other side came back when it is was acceptable hour for me to feel like a person and not a zombie, but when I opened it, I was met with Neal – dapper as always – with a bouquet of half a dozen roses held in front of him, a purple bow wrapped around the stems over the plastic and tied decoratively with intentional twists and shimmering glitter.

It was just not right for him to come to my porch late at night, looking like probably the most gorgeous man I'd ever seen, flowers in hand, and making me feel severely underdressed. _Not cool._ What was I thinking I was underdressed for, exactly? I'd been about to fall asleep on my couch. The embarrassment of my… my whatever-he-is seeing my collection of fandom clothing apparently didn't end with the Dalek socks, as I had on long sweatpants with _The Walking Dead_ written in red over them and a loose tank top with James Roday and Dulé Hill that said _all of the law, none of the order._

And to top it off, my socks had _221B Baker Street_ written in the lopsided handwriting that kind of went along with the British show's version of Sherlock.

I stared at him for a second while all of these thoughts went through my head and I did a mental inventory of my closet and dresser drawers, trying to figure out if I could do a short fashion show just to show off all of the nerdy merchandise I owned and get the embarrassment over with quickly. I smoothed down my hair on the side that I'd been prepared to go to sleep on.

"What're these?" I asked slightly-less-than-politely, still surprised to see Neal on my porch like he was picking me up for prom.

He lifted his eyes up from the slogan on my shirt and extended the roses. They were of varying colors, and he probably had them ordered specially from a florist – they were each different colors. There was the usual crimson red, both a lighter and darker pink, dull orange, soft lavender, and an exquisite rose of yellow with red-tipped petals. I wasn't entirely sure half of them even grew in those colors in nature, but they looked gorgeous, and were arranged in a way that the odd colors didn't clash with others. None of them had thorns.

"My apology, my affection, and my invitation for you to come with me." He met my eyes and kept a straight face while he said it. I wanted to question why it was all cool for him to be bringing me roses in the middle of the night. I wondered why he went to the trouble of getting them multicolored.

But they _were_ lovely roses, and although they were usually indicative of a more romantic gesture, I took them carefully from him. "I'm in my pajamas," I said, trying to imagine where he wanted to take me in the middle of the night and calculating exactly how bad it would be if the population of that location knew that I was a fan of _Sherlock_ , _Psych_ , and _The Walking Dead_.

"That's okay," Neal assured me, a smirk rising on his face as he looked down at the pants and the socks. I glared flatly. There was no way he wasn't remembering the Dalek sock incident in Chinatown. "June won't mind."

Well. If it was just June seeing… she wasn't exactly the kind to judge what kind of pajamas someone else wore, especially not after I saw her _Sex and the City_ shirt. "We're just going to the penthouse?" I asked warily, arching an eyebrow. I wouldn't put it past Neal for this to be some sort of plot. Not a malicious one, no, but I knew very well that he's been wanting more from me than I'm prepared to give, and although I would never suspect him of drugging or manipulating or otherwise coercing me into something I've said 'no' towards, I wouldn't have been surprised if this was a ploy to do something really nice or romantic that would leave me feeling even more conflicted.

And, wow, that would never stop seeming weird. I'm questioning Neal's motives not because I think he might have something planned that would hurt me, but because I'm worried he might do something too nice for me. I'd never thought to be alarmed that he'd be trying to date me or win me over, because the prospect had simply not occurred to me until Kate hit me with a clue-by-four and pointed out the subtleties that I was (possibly deliberately) overlooking.

Neal Caffrey is a conman who I am quite possibly becoming overly attached to, sleep with on a regular basis, happens to be my soulmate and doesn't know it, evidently can't be trusted not to be trying to win my heart just to seriously screw me over, and whom is also very persistent in that he wants me, and this is a context that I wouldn't have believed in a fictional book, much less reality. It's like one big mind fuck.

Conspiratorially, he looked over my shoulder and into the rest of the house. Like an idiot, I was only now realizing that maybe I should step aside and let him in. He had brought me roses, after all. He dropped his voice low. "You still want to be included in this music box thing?" He asked, his eyes finding my face. He kept his eyes on me, drilling into my skull to see what I was thinking – at least, that's what it felt like.

"Of course I do," I answered, reaching up and trying again to fix my hair, not missing a beat. There wasn't a question about it, as far as I was concerned, except for that Neal was deciding to be my Jiminy Cricket and the tempting devil on my shoulder all at the same time, and it was getting really annoying to be torn between Neal and my conscience.

He didn't let up quite so easily, and in that moment, I was thankful for the flowers. They didn't smell very strongly, but I could hold onto them for something to do with my hands, which saved me a lot of awkwardness. "Because a new day dawns-"

I cut him off before he could even start telling me I might have changed my mind. "Don't start." And just to be sure, I looked at the clock hanging on my wall in the living room. It wasn't even midnight yet. A new day wouldn't be dawning for another six or seven hours, at least.

"Well, I'm just saying." The slight smile and the poetic drama he'd been about to incite faded. "This is the kind of thing that can get you fired." So he was making sure I knew. "I want you to know what you're risking before you start getting any more involved than you already are." And he was offering me an out of it. _Damn._ It's hard not to want to take the roses for the symbolic meaning and kiss his cheek when he keeps being so awesome. "I'm sorry I dragged you in this far."

I held up a hand to stop him there, keeping the other one on the small bouquet.

"None of this was your fault." I established, leaving no room for argument with the way I said it. This was absolutely not up for debate. Some things that gave me hardships were his fault. His actions, no matter how long ago they were, have consequences. He is a criminal because of his behavior, and the results of his status as a convict are technically his fault. _However,_ he is absolutely _not_ at fault for Fowler choosing to take away Kate and starting to inflict pain and commit sneaky crimes because he wants to be the top dog for an elaborate piece of Russian history. "It's all on Fowler, maybe on Kate – much as you don't like to hear it," I added, daring him to contradict me again and say she was innocent. "Screwing with you is something he doesn't get away with. Trespassing in my house and spying on me and Katie? He's gonna rue the day."

I looked down to the roses again and breathed in. Not a pungent scent, but a faint aroma that teased my nose and smelled organic, floral, and slightly mixed with the cologne that I knew just as well as I knew Katie's favorite perfumes. I'd become very familiar with it in the last many months.

I looked back up again with renewed composure and a smirk. I aimed for sexy to keep it from getting too romantic, but I'm not sure how well I pulled that off with my shirt being all about a show where the main characters act like idiots and my hair probably looking like I'd given up after brushing half of it. There was a reason Neal was okay to stick through the night with sometimes; he was far less mean than my sister about the horrific states my hair ended up in if I didn't go to sleep with it tied up.

"Thanks for the roses, Romeo," I teased, holding the flowers a little closer to my chest while I backed up into my house, making way for him to come in while I retreated to the kitchen to find a vase.

After which I would venture upstairs to find a hairbrush and my shoes.

* * *

Mozzie held a glass of wine by the thin neck of Neal's champagne glass, filled halfway with dark red liquid. "Okay, so, Fowler wants the music box." Neal topped off a glass for me in repayment for parading me in front of Mozzie in my fandom pajamas. "Let's give it to him," the con suggested the obvious, sitting down in a chair by the table.

I took my drink and carried it to the table, sitting across from Mozzie. "It may not be so cut-and-dry," I warned, postponing a yawn by swallowing. With someone who had as far a reach as Fowler apparently did, who knew what else he could demand? What if, after he had the music box, he decided to fuck with us some more? What if he eliminated the evidence, Kate Moreau included, that he had had anything to do with screwing around with us? What if he raised the price?

What if, what if, what if – a dozen other things could possibly happen, and it was making me tired to think about all the ways it could go wrong, all the ways that it could go not according to plan and things could escalate.

"Ah, or it may be." Mozzie raised a finger to me in that annoying way he does before he starts to say some philosophical quote from a physics professor who died two hundred years ago. I sighed and told myself that I brought it on myself. "The fall of tricks is when they're too complicated. Where is it?" He looked at Neal expectantly.

Neal sucked in his cheeks, stalling, and then replied, "… I don't have it."

Mozzie put his glass down on the table hard. "What?!" He pinched the bridge of his nose. I looked at him weirdly for a second, wondering if he had gotten the habit from me or if we'd both gotten it elsewhere. "You told everyone you had it!"

"I never told anyone!" Neal defended, crossing his arms over his lower stomach, curling his fingers around his sides. I looked at Mozzie's glare and then turned my eyes to Neal, intentionally mimicked Mozzie's head-tilt and glower, and kept staring at my soulmate. He shrunk back around from the double-power of the stare. "Everyone _assumed_ I took it, and I… never corrected them…"

Mozzie sighed and looked down to his lap, letting Neal off the hook. "It did make you appear superhuman," he reminisced.

Neal bravely risked smiling. "Image is everything." He started to preen until he noticed that I was still unamused, and then he stopped, looking away sheepishly.

I gave up. If Mozzie wasn't going to back me up, then even if Neal pretended to feel remorse, he wasn't going to actually feel it, and I didn't want to pressure him into feeling like he had to lie to me about how he felt. That would've been counterproductive for someone who wanted the opposite. "A lesson Fowler's already learned," I stated wisely. "If he ruins our images, it's like trying to straighten out crumpled paper." It could be held straight, but there would always be a mark.

"You don't have the box." Mozzie looked resigned but took up his wine again to brainstorm. "Now what?"

"Now, I… find the music box," Neal proposed.

" _Without_ cutting out the fed," I interjected. Both men looked at me, Neal leaning on the counter next to the Château bottle. Mozzie was giving me a little frown for my trouble of reminding them who they were collaborating with. "Sorry," I lied. "I feel like that should be included on the agenda." I smiled saccharinely at Mozzie because it was easier to bother him than it was Neal. "Seems like the kind of thing you'd 'forget' otherwise."

Mozzie, the little tattletale, jerked his thumb at me and whined to Neal. "Is she gonna have this attitude the whole time?"

Neal overlooked Mozzie's disapproval and looked at me with soft adoration. I pushed my hair back behind my ears and fluffed up the ends. "Sorry, Moz," he said, his eyes still on me. Mozzie held up two fingers and pretended to stick them down his throat at the unveiled affection. "We wouldn't even know what we're after if it wasn't for Kenna."

"So. Stay on top of Fowler, find the music box from the Amber Room, and don't draw attention to ourselves. … This should be easy." I crossed my legs and drank down the rest of the champagne in my glass with a mild little burn.

"We need to have it, not just find it, in order to give it." Mozzie pursed his lips thoughtfully. "What do you think it's going for?"

 _Don't you dare try to involve a fence in this,_ I tried to think menacingly. Even my inner threats sounded about as vicious as a newborn kitten.

"Nothing I can afford on seven hundred a month," Neal chuckled at the understatement.

Mozzie perked up and made an excited _'ooh!'_ It was truly unsettling how much genuine joy he got out of the prospect of obtaining something he wasn't supposed to have through means he wasn't supposed to even _consider_ , much less see through.

"So we-"

The weirdo cut himself off with a suspicious look at me.

"Ugh," I groaned, waving. "Fine." I uncrossed my legs and leaned over the table, pressing my elbows on the edge and using my fists to prop up my chin. "It's not like you'll ever admit you were here to say it in front of me anyways," I rationalized. I had to have at least one thing about this insane situation reasonably explained to myself before my head exploded.

Mozzie burst into a full-on manic grin. "We find it and steal it?" He asked Neal hopefully, who nodded, looking between Mozzie and I like a parent proud of his kids for getting along. Mozzie cheered and held up his glass in celebration. "Welcome back!"

* * *

**Did you know that flowers have their very own language? Turns out that there was a secret taunt on Valentine's Day. I should be embarrassed or insulted, but really I just think it's fucking hilarious that someone can tell me what they think with some cheesy bouquet but doesn't have the balls to say it to my face.**

**My parents found out that I've been taking martial arts lessons… and they had someone follow me to a showcase to promote the dojo. The staff recorded the video and then when I got home, they made me sit and watch it while it was played in high definition. For just a few moments, while it played, they didn't say anything. I was dumb enough to think maybe they weren't going to drag me down for something practical that I enjoyed. I won every fight that I was put up to on the mats. It was half an hour of me being a total badass with awesome coordination and power. It was stupid of me to think maybe they'd approve. When I looked at their faces, Mom looked like she had a lemon in her mouth, and Dad looked disgusted. I guess I forgot that no matter what the context is, it's never okay for a lady to spread her legs.**

**Even if she's roundhouse kicking someone twice her size.**

**They told me to stop. I refused. Blah, blah, blah. I'm grounded. As if that's going to stop me. I found a loose lock on one of the windows on the west side of the house. I can wait until Mom's gone to bed, then sneak out, climb the terrace, and go practice. It might be harder to get partners to practice with in the middle of the night, but we're teenagers. Half of us want to be nocturnal, anyway. I'm up in my bedroom snoozing by the time anyone thinks to check on me.**

**What can I say? Delinquency comes naturally to me. Maybe it wouldn't, if my parents actually supported any of my hobbies and stopped trying to force Jesus and tea down my throat. Martial arts can be dangerous, yeah, but their concern isn't for my safety. It's for their reputation, and their conventions, because God forbid a woman use her body for something that's not domestic or for the pleasure of a man. I tried to bring up the self-defense argument. Their response was that my husband will protect me, so I don't need to.**

**_Ha._ ** **I asked them how many goats they were selling me for.**

**Love (and fight),**

**Zarra L**


	17. The Organ Starts, No Wedding March

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Neal urges McKenna to take a case she thinks is open-and-shut, only for them to uncover something more serious than they could've guessed. An unwelcome face finds a new way to access McKenna and Neal through taking advantage of Katie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Lucy Hale's "My Little Black Wedding Dress."

**_Chapter Seventeen – The Organ Starts, No Wedding March_ **

Neal and June had been out this morning and she had driven him to work to say thanks for helping her with her garden, so we didn't arrive at the same time. I sent him a text warning him that if he wasn't behaving himself, I would know, and when the elevator carried me up to the unit's floor, the doors opened to show the smiling face of my colleague.

My first thought was _he misbehaved._

With a flourish, Neal presented an arrangement of flowers from behind his back – roses, just like the last time, and even in the same colors. Giving me a collection of flora in the middle of the bureau was overdoing it, especially since I had forgiven him for giving me a death threat and accusing me of kidnapping his sister. I hadn't forgotten, but I was trying to forgive and get over it. It was in the past, and we needed to be a united front to fight Fowler. Even if he didn't have Kate, he was obviously trying to split us apart.

"What are these?" I asked, only stepping off the elevator so that the doors wouldn't close and take me to the next floor it was called to. I looked down at the roses suspiciously. He hadn't done anything wrong that I knew of… _then again, these might be meant to soften the blow…_

Confused by the question, Neal turned the flowers so the petals were towards his face. He looked down at them like they'd been replaced by something else, reassured himself that they were, in fact, roses, and then turned them out to me again. "Well… it's a bouquet," he said slowly, as if I'd asked a particularly dumb question.

I took the flowers. They were pretty. I had kept the last batch as long as I could, but flora didn't live that long after their stems were cut, so even though I kept them watered and in as much sunlight as I could, they eventually started to die, stems wilting and petals drying out and falling. Even if he was giving them to me to suck up, I was the kind of girl that would take the offered apology chocolate regardless of whether or not the apology was accepted. In my head, if you've done something you feel the need to buy me things to apologize for, then you probably deserve to spend the money without gain at least once.

"What have you done?" I asked him through a charade of patience and a smile.

Immediately, he drew his hands back and stuffed them in his pockets. "Nothing!" He defended as if I'd impugned his honor.

"Neal!" I said sharply.

Holding my special flowers to my chest, Neal walked ahead of me to push open the door so I wouldn't have to. I stared at him to question why he was suddenly so helpful and polite, and we entered the bullpen with him defending himself and me looking like I didn't believe him. No one else thought this was strange enough to put their attention to, which meant it happened too often.

"I haven't done anything that makes these an apology," he vowed, and used his hand to mark an "X" over the center of his chest. "Cross my heart." _Your heart is to your left, moron._

"Then what are you giving me flowers for?" I challenged. Last time it had been because he'd needed to apologize, and the times before that when he'd given me either real flowers or origami paper decorations, it had usually been to thank me for something. I was convinced he wasn't just buying them without an agenda.

He sighed. "They are a token of my affection and proof of solidarity." Neal was starting to sound sarcastic.

"I thought we'd already talked about this," I mumbled, face falling at the 'solidarity' thing. I had forgiven him for the way he reacted. It wasn't entirely his fault – Fowler had intentionally mislead him into thinking I was the dirty cop after him, Neal running barging into his hotel room to look for Kate and Fowler framing himself as the hero trying to arrest Neal to get him out of danger… from me, whom he had _really_ come to investigate.

The point was, there was nothing more for him to do. He'd apologized, I'd gotten over it, I still trusted him and I wanted to believe that he trusted me just as much as he had before, if not more so, since I'd saved his life.

Derek looked up from his desk, saw us, and jumped up, cutting around the corner of his table and stalking hurriedly. My shoulders slumped. "Oh, jeez," I complained. I recognized that look way too well. It was the look Diana had had when Hughes had wanted to see me in the conference room right after Mark Costa went missing. "I've been in the building less than three minutes." What catastrophe could have struck today that couldn't wait until I got these flowers in water and set my bag down in my office?

"Sorry, Mick," Derek said uncomfortably and sympathetically. "David Sullivan is waiting for you in the conference room."

I relaxed at the same time as I contradicted my body language with a groan. "Again?" Derek nodded that he wasn't just screwing around. I groaned again. "Jesus Christ…" Well, no one was missing or dead. That was an improvement.

Neal hadn't been deliberately left out, but the Sullivan case was so clear-cut that I had taken one look at it when David brought it around to our division and I hadn't even bothered showing it to my consultant. I didn't need his specialties to be able to read the warrants and check the legitimacy of the judge's stamp on the court ruling. Except, even after getting a dismissal from the bureau, the man just kept coming back. I had started fielding him to Diana.

"What's wrong?" Neal looked between us, on edge. "Who's David Sullivan?"

I could see him getting worried and I switched the flowers to my right hand, moving my left to brush his arm, letting him know he could relax. The only threat was to the man's livelihood, which he could've been trying to salvage if he wasn't wasting his time coming here every day for repeat performances of the past visits.

"He's a civilian who's been complaining to the bureau all week about a civil case against him. He's calling it mortgage fraud." Upon hearing his least favorite kind of case, Neal settled, but wrinkled his nose. "It's a very simple, clear-cut bank foreclosure that a judge has already signed off on, but he's been coming in every day since. I don't know what he expects us to do about it."

"Pretty flowers," Derek observed, his attention brought to them when I had moved them around. He smirked, his eyes lighting up with impish delight like a boy catching his sister singing into her hairbrush. "Does baby sister have a secret admirer?" He teased, stretching his hand out to ruffle my hair.

"Shut up. Don't touch my hair!" I commanded, ducking behind Neal since I knew that that was one order Derek wasn't going to entirely listen to. "I'm trying to work here!"

Chuckling at himself like he was just _so_ funny, Derek lowered his hand and turned his palm over. "I'll take them to your office for you if you handle Sullivan," he bargained, still smirking.

Like any decent listener, I squinted at him, not quite buying that he would do such a thing out of the goodness of his heart. "Why?" I asked. There had to be something else. Dealing with Sullivan was annoying, but he wasn't rude, and he left when we told him to leave. Everything about him was indicative of a model citizen, with the sole exception of a parking ticket he got a few years ago when his meter ran out. "What's new this time?"

My brother grimaced, wishing that I hadn't thought to ask. "He brought his daughter…" he said slowly, his eyes flicking up to the conference room. I looked up. The door was open, a kid was sitting in the chair at the end of the table, and David was standing behind her, hands lightly on her shoulders but distractedly looking around the bullpen and waiting for someone to talk to.

"Ah, the sympathy card," Neal realized, sounding slightly interested.

I internally sighed. It was one thing to explain the solidity of his case to an adult, but telling a little girl that the police couldn't help her keep her home? That was all sorts of bad. She didn't know all of the channels that everything would go to, and if the police didn't help her now, then would she trust them to go ask for help if she ever needed it? I covered my face with my hands. _That fucker has a sympathy card, alright._

I supposed I'd been shoving him onto my agents for long enough. It was starting to get ridiculous, and this, being dragged into the bureau, was the last kind of situation his daughter needed to be dealing with when he should have been talking to her about what she wanted her new bedroom to look like or something else that made the situation seem a little less dreary.

"Is it working?" Neal inquired, looking at me with amusement.

"Ah…" I looked away. This had to be wrong – using your daughter as emotional blackmail. "Damn it, it is," I whined. Neal snickered. I stepped on his toes while I came out from behind him and handed the flower bouquet to Derek. "C'mon, let's go. Thanks, Derek."

The other agent looked all too relieved to be let up from Sullivan duty and took the flowers off towards the kitchenette to get something to put them in. Neal came with me across to the mezzanine, but he looked incredulous.

"What, you want me to go with you?" If it was so dry, why did I need my consultant? Simple. Because I am not okay with appearing like a bad cop to a child, and if I was the mean agent who didn't help her dad, then I was going to have someone with me who was worse and had been to prison, even if I only told her that in my own mind. I didn't say any of this out loud, but Neal saw it anyway. "You're uncomfortable around the six-year-old," he guessed.

"I don't like sad children," I rephrased. It sounded better than just 'uncomfortable around the six-year-old.' That made me sound either socially inapt or scared of my own shadow, neither of which I liked. No one liked sad children. No one but the people who kicked puppies in their free time, at least. Turning to Neal before I entered the conference room, I rubbed below my hips to find which of my pockets had anything in them. I took out my wallet and took out a contact information card with my name, title, number, and email and handed it to Neal, practically forcing it into his hand. "Here, have another card. Do some magic tricks, make her smile."

It had worked on Twan's daughter in Chinatown; she had very quickly fallen for Neal's mysterious, magical ways, although she might have just been amazed by his thievery, considering that she herself was a bit of a klepto. She stole my sock from me while I was wearing it, for God's sake.

Neal rolled his eyes. He didn't have to say it aloud for me to know what he was thinking. "Well, I suppose if making the kid happy will make _you_ smile…"

"It will," I promised him thankfully, and then my smile dropped and I pointed at his chest. "As long as the things in my pockets _stay_ in my pockets."

I lead Neal into the conference room, let myself in, and then closed the door myself once Neal was inside, blocking the way for him to make a potential escape.

David Sullivan was as tall as Neal, but less fit. He had a little bit less definition to his stomach and his cheekbones were a little lower. His hair was a dark mop that had clearly been combed, but refused to be tamed. He reminded me of Harry Potter in that respect. His eyes, however, were dark brown, not like Lily Evans' green, and he had a tan from being in the sun.

His daughter was a blonde with curly, corkscrew hair and a red sweater. Her feet didn't even touch the ground in the chair she was sitting in, instead swinging gamely while she colored with a pack of Crayola crayons and a loose piece of paper. A paper dock was about a foot away from her, her drawing pad clearly taken from it, and I winced when I saw what the gridded holder was containing.

"Mr. Sullivan, I wish I could say it was good to see you again, but, given the circumstances, it's, ah… not." I cringed and offered a sympathetic, almost sorry smile. The flaw in his plan of coming repeatedly was that I now felt like I knew him well enough to be honest. I bent down over the table next to the little girl and then decided to drop into a crouch to be less intimidating. "Hey, kiddo," I said friendlily. "What's your name?"

The little girl lifted her head. The extra-curly hair bounced out of the way of her face. Without letting go of her violet crayon, the kid cheerfully introduced, "'m Allison!" Her cheeks were still pudgy with baby fat and her eyes were shockingly green. Freckles were splattered across her face and heavy on her cheeks.

I smiled to give the official adult approval of her name. "Nice to meet you, sweetheart," I greeted, and then I was about done with children for the day and wished I'd just let Neal do this part, because I didn't know what to say next. So I did the dumb thing and pointed to the paper she was coloring on. So far, she had just drawn grass and a sun with violet eyes and a purple smile. "Hey, you know, that's a five-one-five form, not a coloring book, but thanks for drawing on it anyways. I hate those things."

What was funny to me left an awkward, disapproving silence from the adults. Allison looked proud of herself for ruining something I hated and went back to her coloring, pretending I wasn't there. I stood up to my full height and moved away before I did something else wrong.

"I'm sure the bureau can get by with one less document," Neal promised sarcastically, glaring at me. "Encourage the artistic ability," he advised David.

I waved at Neal. "This is my CI, Neal Caffrey," I introduced. Even if he didn't know what the letters stood for, they sounded official enough for him to probably get the idea that Neal was involved with the FBI. "He's an artist," I added, shooting Neal a look.

Neal ignored it. "What's going on, Mr. Sullivan?" He asked compassionately.

David turned his hopes to Neal, as the latter was much more receptive. "The bank forecloses on our home in a week," he explained stressfully.

"Mr. Sullivan's father recently died, and the second mortgage he took out on the house, which he officially owned, has put them in debt." I provided a little bit more of the story behind it so that Neal knew what grounds we were working on. Or _thinking_ of working on.

Turning back to the father, Neal seemed stricken with some aspect of secondhand distress. "I'm sorry to hear that," he said, troubled.

"He didn't take out a second mortgage," David argued with me, the same point that he'd been making every single time he came, without fail. At least he had consistency. "He would never do that! Someone cheated us."

"I've looked at your case several times, Mr. Sullivan, and I'm sorry, but I _really_ don't think the bureau can help." There was a judge, there was a previous police inquiry, and there was the initial sweep that I had made into the case before I'd dismissed it as a sad, but ultimately unremarkable, civil decision. I wasn't without pity, there just really didn't seem anything off. "Sometimes these things just happen. I'd be happy to connect you with some really good financial advisors or estate appraisers, but all of the mortgage paperwork is right where it's supposed to be."

"Was your father in debt?" Neal inquired, more interested in the details than he really should have been.

"He wasn't in debt," David answered heatedly, before he took a deep breath, remembering that Neal was not whoever he wanted to lash out at. "I know him," he said more calmly.

I raised an eyebrow. That whole 'full disclosure' thing certainly applied here, and while it was clever of him to avoid telling Neal everything, it wasn't going to fly with me. "He was in an extended care home for the last three years, and you only saw him a handful of times." David looked chagrined, and the man chewed on his cheek. Neal looked between us as if asking if it was true. "I looked into your case very thoroughly," I reminded. "Four visits doesn't really equate to knowing a person."

David licked his lips nervously, looking away to the window out of the building. I saw a bird and another building before I looked back to Allison. She was content with her arts and crafts project, not paying any attention to the discussion that the adults around her were having. It was probably for the best.

"Look." David held his hands in front of him beseechingly. "My dad… was a hard man." It sounded like the more accurate word would have been inappropriate to say in front of a six-year-old. "Near the end of his life, he wanted to get to know his granddaughter. She got us to get past our differences." He set a hand on Allison's shoulder. She turned her head far enough to put her cheek on the back of his hand but kept kicking her legs and coloring. "He wanted to give her a nice home to grow up in, and that's how I know my father wouldn't take out a second mortgage to play Black Jack, okay?" Blinking, he looked at Neal again pleadingly, and then to me. "You're our last chance."

Allison clanked down whatever color she had switched to on the table and twisted in her chair, climbing up onto her knees and leaning over the side of the armrest. She held out the official form with the back decorated. It looked like a kid's drawing, but there were a few… aspects… that made it more relevant than just something from a parent's fridge.

I took the paper that she clearly wanted me to accept and then she pointed with an enthusiastic finger to the stick figure, second from the left. "That's you," she told me, pleased with herself.

The picture in a whole was the grass that she'd drawn and a yellow-and-red house, like the one from _Blue's Clues._ The sun was smiling down on a crudely-proportioned butterfly and equally disfigured stick people. Two were hand-in-hand closer to the house, one short with a mess of yellow hair and green dots for eyes. The other was twice as tall with a flexible rectangle of brown on his head and the same color for the eyes. On the left, there were two other people: a stick person with long black hair was wearing a red triangular cape like Superman's but without the initial, with blue eyes and a square in one hand that said _FBI_. She was holding the hand of another man her height, also with the dark blue eyes, but apparently Allison had decided that Neal's hair was closer to black than brown.

I looked at the drawing. This was one of those emotional trips that always got the protagonists on the procedural series. "Thank you, Allison," I said, forcing a sweet smile onto my face.

Neal looked at it over my shoulder and brightened when he saw the representations of ourselves. "Aw, that's cute," he cooed. "Look, you're wearing a cape!"

 _Yes, I noticed._ Nodding with clear exasperation that I hoped the girl didn't pick up on, I looked straight at David and asked quietly, "Did you tell her to do that?"

Sadness and hope turned into offense and startled surprise. David shook his head quickly. Allison looked over her shoulder at her dad in confusion as to why I would ask while her father denied it vehemently. Neal reeled back and stared at me, then gave me a nudge with his shoulder.

I let out a breath and recognized a lost battle. If I didn't take this, then I was officially the worst human being in the entire world (unless I ended up on a wild adventure where a white-collar criminal abducted a kid), and Neal would probably go ask Diana or Derek or some other compassionate human being with a heart if he could just take a quick look at this straightforward, dull, unremarkable case file.

Shaking my head, I looked back up at David and wondered why I almost wanted to frame the picture and hang it in my office. It was some six-year-old's drawing made by a kid I didn't even really know and was the final nail in the coffin that was my hope of a nice, uncomplicated day. Why would I want to remind myself of it every time I was in my workspace?

"I've told you, I really don't think there's anything I can do," I warned the pair with defeat. "But… I'll take Mr. Caffrey and look into it again." Looking barely able to believe it, David smiled and nodded quickly enough to give himself whiplash with his gratitude, and he wrapped his arm around his daughter's shoulders, hugging her over the back of the chair. Neal himself looked as excited as the clapping child. "Maybe another perspective will help find a loophole to at least delay the bank."

* * *

I gave in to Neal and let him look at everything I had already pored myself over, and he was starting to see why I hadn't wanted to take the case. "It's pretty cut-and-dry, actually," he said, one leg crossed over the other and holding paperwork along his raised thigh. "The bank has all the paperwork signed and notarized, just like it's supposed to be." He grimaced and looked at me remorsefully. "I can see why you didn't want to take this on."

I bounced my legs while hold music played on my ears. I had the desk line receiver to the side of my face and waited with irritation for someone to actually talk to me. I wanted to get the initial opinion on the family from the officer of the NYPD whom Sullivan had first gone to, but it was taking forever for the office to connect me.

"Damn it, I hate having emotions," I declared loudly, since it's not like anyone was on the other end of the phone to hear me bitching. "This is why I don't really hang out at Katie's daycare."

"Oh, don't be like that," Neal chastened lightheartedly, perusing the next page of the file with a thoughtful look in his eyes. "You're looking again because a child wants you to. It's really sweet. Says something good about your character." He looked up long enough to give me a small smile.

I raised my eyebrows but I ceased my antsy hopping of my heels. "I wasn't aware my character was in question." Neal looked quickly back down to the file and I realized a little late that my reply had turned his joke into a much more serious remark on his accusations from when we were undercover as Nick and Eleanor. I was just going to apologize and say that wasn't what I had meant, but the tasteless and tinny hold music was cut off before I could. "Yeah, I'm still here."

Neal looked down, but instead of reading, he was staring, taken out of his concentration by that awkward, unthoughtful comment. His eyes stayed locked at one spot on the page. I looked down to my desk while the officer on the phone line got back to me.

_"_ _I'm sorry, Agent Anderson, but the officer you wanted to speak to is unavailable. He retired last week."_

"… Last week?" I repeated with an odd tone, going back to the FaceBook page I'd pulled up. I'd taken the signature of the presiding officer, looked him up on FaceBook, and found the profile that matched the location and career. His webpage didn't say that he was retired, but then, there hadn't been any activity or new posts since the Thursday before last. The man in the profile picture was young and healthy. In his thirties.

 _"_ _I'm sure,"_ the officer confirmed. I licked my lips and stared at the inactive FaceBook page. Police officers didn't just retire in their early thirties, not without a reason. What could have happened right around the time Sullivan started coming to the bureau to complain that convinced him to drop his job? A strange foreclosure that someone insisted was fraudulent being subject to an inconclusive investigation seemed suspicious. _"If that's all_ -"

I had almost forgotten that the other person had things to do, too. "Yep, that's all," I said quickly, a little sorry for having wasted a minute of their time not saying anything. "Get back to work, Officer. Bye." I took the phone away from my ear and pressed the receiver back onto the machine, then crossed my elbows on top of the table and looked across at Neal. "That's weird," I decided aloud without context.

Neal raised his eyes to look at me again, having given me the illusion of being alone while I had my phone call. "Find something?"

"When the bank first issued the notice, Sullivan went to the NYPD and since escalated to the bureau." I offered a little more of the case's background first. "The detective who first looked into it, I figured he might have a better idea of what was going on, but I can't reach him at his office, because he's retired."

Neal frowned. "Well, that timing was inconvenient," he commented.

"More than that, it's unorthodox." Had he just missed the definition of _weird_ when I had gotten his attention? "He's thirty-five."

 _That_ he noticed. Neal cocked his head and closed the file over his leg. "It's worth looking into," he opted. Taking a breath and then looking up to meet my gaze, staring right into my eyes, Neal suggested, "We should think about why over a coffee."

In just a couple of seconds, I had an entire mental process play through. _We should think about why over a coffee._ Normally he said _let's get coffee on the way_ or _caffeine break?_ or something short like that. Being a master of words, of course he was talented at subtly changing his meaning just by altering the way he said something, and he had certainly changed what he was doing.

It could have been my imagination getting the better of me, but… I thought he might have been asking me out on a date.

Would it have been farfetched? I knew he thought we had been dating and had been upset when I had corrected him, but that had been months ago now. Since then, he'd left everything the way it was between us. We'd been preoccupied. I was so mad at him, and then, right as we were getting back to normal, he kept Mei Lin and Interpol a secret. While our friendship was recovering from _that,_ Fowler swept into town and locked him up. We'd had too much to do to combat Fowler, and then there had been too many individual problems right afterwards for much of anything. Neal was coming to terms with that he'd been sent back to prison, had the harsh reality of how easy it would be to end up right back where he'd been shoved in his face. I'd had my home violated and had trouble feeling safe for weeks. And then, as all of that was settled down, Neal saw the photograph where I was wearing my FBI ring and became convinced that I was Kate's abductor.

It wasn't without a precedent. He was always overly nice and flirtatious, but he never seemed particularly interested in anyone else. I took up more of his time than anyone, save maybe Mozzie, and Neal didn't ever complain. He enjoyed being around me, as far as I could tell, and even when we were in the presence of other people – Katie, Diana, Derek – I seemed to hold most of his attention.

So we hadn't been dating when he'd thought we'd been, and he had backed off when I told him to. Did this mean that he still wanted that kind of relationship with me? For us?

I couldn't do it, I needed to think and I certainly wasn't going to agree to something when I wasn't certain that there were other connotations attached, not after last time when I took it for granted that he knew what we were to each other and ended up hurting us both.

"Better yet, I know his name." Brightening up like it was a fantastic idea and pretending I was entirely oblivious, I didn't even hesitate before I grinned across the desk and clapped excitedly. "I can have his address and telephone number in minutes. Let's take him with us!"

For a split-second, Neal looked frustrated, but then it was gone and I could have just been seeing what I expected (wanted?) to see as the artist gestured his agreement to the new plan.

* * *

The former cop, Erik Herrera, agreed to meet us at a Starbucks a little past the midway point between his neighborhood and my office, but Neal and I were the first to get there. We both ordered our drinks, mine with extra espresso, Neal's without sugar. I paid for Neal's coffee, subtly trying to make up for upsetting him, and we went to go claim a four-person table by the window in the front half of the store to wait for the man.

Neal and I took seats beside each other. "So how's Moz?" I asked him at one point, trying to make conversation.

One of the feelings he did little to hide was upset. Neal shrugged his shoulders, taciturn without his usual sulk. He wasn't mad at me, per se, but I got the feeling that I had disappointed him somehow, and despite being well within my rights as a human being to respond the way I had, I still felt sorry that I had put any discomfort between us. I thought I'd done well, playing out of it the way I had. I hadn't put either of us on the spot.

Evidently, I'd been wrong. Opting out of making another attempt at small talk, I decided to wait until Herrera arrived. Maybe the day would improve when we had a third party in front of us. Instead, I stirred my coffee dully with a thin red coffee mixer.

The detective didn't get there nearly fast enough, but I was taking what I could get, and he arrived regardless. I recognized him from his picture when he came through the doors and waved. He nodded and went to the barista to order a drink. I settled back in my seat and looked at him with interest.

Herrera was slim like a runner and casual like a civilian, in dark blue jeans and a lighter blue button-up shirt, not tucked in. He must've decided there was no point in dressing like a cop when he had already relinquished his badge. Of Italian descent, the man boasted dark hair and eyes and a warm bronze tan on his face, neck, and hands. He waited around by the counter, avoiding looking to our table, while the Starbucks girl made his drink for him. The youth looked sixteen, old enough to be employed but not old enough to be ready to move away from home yet.

Cops and FBI agents had unpredictable interpersonal interactions. Sometimes they could be the best of friends, but other times, they could absolutely hate each other. Usually the problems stemmed from policemen being jealous or thinking that the FBI agent thought they were somehow better because they were federal rather than local. Sometimes that really was the case, in which case the cop was not the problem. I cared about the difference in our careers only insofar as that I, as an agent, could do things that a local couldn't and the local would probably have more relevant information about the demographic and the people than I did. Other than that, it didn't matter. Policemen work hard, too. We're all supposed to be united in our goals of protecting civilians and the enforcing the law. The purpose of the hierarchy is _not_ to make people feel good or bad about themselves.

Once he got his drink, Herrera didn't have an excuse for stalling around the counter. He brought himself and his coffee to Neal and me and put it down on the table, intending to take the chair by the aisle to get up and excuse himself quickly. The man looked over Neal quickly and was less inclined to take a seat.

"Detective Herrera! Thanks for coming." I called him a detective even though he had given up that title. A lot of people resent losing their jobs, even if they give them up, because there are a lot of things that can go into that decision, which I knew all too well. "I'm Agent Anderson." I presented my badge for him to check to the legitimacy.

Herrera deemed it acceptable without taking it out of my hands and then nodded to Neal, who was trying to appear warm and welcoming. "Who's this?"

"I'm with the FBI," Neal explained.

"No, _she's_ with the FBI." Herrera told him shortly, not in the mood to feel as though he was being lied to. His eyes dropped down to Neal's sleeves. "A fed couldn't afford those cufflinks." Neal's smile grew.

"Ha," I said sarcastically. I wanted to get the idea that Neal was rich out of the man's head right then. His salary is seven hundred a month, and it all goes to June. She just conveniently forgets that his expenses are supposed to total seven hundred a month and lets him drink coffee, eat food, wear clothes, and utilize household services that total several times that. "Okay, first, he didn't actually pay for those cufflinks. Or the rest of that suit, for the matter." Neal's smile fell and he looked away. "Second, he _is_ with the FBI, he's just a consultant, not an agent. Third, nice catch – other circumstances and you'd be on point." Even I hadn't realized that it was strange for Neal's high-end clothes to be paired with a government job.

Herrera caught Neal's eyes and locked. "You didn't answer my question," he reminded firmly.

"I'm her consultant," Neal confirmed, speaking for himself. He reached across the table with his hand out. "Nice to meet you." They shook hands and Herrera sat down, but not before looking over his shoulder as if he expected to be watched. "We're investigating the Sullivan case you handled."

"Really?" He raised his eyebrows and settled his hands around his cardboard grip, lacing his fingers around his drink. "Why?"

Neal's face split into a grin. I sighed and looked away from the table. Was I going to regret bringing him along? "Mr. Sullivan has a daughter, and Kenna's kind of a sucker for kids," my consultant relished in exaggerating the story of what had actually happened.

"More like the daughter emotionally sucker-punched me," I revised, crossing my arms. I was not so weak that a child had that much power over me, and he did _not_ have to sound half as gleeful as he did.

I glared at him to say as much and Neal leaned to the other side of his chair. The former policeman's lips quirked into a half-smile while he watched. Another thing that police and FBI had in common were our partners. We worked in pairs for safety. There were probably officers as close to him as Neal, Derek, and Diana were to me – or at least, somewhat as close. Calling Derek my brother makes us a little extra friendly.

Shaking my head and letting Neal's poor storytelling go, I looked back to Herrera with a slight frown. If he was still so sharp and attentive that he detected things about Neal's sleeves, then why had he really resigned? If he was sick of it, wouldn't he have just stopped trying so hard to deduce from what he saw?

"If you don't mind me asking, why did you turn in your resignation?" I asked with confusion. It boggled me that someone close to our age would retire without some backup plan, but he was living off his savings and the life insurance policy from one of his parents. "You were a really commendable officer. No professional inquiries, high solution rate, A-plus conduct." In other words, a model policeman. "How come you just quit? And in the middle of an investigation, at that?"

As soon as I mentioned the Sullivan investigation in the context of his resignation, Herrera leaned back, hands subtly tightening around his steaming coffee, face more guarded. Neal bumped my foot with his shoe to make sure I had noticed.

"Well, I got tired of the grind, I guess. Look, I, uh… I swung an early pension…" Fidgeting, he looked over his shoulder with paranoia. Then he turned back to Neal and I and sighed deeply. "Okay, I don't know if you're recording this conversation, but I don't have anything to say." He glanced down at the lid of his drink and added strangely, "I appreciate the coffee."

 _Recording the conversation? What? Who does he think we are, CIA in disguise?!_ Even Mozzie had never suggested I was covertly trying to get audio evidence on him, and Mozzie wasn't nearly as squeaky-clean and non-suspect as the man before us who seemed afraid that anyone else in the Starbucks could have been listening in to something damning. _He's afraid of something._

I hadn't had much conviction before that the Sullivan case was anything but a sad story about a careless father and a son in a tough place, but it was just _wacky_ for a combat-trained policeman to quit his job and be afraid just to talk about it in a public place, even with as little traffic as the coffee bar. Herrera did ten times better convincing me that there was something shady than David and Allison ever could have.

"Hey, don't blow me off here!" I objected while he stood up, scraping his chair back to flee. I could tell a nervous escape when I saw one. "You're just going to get up and run away because I'm asking?" He shrugged as if to confirm that that was exactly what I was doing. I huffed. "Why would we be recording? Why would you feel the need to lie in case we were?"

"Like I said, I've got nothing to say." Neal looked between the two of us, concerned, and inconspicuously canvassed the café with his eyes in case there really was someone to be wary of. "Sullivan's a dud, and you should let it go," he advised me. "Thanks for the coffee."

Well, I couldn't very well wrestle him back to the table and force him to tell all, so I put my elbow up and stared at his back as he left. _That… was not how I pictured this going._ Spitefully, I was going to look even harder into the case. I didn't appreciate being told how my jobs were going to conclude themselves – yet it felt less like an instruction and more like a warning, the way he'd looked when he'd said it. Not quite careless, but definitely with substance. Something was there that he wasn't telling me.

Herrera paused halfway to the door, slowly turned around, and argued with himself over whether or not to come back. He decided to and landed his coffee on the table so hard that the sloshing liquid sent the cup sliding about an inch. I took my head off of my hand and looked up hopefully.

"You know what," Herrera said, smiling pleasantly as he retrieved his grey fabric wallet. "Let me leave a tip."

"What?" More bewildered than anything, I leaned back. This entire coffee meet was a rollercoaster. You don't leave tips at Starbucks. There's a jar up on the counter. He could've given it to the barista or just fed it through the slit in the jar's top. And why would he pay tip to me like I'd bought everyone's? "I didn't even pay for yours."

"No, I insist." The dark hazel eyes bored right into mine stubbornly. He raised his eyebrows. I stopped protesting, realizing that this was another weird thing I was supposed to understand. It was almost the same look as he had when he warned me about the mortgage fraud. "It was good to get out of the house. The least I can do."

The detective thumbed a few bills out and laid four dollars, all in ones, on the table in between me and Neal. Then, to be even nuttier, he unzipped a coin pouch as if four dollars wasn't enough for maybe twelve dollars in coffee. Very particularly, he selected coins not at random, gathering them in his palm as he picked through the change in his wallet. Then he set four of them down on top of the skewed bills, smiled at me, smiled at Neal, and turned to leave. This time, he didn't stop.

I stared at the tip like I'd just seen an elephant riding a unicycle and scratched my temple. Four dollars, three quarters, and a penny should _not_ be that troubling.

I turned to Neal as Herrera disappeared out onto the sidewalk and walked so far that I couldn't see him through the transparent walls of the café. "I feel like I was just ditched on a date," I complained. The only thing I could compare the aftershock to was when I had been asked out for dinner, only for my partner to say I was too involved in work and break up with me, then leave without letting me defend myself. That had been back when my hours were wildly irregular and I would fly cross-country on short notice. "Do I look like a ditchable date?" I demanded Neal, needing the validation that I was _not_ someone who appeared like she could just be walked away from. "No, more importantly, do I look like a ditchable _agent?"_

Neal snorted and picked up his coffee. "Oh, Kenna," he told me sardonically. "I thought we already established that this definitely wasn't a date."

… Okay, so maybe I had been a little bit tactless in making that comparison, but I wasn't sure I deserved _that_. I pinched my nose. I had a small case turning out to be a concerning issue, a small family about to be kicked out of their only place to turn (David had no siblings and Allison's mother was never really in the picture), an alarmingly paranoid retired detective, and a partner who was being emotionally delicate because he wanted to date me.

 _Did you miss the memo where you're not supposed to romantically pursue the agent who arrested you after you broke out of prison?_ In that moment, it was hard not to blame Neal a little bit. This was not a normal situation and he was having, as well as giving me, completely inappropriate responses to things. I was not supposed to want to break the law to protect my friends.

"Why'd he pay a tip?" I asked, staring at the change. "This isn't the kind of restaurant where you leave a tip at the table."

Neal nodded, licking his lips of light brown roasted coffee. Fortunately for me, he didn't seem snarky enough to keep going on the same vein. "It was cryptic," he observed. "Four dollars and seventy-six cents."

"I know Starbucks is kind of pricy, but that's a little inflated." I stared at the money some more and squinted as it personally offended me by being so peculiar.

"It's pretty generous for the salary of a cop with early retirement."

"Understatement… and it's just ridiculous," I added, since that seemed the more pressing point. "You saw him count out the coins, right?" Either Herrera had a screw loose after all or there was something important about four dollars and seventy-six cents that we were supposed to pick up on. I eyed the glinting penny. "Does it seem oddly… _deliberate_ to you?"

* * *

I was far more invigorated the second time around the carousel that was the ins-and-outs of the Sullivan case. Whatever spooked Herrera was easily something more substantial than a careless second mortgage and financial debt, and I was a little concerned that it could hurt more than just the one police officer. He deserved his badge back if he had been threatened out of it.

"Four-seven-six could be an area code," Neal contemplated. He had his feet up on the front of my desk and was rocking his chair onto its back legs, balancing perfectly while he leaned backwards and played with a ball of tightly-wrapped rubber bands.

I saw a concussion waiting to happen and set my hand against the back of his head. Neal bent forward and as he made his upper body vertical again, the chair's front legs reconnected with the ground. Satisfied that he wasn't about to necessitate a trip to the hospital, I went on to pick up a half-empty cardboard filing box and brought it from my door where it had been dropped off by a probie (either Diana or one of the ones down in the archives) and lugged it to my desk.

"I checked on my phone in the taxi. If it is, it's not in America." I shot him down as kindly as I could.

It was weird – I knew I had every right to say no to an invitation to a one-on-one date, but I still felt somewhat guilty. I supposed it might have been because I liked Neal so much; turning down a date usually meant someone wasn't interested, and I was kind of lying by implying that I wasn't. Thankfully, he seemed to have rebounded with the distraction of the case.

Neal tossed the rubber band ball between his hands, snapping and bouncing off of his palms with quiet smacking sounds. "Badge number?" He suggested next.

I gestured negatively while I took a moment to open up my computer and access my desktop screen. "American police badges typically have more numbers. Tell me if I'm wrong." I wiggled the mouse and opened up my email from the quick-access tab.

"…" Unable to do so, Neal picked his feet off of my desk and set his shoes on the floor, leaning forward to look into the filing box and see how full it was. "For a dud case, Herrera generated a lot of paperwork on it," he observed critically.

"Yeah," I agreed. My email had several new inboxes, but the one that I was particularly interested in was the one addressed to me from the fax machine in the archive storage. I clicked on the PDF and put my hands on my hips, staring at my computer while it loaded. "And, before you complain about paperwork again, I'm ahead of you. I've had everything scanned in and I'm opening it here."

I plopped myself down into my chair, pulled out my keyboard, and used the control combination to open up a document-specific search. I entered _four-seven-six, 4-7-6, four seven six,_ and _476_. The download rolled itself down to the first hit with _476_ highlighted in yellow. I smiled proudly across my desk.

"Accounting for variations between letters, numbers, and hyphens, I have a few hits already."

Neal leaned forward, holding the rubber bands in his hands, elbows on and hands between his knees. "That's clever," he praised, glancing up at me. "We should implement that in the future instead of poring over old papers. What's the number for?"

Because I had turned it so he could see, I had to lean over my desk to get a clear view of the screen. _476_ corresponded with a stamp and authority. "It's the ID number for a federal district judge," I summed, looking across to Neal in surprise. "I guess you weren't that far off." I went back to reading. The report went on to clarify the name of the woman who the stamp represented. "Judges stamp their numbers on each file they take over so that… so that they can be easily accounted for."

Neal frowned a bit at me as I hesitated to finish my sentence. "Judge Michelle Clark," he read the name aloud. "Do you know her?"

I seriously considered lying; saying I had no idea who she was, that her name meant nothing to me. It wasn't relevant to the Sullivans or to Herrera or to Neal, and it was _my_ business to know the specifics on the worst case I had ever taken. While I had a lot of heartache for what Neal had been through, even the _Le Joyau_ heist had been a better job for me than the one that this judge had been involved with.

Michelle and Clark weren't exactly uncommon names. Maybe this wasn't the same one that I was thinking about. Was it at least possible?

 _I shouldn't lie…_ If it was the same judge, then she was too relevant for me to just brush her off. Wasn't I lying to Neal about enough anyway? I'm already a hypocrite for demanding his honesty. I don't need it in a big, flashy sign over my head.

"Actually, I have heard her name," I admitted, crossing my ankles under my desk.

"Herrera said he was leaving the _tip_ for us…" Neal frowned at the PDF.

"There's more than one meaning for the word," I reasoned darkly. A tip didn't just have to be a token of appreciation. It could also be a more sinister call to attention. The ID number was very precise. Even I started to feel a little bit of trepidation concerning going after this one. It was a big shark. "Maybe her work ethic is a little less ethical than it should be."

Neal rubbed his chin and reached his hand across the table, lying his hand palm-up on my desk, offering to hold hands. "Are you sure you want to start this?" He asked intently, searching me for hesitations.

"What, look into a suspicious case ruling? No, I'd rather play Minesweeper and neglect all of my responsibilities as a civil servant," I confessed freely. I could be lazy to a fault and I liked to avoid grim stories when they came heading my way, but I seemed very _bad_ at staying out of deep water. Just because I was worried that I might be biting off more than I could chew as a lone FBI agent didn't mean that I got to turn my back to a potentially corrupt judge. The peoples' safety relied on judges doing their jobs admirably, otherwise they'd be stripped of their homes and belongings, killers and rapists would be permitted to roam free, and there would be very little civil order and no legitimate apprehension of criminals.

Neal closed his fist and drew back. "One cop has already lost his job over this," he cautioned.

"He resigned," I corrected.

"You and I both know that he probably only resigned because his seat was getting hot." My consultant retorted, not enjoying that I was playing dumb. I rolled my eyes and glared at my computer. He may have had my interests at heart – maybe even his, since I was his handler – but he had to know that I understood what I was getting into. "Are you sure you want to go down this road?"

I looked right back at him. "I absolutely am," I declared with no uncertainty. "The prestige isn't it to me. It's the protection. Either this judge is abusing her power, or something else is going on, and either way, it's cost someone else his job and that likely means that the mortgage is fraudulent," I concluded. _No one_ should get to have that power and go unchecked. If Clark had something to be blamed for, she was going to be held accountable, even if it meant that I lost my job, too.

I had always been stubborn like that. Neal just looked worried. It occurred to me that if I lost my job, he might lose his work-release. Maybe I was being selfish and putting my determination before his safety. Others would suffer if this wasn't looked into, but wasn't my first loyalty supposed to be to my friends?

"Unless… you want me to pretend that I never saw this." I balled my hands up and hid them in my lap so he didn't see. It killed part of me to offer to back down and feign ignorance. The idea of letting a questionable judge go free without further inquiry made me detest myself as much as her, but I had already broken the rules before to protect Neal, and it was concerning that I didn't see an end in sight.

Neal shook his head. "No. What if the Sullivans aren't the only people she's done this to?" He seemed to be convincing himself as much as he was me, and it was a strange turn of the tables to have him be the one reluctant to go along with a wild idea. I nodded slightly and considered how much help some people I knew might be if the judge started attacking me, too. Maybe Peter would vouch for Neal to stay out of prison – just because I was seen as dirty didn't mean someone associated with me necessarily was. "There's something else."

I was about to ask what that would be when I realized that he was peering at me with keen and clever eyes. It wasn't long at all before I knew exactly what he was getting at – my hesitation to admit to knowing Michelle Clark's name. It wasn't a subject I ever wanted to talk about, much less get into right there in the office.

"I need an ulterior motive to have morals now?" I puffed, annoyed.

"You said you heard her name," Neal pushed. "Where from?"

On one hand, I could see how he thought it might be important, but on the other, I wanted to keep that personal story to myself. I had gotten along just fine without appraising Neal of everything that had happened to demote me from violent blue-collar criminals to elaborate painters like Curtis Hagen. That didn't need to change just because of something that may turn out to be unrelated.

"Irrelevant," I dismissed. Neal opened his mouth to protest my decision. I didn't want to start a fight with him, not when we'd been doing so well at getting back on track, and I reached for him quickly, grasping his fist in my hand before he could move his off of the desk. "It's like with that letter from Kate," I reminded him of the secret he had kept for a couple of days. He had asked for privacy and promised to tell me about it later, and he had honored that oath. "I promise, if it becomes relevant, I'll tell you."

He looked harder to appease than I had been, but he reluctantly saw the parallel and had to do me the respect of giving me the same benefit of the doubt that I had given him. Opening his hand, he stroked his thumb over my fingers and slowly nodded his agreement.

* * *

I let myself in with my house key and called to Katie before she thought someone was breaking in or something. "Hey, I'm home!" I shouted, locking the door and toeing off my shoes next to my gladiator sandals, Kate's tennis shoes, and a pair of slippers in the hallway by the door.

A man's voice chortled quietly. I stilled. _Did someone really break in?_ I swiftly adjusted my grip on my car keys so that I was holding them in a better position to stab someone with them, preferably in the eyes. Then a girl giggled, Katie's laugh making me relax. It wasn't her anxious laughter that she made when she was close to crying; it sounded hearty and full, and she wouldn't be in the living room laughing it up with a burglar.

"We're in the living room!" She yelled back out to me. I resumed my usual path upon entering my house, hanging up my bag on one of the coat racks to get before I went up to my room. If she was already in the kitchen, maybe I stood a decent chance of getting her to eat dinner with me.

"Yeah, I can hear," I said loudly, wandering into the kitchen. There was no sign in that room of anyone else being invited inside. I grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge, closed it up, and dropped my keys into the ceramic bowl on the counter on my way back out. "Who's 'we?'"

Katie came bounding out of the living room enthusiastically, her eyes bright and her face wearing such a huge smile that it looked nearly painful. I couldn't believe she was actually this happy on a Saturday. What the hell had happened? It couldn't be one of her kids, since the daycare wasn't open on the weekends. Katie wore a pleated dark blue skirt and a cream-colored blouse with a high collar and lace quarter-sleeves, her hair down. Her lips reflected with a sheen of gloss and a subtle layer of maroon on her eyelids had her irises popping.

I raised my eyebrows. That was the kind of makeup that she wore on a date. Had I intruded on her bringing someone home? If so, she really could have sent a text. At least when I hooked up with Neal without warning her, I didn't do it in the house where she, too, lived.

"Someone I really, _really_ want you to meet!" She gushed, taking my hand and pulling me. I laughed easily.

How long had she been on this date? _He must be pretty freaking awesome if she's this besotted with him and bringing him home to me so early._ She'd have told me if she was seeing anyone, so it must've been a recent development. After an alarming incident in which Kate scheduled a date with someone who was arrested by the NYPD halfway through, she finally gave me her okay on doing background checks with anyone she thought she might get serious with.

"Last time you were this excited, we ended up attending four concerts, two parties, got new piercings, and went bar-hopping in the course of three days," I reminisced as she tugged me along, dragging me into the dining room across from the kitchen and pulling me insistently along towards the attached living room. "I'm guessing your day has gone better than mine." I'd tell her a little about it soon enough – at least the part where I was ninety-percent sure Neal had tried to ask me out – but it wasn't for prying and unfamiliar ears to listen in on. Kate vibrated. I laid eyes on her guest.

"What are you doing here." I was so flatly taken aback by his appearance in my living room that I forgot to intone my sentence as a question.

Dirty blond hair, a crooked smile, a silver ring on his left hand's ring finger, professional pantsuit and black loafers. OPR Agent Garrett Fowler stared back at me from the cushion of the sofa in my own living room. _Do you like the place?_ I thought about snidely asking, since it wasn't the first time he had invaded, although it _was_ the first time he'd had any sort of invitation from its residents.

And Katie wasn't surprised to see him at all. "McKenna," she introduced, a hand on my upper back and the other indicating her new pal. "This is Garrett."

"Yeah," I agreed, glaring at Fowler as if my willpower was enough to make his cells spontaneously combust. That would have been nice. "I know." Fowler smirked. He didn't return the hostility the way that I had expected him to. He had a lot of fucking nerve, showing up in my home again, and approaching Katie while I wasn't even here to shoot at him if he said something crude.

"He actually works for the FBI, too!" Kate said brightly, nudging me further into the room. I drove my heels in and refused to let her push me onwards. I did _not_ want to close the space between myself and that bastard.

 _"_ _Yeah, I know,"_ I assured her more emphatically, because she was missing the point that I knew exactly who he was and he was not a welcomed face. What the hell could have possibly possessed her to let such a sicko inside, anyway?

"Except he's in a different department," she went on, oblivious to that I was contemplating exactly how much provocation he'd require before he attacked me and I sued him for assault. Maybe that would frighten his cowardly and corrupt ass away for good. "So if you don't know him, that's-" Her ears caught up with her brain and her eyes widened. "Wait, you know?"

"Yes," I confirmed tightly, not taking my eyes off of the unwelcome visitor in case he decided to touch something and slip another bug around. "Kate, I am well aware of who you have sitting in our living room." Raising my voice, I did as Kate had wanted and moved closer – but I did so with every intention of being entirely rude. "And why the _hell_ do you think you're permitted within two miles of my sister?!"

The blond man looked up at me innocently, blinking at my enraged face calmly. "It'll make the future kind of difficult to navigate if I'm supposed to stay two miles away from her at all times," he said slowly, looking around me to Katie and smiling affectionately. _When did I enter the Twilight zone?!_

"It'll make our lives a lot easier!" I snarled, wondering if I could be arrested for harassment when he was the one who was in my house in spite of the rocky history that many agents would be willing to confirm existed.

Before I could reach down and grab his collar in my fists and wrench him around to drop-kick his sorry ass out of the room, Katie came running up and she grabbed my left arm. She was usually able to tell when I needed to be restrained before I hit something. Usually that something was just the table or the wall.

"McKenna! Stop it!" She snapped at me, her good mood gone and leaving stormy waters in its wake. She looked aghast at my behavior. I had been wondering what demon had taken over her mind or what drug Fowler might have given her to win her compliance, but surely she wasn't surprised that I wasn't tripping over myself to shake the man's hand, unless she really _didn't_ know who he was. Had Neal or I ever said his full name to her?

"No, Katie, I won't," I refused hotly, taking my arm away from her. "Because this is the man who broke in, bugged our home, and tried to get Neal incarcerated!" _You tried to take away my soulmate,_ I accused Fowler with my eyes. His face looked more and more like a punching bag. His smirk turned smarmy, but as soon as Katie looked from me to him in confusion, he adopted an expression of complete confusion.

"… No," my sister said, but she ultimately trusted me more than some random stranger, and she stayed at my side. "There has to be a misunderstanding here," she tried to rationalize to herself.

I scoffed and didn't even give her the time to try sorting it out to herself. "Did _Garrett_ tell you his last name?" I said his first with contempt and threw a dirty look over at him. My tongue itched to throw some insults, but Katie wasn't going to respond as well to me if my mouth started getting overly crude.

"Well, no…" she faltered, clasped her hands in front of her, and – oh my God, she _blushed._ "He returned my wallet to me at the store today after I dropped it-" I turned on Fowler again and raised a fist. _Dropped it; yeah, right, he probably pickpocketed her just to get an opening._ "-And I saw his wrist, and we kind of skipped the part where we gave each other the third degree of interrogation!"

 _What was so special about his wrist?_ I thought, but I brushed it away. I had more pressing demands to worry about, after all. Fowler pushed himself up to his feet from the couch, and he did so with the attitude of someone who was just getting up at their leisure, not because they were intruding upon a personal space. He then _came closer_. I stepped in between him and my sister. He frowned at me discouragingly. I bared my teeth and might as well have said _bite me._

"Now, Katie, I know that McKenna's hostility towards me is disarming, and we both know it's uncalled for, but it's not completely without reason." _Damn right it's not,_ I huffed, while I wanted to rip his head off for using _my_ nickname for my sister and for being so familiar with me that he thought he was allowed to call me by my first name. "If you'll just take a couple of deep breaths, Agent Anderson, we can both share our sides of the-"

"You can go to hell for all I care!" I interrupted furiously. Kate gasped and punched my arm; my shoulder stung but I didn't stand down, instead moving closer to the blond and getting up in his face. "Invading my job is one thing, coming into my house is another." He was not getting any further with this. I twisted around to look at Kate and slapped my hand on Fowler's chest. He huffed when my palm connected with his sternum and he stepped backwards. "Kate, you've been talking to Garrett _Fowler,_ " I informed with relish, watching her eyes shutter and her back straighten. "As in, _Agent_ Fowler of OPR, who had Neal arrested for the diamond heist from _Le Joyau_ , who put a bug in our phone, and who tried to stop us from arresting the _real_ thief."

For about five seconds, all seemed right with the world again. My hand was touching Fowler meanly and keeping him further away from my sister, and Kate was wavering in her stance. I could not have been more pleased with myself if I had tried. _Take that!_ Hiding the truth from Kate about how he put one of her closest friends to suffer behind bars was _not_ going to win him brownie points. The lunatic didn't _really_ think I'd let this pass, did he?

Then it turned out that he didn't know how to keep his mouth shut. Looking over the top of my head, Fowler connected eyes with Kate and put his hands out helplessly. "It was an unfortunate circumstance in which I worked to the best of my ability to apprehend a culprit who stole a necklace worth millions of dollars. I _cannot_ express my apologies enough, and I'm willing to extend a truce. A hand of friendship, if you will."

 _'_ _The best of your ability' is corrupt!_ To break into an agent's house, to threaten her safety, to take away her privacy, to accuse her of misconduct more than once? I wasn't really that surprised that those were Fowler's evident high points, but it served to make me bite my lip before I really _did_ bite him. The idea that he had the plan to cover his malice with a tale about nice, benevolent intentions would've been laughable if it weren't for the fact that Katie wasn't shooting him down, hesitating to take either side, even the side of her sister.

"Oh, you're _willing,"_ I sneered, and then shouted, _"No,_ it's the _victims_ that get to make that decision!" If Neal and I didn't forgive Fowler, then he couldn't truce with us. Just because he wanted to forget his actions didn't mean that he got that luxury. I wouldn't give it to him. He hurt us. He tried to ruin us. He deserved to be the one rotting in a cell, not (relatively) innocent Neal.

"Shut up!"

I don't know if it was me or Fowler who was more surprised, but both of us temporarily ceased arguing with each other to look at my sister in surprise. It was unlike her to yell like that. Her eyes were squeezed shut, her breathing came quickly, and her knuckles were turning white as she fisted fabric gathered from the sides of her skirt. I softened as I watched her, reminded that how she saw me affected how she thought of me.

"Stop picking fights," she begged when she had our attention. I took my hand away from Fowler's chest grudgingly. "Listen, I remember really well what happened. I know that Garrett had Neal arrested, and I know that a lot of other things happened, too…" I glared at Fowler with loathing, something that did not get by Katie. "But what do you think the world is like, Kenzi?" She beseeched quietly. "Black and white? … He was the antagonist of your story because you hailed Neal as innocent."

"Um, no, he is the antagonist of my _life_ because Neal _is_ innocent!" I couldn't believe she was trying to defend him! Because of that invasion, the infringement on our rights, Katie couldn't use our own landline phone for weeks. She was too nervous that it would still somehow be recording her. "This cannot be happening," I laughed harshly, covering my face with my hands. The world wasn't back to normal; it was upside down. Left was right, up was down, Neal was guilty and Fowler was king. "You _cannot_ be giving me the whole 'life is grey and every story has two sides' speech."

Katie's lip trembled when I started to cut into her own defenses. I'd have felt bad, but I _had_ to protect her. I had to remind her that Fowler wasn't a nice guy, or she would let him in and he would attack from within the castle walls. It was much easier to fight from the other side of the gate. She persevered, pretending not to have heard, even though she might as well have responded loudly and clearly.

"I know you don't tell me everything that happens at your work," she said, breathing deeply, hands relaxing in her dress. "And that's okay. I think I prefer it like that," she said to herself more quietly before she remembered that she was addressing other people. "I know I definitely prefer it to the alternative!" _Ah, a nice dig at the day she found me half-dead in our home._ "But when you keep saying only what stresses you, it can be hard to get an accurate impression."

I held up my pointer finger and pointed at Kate, then slowly redirected my point to the agent behind me who I wasn't completely convinced _hadn't_ risen from hell. "Exactly what have I said that led you to think you should care enough to get an accurate impression?" I asked seriously, because I needed to document it and remind myself to never be so misleading ever again in my life, because obviously it was a really twisted message.

"McKenna, I really need you to take a leap of faith and trust me here, okay?! I want to handle this like adults. Garrett is going to be around pretty often now, and I need you to find a way to handle that. I need you to be able to get along with him. The most important people in my world can't not get along," she added with a slow, shy smile to the monster over my shoulder.

 _The what now?!_ My head reeled. I missed something for sure. "Excuse me," I said, waving my hand impatiently for permission to speak and complain and demand a cohesive explanation of what the _actual_ fuck had happened while I was at work. I waved at Fowler incredulously. _"He's_ one of the most important people to you now?" Me and Fowler cannot be her most important. Fowler has no place on that list. It should be me and Derek, or me and Diana, or me and Neal, or hell, even two completely random people I've never met that she was friends with from high school, but Fowler had done nothing to earn a spot even on her "mildly appreciated" list, much less her "most important." "He tried to put your friend in jail," I reminded her. She had found me sobbing in my room because Fowler had, for a time, succeeded. "He started to investigate me!" I could have lost my own job and had my name ruined.

Kate took a big breath in like she was about to have her head forced underwater, and in an explosive declaration, she said loudly to interrupt me and take the wind out of my sails, "And he's my soulmate!"

The entire world must have stopped, because I didn't feel alive.

It had to be a joke, a prank. Katie was such a complete sweetheart, the light of my life; there was no way that her perfect companion was a conniving dirty cop who wanted to shove people into traffic and benefit from the crashes. I could shudder to think of what he would do to Katie at his worst. Probably get her to marry him, knock her up, and then find a way to pin a crime on her, too.

She was so in love with her soulmate that she was going to overlook the things that Fowler had already done to hurt her and her friends, just for the sake of him being her soulmate. This _couldn't_ be real. Katie needed a mate who would love her, _not_ use her, and whom would be safe for her. I was the one who was supposed to get someone like Fowler, someone I could never trust and whom would dig my grave for me with a smile while whistling a cheery tune. Kate should have someone like Neal, who would be so devoted to her that he'd never give her up and never do anything to intentionally hurt her in any way.

So not only was Katie siding with Fowler over me, but she was prepared to accept him with open arms as a permanent part of her life… because he matched her tattoo.

This was a whole new means of attack that I couldn't even begin to stop, as I'd have to fight my sister tooth and nail as well as Fowler and anyone else that he hired to help him.

"Your what?" I asked in the dead quiet that the house had descended into, my voice a sore rasp that sounded like I needed a lot of water and maybe some cough syrup.

Kate covered her soul mark with one of her small hands, laying it tenderly over her clothes. Fowler walked around the coffee table to stand by Kate, unimpeded by me, as I was too shocked to do anything but watch with horror as a good part of my sister's life crashed and burned to the ground.

The blond agent held out his left wrist – the opposite of the one my mark was on – and rolled up the sleeve of first his jacket, then his undershirt, revealing the inky lines of dark, deep colors that made the surrounding skin on Kate look fragile, breakable, and pale beyond belief. On Fowler, the same mark ran on the lower two thirds of his forearm. It looked larger on him than it did on her, since it was on a narrower part of his body than his hip and side: the ruby-red heart with the classic shape of a lock, defined by sharp black edges and shading, delicate, ashen-colored wings stretching out on each side with the feathers fluffy and light.

It was so out of place on Fowler that it disgusted me. That was the mark that belonged to my sister. An imposter wearing it was unthinkable. Fowler _had_ to be an imposter, because if there was a God, a driving force that matched people together, then he wouldn't possibly be so capricious as to pair my sister with anyone so devilish.

I covered my eyes with my hands and backed up until my heels hit the edge of the couch. "No, no," I moaned lowly. My heart raced. "This is not happening," I told myself, rocking back and forth where I stood. "This is so not happening."

"Actually, it is." A parody of a smitten boyfriend, Fowler wrapped one of his arms around Kate. She leaned into his side, trusting that he wouldn't let her fall – only to be later disappointed, I was certain. "I'm glad I met Kate," he declared boldly, brazenly dusting his lips over her forehead. This was a nightmare gone terribly, terribly off track while I was high. Nothing else would explain the surrealism. "I'm sorry that it had to be through such stressful circumstances for you. I'll do what I can do make you feel more comfortable around me.

"I mean you no harm, Agent Anderson, and if you'd prefer we remain mere associates, then that's understandable. But, in the future, I hope you can come to think of me as family." Fowler's voice was convincing and his smile was a perfected combination of hopeful and nervous, like I was Kate's mother instead of her older sister.

I would _never_ think of him as anything but an enemy. "Yeah, maybe _estranged_ and _disowned_ family!" I shot back at him, regaining my footing only slightly as things spun so wildly out of control that I wished I really was high, just so I could come down and have the world normal again. I'd have killed Fowler for a cigarette. I could have killed him anyway.

"Knock it off!" Kate's smile had grown proud while she listened to Fowler extend his olive branch, but then it fell and she stared at me angrily, repulsed by my inflexibility and refusal to so much as listen. Something in me felt like it was breaking. _I_ was the one she was supposed to look up to.

"You didn't have _that_ on your wrist before," I accused Fowler, frantically trying to bring back the memories of the _Le Joyau_ case. Had I ever seen his wrist? I thought so, but I was less and less sure. There was no way I _wouldn't_ have noticed if I'd caught even a glimpse of my sister's distinct mark.

"I've never seen your soulmark, either," Fowler told me mildly, defending himself in as gentlemanly a way as possible to appeal to Katie's ideals. I resisted the urge to cover my wrist or strike him, whichever came more naturally, and hiss that he _never would._ At some point, it had stopped being a safety precaution and started becoming a personal vow. My soulmark was _personal._ My soulmate was _mine._ I certainly wasn't going to give that overgrown brat any chance to get at my mate. "But that doesn't mean you don't have one."

"McKenna, I can't _believe_ you." Katie's eyes were welling up with tears. I wanted to turn back time so she was smiling again, so excited I thought I might be well on my way to bar-hopping and concerts and a body art parlor. I wanted to spin back the clock to this morning and call in sick and not leave her alone to fall prey to this new scheme. "You _know_ how important this is to me," she blinked and a tear fell, streaking down her cheek. It was the final crack before my heart was breaking.

Fowler hadn't just inserted himself in a prime position to hit a chisel into Katie's morale and emotions; he had become a giant wedge in between us, prying us apart, because the alternative was to pretend that I was okay with Katie getting close to him or with Fowler getting close to Neal. Regardless of my soulmate status, he had to know by now that hell would freeze over before I let him get his grubby paws on what was mine.

"Why aren't you happy?" Katie raised her hand to her face – the one that wasn't clinging to Fowler, that was – and wiped her tear away before it reached her mouth. "No, wait, I get why you're not ecstatic," she allowed, trying to be some version of fair to me, even as I made her feel lower than the underground. "But why aren't you at least trying to see past it? For me?" Her watering eyes spilled over again, so full with sadness that she didn't even have to blink. She did anyway and looked down, body shaking. "I thought that if there was anyone you'd be willing to compromise for, it would be me."

I wanted to come closer, but now I felt like _I_ was the one who was unwelcome. I was the problem. I was the one making her cry. So I stayed where I was so she didn't feel any worse. "Your worth to me is not in question here, Kate," I told her very quietly.

"Really?" She taught herself well to stand up for herself, and when she thought she was being lied to or pushed over, she dug her heels in and weathered what was to come. I saw her doing it now. "Because I think it is," she debated, looking up to her purported mate. "Can you give us a moment, please?" As full of fake compassion as he was of evilness and douchebaggery, Fowler nodded, full of pretend concern.

Katie stood up on her toes to reach his face and kissed his cheek. Fowler stroked his hand down her back and left in the general direction of the kitchen. I watched him, unsure if I wanted to stay with Kate's wrath or go make sure he wasn't planting bugs.

In the end, Katie won out. I had a loyalty to her that I would break if I ran out on her to betray her wishes. Bugs could be found and crushed, but betrayal was not as easy to resolve.

She came up close to me, sniffing her red nose and wiping her face with all of her dignity. She made crying seem like something to be proud of. "If you had a soulmate that I disliked," she said quietly, her voice dropped down to excessively quiet levels that made me strain to hear. "I would keep my mouth shut and wish you well." I nodded slightly, knowing that she would. "If your relationship with your soulmate wasn't one I approved of," she added, increasing in sharpness until it was like talking to a twisting knife. The discussion was no longer hypothetical. "I would shut up and support you." _I am keeping secrets from my friends for your sake,_ she might as well have reminded me. "But you can't reciprocate that?"

I pointed after Fowler. "I don't want him in my house," I growled back.

I understood being mad, but didn't she understand I was just trying to protect her? And even if she didn't get that, then why didn't she seem to get that Fowler was bad news for Neal? If she was going to take any excuse, shouldn't it be that I was looking out for him, the way that she believes all soulmates are meant to do?

Kate rubbed her eyes. "Too fucking bad, McKenna," she snapped. Katie rarely cursed and it helped me to realize exactly how deep in a grave I had already gotten buried. "This isn't just _your_ house. Neal isn't just _your_ friend. It wasn't just _your_ phone. It's ours. It's all supposed to be ours – _our_ friend, _our_ phone, and if I can look past that, why the _hell_ can't you?"

Katie always had a way of being able to make me feel like the littlest person in the world just by talking to me a certain way, but had only had to do it once before, when I had seriously messed up by trying to keep secrets to protect her. In the end, those secrets had gotten me hurt. They had led to her not being in the path of a murderer, but they had also traumatized her by leading to her coming home to a blood-soaked carpet and her sister's unmoving body. Right then, I wished the ground would open up and swallow me whole.

"Most importantly, this is _my_ house, too," she glowered meanly. "I live here. And if I want my soulmate here, then he can damn well be here."

Well, if Fowler was going to be here, then I wasn't. I loved Katie with everything I had, but I _couldn't_ stand by and do anything that even a little bit suggested that I supported the two of them together, not when I knew it would only end in heartbreak and harm for her – and that wasn't even considering the ramifications to my own lover.

"If he's here, then I'm not," I said without thinking about how it sounded like a threat.

Kate, however, absolutely heard it the wrong way. Looking slapped, she took a quick step away from me. "Are – Are you trying to give me an ultimatum?" She whispered, her authority stripped away from her and leaving her vulnerable and lonely. I regretted even opening my mouth.

"I'm trying to tell it to you like it is and give you a wake-up call," I urged desperately while fervently shaking my head no.

Again, I wished I could take back what I'd said and slam my head into the wall. _What a dumb thing to say._

Kate became mean. First she tensed, every part of her coiling and tightening and preparing to spring like a tiger or lioness. Then her eyes went flinty, she rubbed the saltwater out of her face, and poked me hard above my breasts. I backed up. She followed me until I stopped. I had truly never seen Katie devolve into this person I saw staring back at me, mean, vicious, no-holds-barred and no punches pulled.

"Well, here's _your_ wake-up call," she returned to me with a deadly precision. I wasn't familiar with her expression, but I could make the educated guess: it was her new face for when she was aiming to draw blood. I swallowed and set my jaw. Katie knew better than anyone how to make me bleed. "Garrett is my soulmate, and he is a human being. I expect you to treat him with the same decency you think everyone deserves, regardless of what you think he _may_ have done with whatever intentions you choose to narrow-mindedly believe he had.

"Questioning the existence of my relationship is not your job. You want to give him a shovel talk, fine. I don't care. Go ahead. But if you start accusing him of being fake, then you can't be around him." Kate came up to stand toe-to-toe with me. I bent my neck just a little so that she could look me right in my eyes and hopefully see my remorse. If she saw, she chose to operate as though she hadn't. "I have wanted my mate for my entire life and I won't let you take him away from me now." Her voice started to rise in volume, which was mortifying. I did _not_ know how to tolerate Fowler, of all people, listening in on me being chewed out by my sister on such a sensitive matter. "I lived without you for a very, very long part of my life, and I can do it again."

Kate took a deep breath. Even in her mood and her intentionally cutting verbatim, she was about to say something huge. I braced myself for a bombshell, drawing my shoulders up.

"While you think this over," she forced herself to say through her teeth, "I think you should leave."

I swallowed. She was kicking me out. Katie was kicking me out of my own home. Where did she want me to go? What did she think she was going to prove by getting me out of the place where I lived? The lease was in my name, too, so she technically _couldn't_ do anything to stop me from staying, but exacerbating this, egging her on, making it worse by disrespecting her demands any further… I'd be lucky if she didn't go to lawyers to have the lease terminated if I tried something underhanded like that, throwing legalities in her face. I didn't have much of a choice, after all.

Her voice lowered back down to its company-conscious note. "Maybe you should go to _your_ mate," she suggested, her eyes dull. "But of course, don't get to know him or be honest about how you feel. Don't have a healthy relationship, like the kind I want with Garrett." That was cutting. Part of me wanted to snap that the only health she was getting out of Fowler was a child support check while he was out framing innocent people. "Tease him about forgeries, wave his leash over his head, pick at his words and toss around the terms 'alleged' and 'statute of limitations' as much as you like. Drink coffee or liquor and do whatever it is that passes as friendship between you two before you crawl into bed with him while you keep hiding what you can mean to him and pretending that you don't want him for anything other than pleasure.

"Be a manipulative bitch and take advantage of that he's slowly going crazy about you. Then run out on him in the morning because you can't handle any form of commitment before you get scared, and make up pathetic excuses like bookshelves." My eyes watered. I choked and caught my breath, coughing to try to recover.

Katie had always disapproved of my approach to my soulmate drama more so than she had ever disagreed with anything else I'd done, save for lying to her to keep her out of the way of a homicidal psychopath with a grudge and an array of knives. I should have known that one day I'd push her too far, but I had never thought that, when that day came, I would find myself being pushed back so far that my own sister was throwing it back in my face that I couldn't have Neal the way I wanted to have him. He was obsessed with Kate Moreau, he was a professional liar, and he was my consultant for his own protection.

I just hadn't expected it to hurt so much when she summarized everything that I was doing _wrong._

"But don't you dare criticize me for my attempts at a healthy relationship with my soulmate, McKenna Anderson," she sounded like she was winding down. "When you claim you want the best for me and then set quite possibly one of the worst examples I can think of."

 _I can want the best for you and be willing to settle with what's realistic for me,_ I protested mentally. She would never understand my logic because she could never see past her own bias, and now that bias was letting a walking, talking son of a bitch run around my house with my sister in tow while he turned her against me just by riling up my temper.

"Fine," I snapped brokenly, voice cracking and throat burning. My vision blurred and cleared just a minute later as tears inevitably came raining from my eyes. I rubbed them away with my gloves and shored myself up to be _angry._ Angry, not attacked. "I will! I'll pack a bag and go hang out with someone else until you realize that kicking me out won't help you get over the fear you have of this relationship burning into the ground."

I aimed low on the belt, just like she had done to me. When I saw her eyes widening and she stepped back, physically hurting from the shot fired and shocked as anything that I would recognize that very private nightmare out loud, I didn't even want to take it back. _How_ _ **dare**_ _she take my behavior out of context to make me look like a villain?_ I don't tell Neal the whole truth, but I do it to _protect us._ I never do anything to Neal out of malice. I protect him and I defend him and I care for him, I make sure he's healthy and sheltered and fed. I'm doing the best I can in an awful situation, and she wants to take away the part of the story that makes the potential consequences better than the certainties if I were to choose to do otherwise.

While I turned around to leave the room, I made a beeline for the door to the hall and front door through the living room instead of the dining room. I stepped up onto the couch cushion, up onto the arm of the couch, and then walked right off the edge, stalking out like I hadn't noticed the rise and fall from the furniture.

Furiously, I distracted myself. Anything but what she had told me needed to be on my mind, yet all I could think about was Katie and Fowler and Neal – precious Neal, who was in more danger now that Fowler was back. I thought about the soft snoring he denied was a thing, the sleepy yawns and the drooping of his eyes when he was reading late at night. His particular way of making the bed so everything had to be neat and symmetrical, which really just seemed like more hassle than it was ever going to be worth. The happy-go-lucky way he played with whatever he could get his hands on to occupy himself, the charming smile when he made friends, and the genuine smile and laugh that bubbled out of him and sometimes left him looking shocked that he'd reacted so positively.

My mate was a pain in my ass, but he had redeeming qualities Fowler could never hope to measure up to. And the worst part was that I would never be able to explain these to my sister, because you had to _be there,_ see them in action to get the full effect. And the observer had to have the right appreciation for the beautiful work of art that was Neal's character, otherwise they wouldn't know _why_ it was so precious when he startled himself by doubling over a table laughing until he cried.

I shoved my feet into my shoes sloppily and ended up with the back heel of one digging into my foot. I pretended not to feel it until I turned around to Katie, who was watching through the doorway. Out of the way, but making sure I was getting lost like she'd instructed. I slung my bag from the coat hangers over my shoulder, and insanely, my pleased thought was that I hadn't unpacked my laptop yet.

I paused and I pointed at her before I went to the door to storm out. "Oh, but first, I'm going to go upstairs and lock my bedroom door, because no matter what you say, I don't trust him as far as I can throw him." I cocked my head towards the kitchen so there was no doubt that I meant her so-called soulmate, not mine. "And between you and me, I would love to try. Preferably out of a cannon!"

Kate let me go and I went to lock my door. I also locked the bathroom door from inside my bedroom before I left the suite with a slam. I felt angry and invalidated and upset, which was an abhorrent combo, so my eyes were streaming despite all of my best efforts when I came thundering back down the stairs. The relief was that Fowler had joined Katie in the living room, so I could retrieve my car keys from the kitchen without him having to see my face.

The downfall was that I saw the reflection of him holding her while she bawled into his chest in one of the windows on my way out.

* * *

I hate crying. Crying is horrific. By the time I'd gotten twenty-two miles added to my mileage display on my dash, I had a headache that thrummed and pulsed through my forehead and intensified in my temples, my throat felt raw and sore, and my cheeks were wet and sticky. It was so unsafe to be driving while sobbing my heart out but I couldn't think of what else to _do._ I would've run home to Kate, except I was crying because of her, and there was nowhere else that I could run to.

Katie had never done something like that before. She took a vulnerability that I keep as far away from others as possible and hurled it back in my face as a fastball, and then kept going while it broke my nose and made me bleed. _How could she_ _ **do**_ _that,_ part of me demanded, furious with her and wanting to rise to the challenge, point out everything she'd done that she wasn't proud of herself for and make her cry. The part that abhorred the notion of attacking my sister in any way was repeatedly running a checklist of the people I knew who I could go to, because I wanted somewhere safe, somewhere comforting; somewhere where I could regroup with company that would tell me it was okay, and that wouldn't try to talk to me about my feelings for Neal or use them against me.

 _Derek._ Derek was too close to Katie himself, and he'd try to talk to her. Having another person become involved in a very personal argument stemming from such a private matter would only make it worse.

 _Diana._ Diana would hug me and watch stupid television with me, but she'd want to know what the problem was, what Kate could have done to make me so _sad,_ and I couldn't explain to her what had been said. I couldn't even look at her if she asked - it was bad enough that I was sleeping with my informant behind her back, but I was lying by omission by not telling her about a significant development in a relevant interpersonal relationship.

 _Katie._ For obvious reasons, that wouldn't work.

_…_ _Mom?_

I could barely believe I even suggested it to myself. I hadn't talked to either of my parents in years beyond the compulsory Christmas cards and proof-of-life letters once every six months. Mom didn't know Neal, Fowler, or Katie; problem was, she also didn't know me anymore, and she would certainly dig up her own dirt on all three of them, and she wouldn't listen as much as she would tell me exactly what I was supposed to do. I had never been the person she wanted me to be. I had become okay with that over time.

 _Neal._ Well, Neal would definitely help me get Fowler away from Kate, if only because it would be a way to get back at the man who tried to put him back in prison. Neal would also probably not be averse to holding me for a while. Would being alone with him really help, though, when I was in pieces because of a matter very strongly related to him?

I turned on my blinker and moved into the turn lane, driving into the parking lot of a furniture store. I found a parking spot as far from the front doors as possible, double-checked that my car doors were locked, and then got my phone, wiping at my eyes as if I could make the tear tracks go away just by rubbing hard enough. My eyes were still watering and blurring the names in my contacts.

Growling, I looked in my rearview mirror and pulled it down to look at my own reflection. I looked like a mess, eyes red and tired, cheeks pink and face flushed. Then I tried to go back to my phone, nodding to myself once as if to encouragingly say that I could do it. I found the right number, just a one-name contact, and told my phone to dial before I held it up to my ear and held it between my head and shoulder.

 _If my voice breaks, I'm going to cry some more after I hang up,_ I predicted dully, although at this point I was pretty much done crying and mostly just wallowing in self-loathing and fear - fear for myself and for Katie, scared for my violated privacy of having such a snake in my house. At least I knew that hearing this voice wouldn't instantly break what little composure I built up in the space of the two and a half rings of dial tone.

 _"_ _Dante Haversham speaking,_ " Mozzie promptly said into the phone once he picked up, and there was very careful isolation of background noise that could identify where he was.

Normally, the almost suspicious tone would've made me smirk - I still wasn't over the little bit of a power trip I got just from how paranoid he could be at talking to an agent - but instead I just heard someone lying about who they were, and it was too close to home. Too close to what Fowler was doing. Too much like what I was afraid of being fooled by when it came to Neal.

"Don't do that tonight, man," I said quietly, knowing my voice would tell him who it was, even though it sounded like hell. I should've practiced talking before I made a phone call to anyone. There was a raw sound from my burning throat and uneven tremble in my voice I didn't know I'd need to control. Only an idiot would miss that I'd been crying.

I was a little bit surprised when, in response, Mozzie's voice dropped down to a softer and gentler tone that I had never heard from him before. It was nice to know that he was concerned, even if he did still suspect me of being involved in the cover-up of stealthy government versions of _Invasion of the Pod People_ or whatever the hell he'd been going on about last week. _"What's hit you in the feelings tonight, Suit?"_

"Fowler," I sniffed, unable to stuff as much contempt into the name as I should've. Mozzie was silent. "Fowler's back." I swallowed to clear my throat and talk easier. Mozzie didn't respond immediately, so it left a long, terse pause hanging between us. Moz probably associated Fowler with the anxiety of his friend being threatened with jail time. I couldn't stop flashing between my sister being so delighted to see him and being manipulated by him into arresting _Neal._

How could Katie be so pissed at me for not liking her "soulmate" when he had forced me to put _mine_ in chains? Although more recently I'd been able to play footsie with him under the kitchen table, I'd never forget the complete _betrayal_ on his face when I'd handcuffed him.

Comparing my nerves to Mozzie's was going to get me nowhere, and, at any rate, I still needed his help, and because Neal seemed to have an uncanny knack for knowing exactly how to find Mozzie at any given time, I could have just had the artist pass on the message… except for that I wanted Mozzie's help this time, and I couldn't remember a time I'd gone to him for something so important before, except maybe when it came to getting Fowler out the first time.

"I know I'm only supposed to call this number in emergencies but he's not just back, he's coming after me again." I sniffed again and then covered my nose, trying to remind myself to stop. It's really annoying to hear over the phone, which I can tell from experience. "First he came through Neal, now he's using my sister. He's in my _home._ " I was more than a little bit panicky. "Katie - she kicked me out because I tried to get rid of him."

Really, I wasn't asking Mozzie for a place to stay. I wasn't that desperate, and I knew that there were boundaries that that would be crossing. I only realized it might sound that way after I'd said it; what I _wanted_ was help, someone to tell me what to do so that I would have an objective and a focus, to think clearly again.

 _"_ _Sounds like you need a place to stay and a strategy to fight Big Brother again._ " Still sympathetic. _"Well, as for shelter, don't come trap-and-tracing and crawling to me."_ He huffed, the belligerent tone creeping back in. I visualized him crossing his arms.

I chuckled weakly. "Wouldn't dream of it," I promised, and then added tauntingly, "Your storage unit still passing inspection?"

 _"_ _Hardy-har-har,"_ he sarcastically laughed. Maybe it was just me being desperate to feel like I wasn't completely unwanted, but I thought he sounded actually amused. _"Go to Neal,"_ Moz advised. I nodded slowly, having pretty much predicted he'd say something like that. Neal was the common ground. Not only was he the person who I thought would almost certainly house me for a night with no warning, without pressing for a reason if I didn't want to tell him, but Mozzie would also be far more at ease in his friend's place than a stranger's. Or a fed's. _"I'm sure he'll put you up."_

"Help me," I begged, throwing my pride out the window. For Katie's sake. The longer Fowler was allowed to carry out this charade, the deeper in the fantasy she got; the more it would hurt when it was ripped away. Fowler would shut me down in a second if I tried this through any other means, so I had no choice but to turn to my less-than-ethical contacts, and if it helped Katie then I'd just shut my damn mouth about ethics and be grateful. "Please. I don't - I know he's lying to her but I can't think of how to prove it."

The agitated sigh was followed by a reluctant, _"I can't believe I'm leaving the comfort of my storage unit to help a fed."_

Without my consent, without volition, my hands came up to cover my mouth, trying to stifle a relieved sigh that came anyway. "Thank you." I swallowed and then, because it warranted saying again, "Thank you." _Thank you for agreeing to help, and thank you for reminding me that Neal will take care of me._ I needed that reminder that I wasn't alone. Relying on someone else, especially Neal, felt like a bad idea. Unluckily for me, being able to rely on someone else was exactly what I wanted to do right now.

 _"_ _Yeah,_ " he grumbled grudgingly. It sounded like he was unwilling to let it come across as kindness, although there was no way he was being anything _but_ kind when he could have flat-out refused, or hung up as soon as he heard my voice. _"Enough with the tear-jerking, okay?"_

I laughed shakily, and for the first time in an hour, I felt like maybe I wasn't in a nightmare.

* * *

Mozzie had already gotten to Neal's by the time I arrived, and Neal had topped off three glasses of burgundy wine in preparation. When I knocked sullenly on the door, I was confronted with Neal, still dressed but stripped of his coat and shoes, and Mozzie sitting at the table.

I stuttered through an explanation about how he shouldn't worry about me, I was fine, and no I hadn't been crying, why would he think that, before he held his arms out enticingly, and the next thing I knew I was wrapped up tightly, holding onto him like he was the only thing in the world worth protecting, one of my hands splayed out intentionally across his lower back, covering the soulmark painted in blazing color on his skin.

In hindsight, it was an embarrassing episode of losing control. I'd never been happy about losing my composure in front of people. I blamed it on my parents being embarrassed when I lost my cool in public and invalidated me in the moment to get me to shut up and act like a well-behaved little girl.

Neal was nothing like that. He cupped the back of my head to his shoulder and let me cry into his neck, where I could feel the heat emanating from his blood and smell the cologne I'd started to associate with him. It was also a way to let me hide – I couldn't see him or Mozzie, so I felt safer being upset, like I was alone. The blue-eyed man rubbed my back and kissed my temple, making soft shushing noises like a loving caregiver whose charge was falling apart. There wasn't much of a difference.

 _This is what it's like to be his,_ I thought while my mind slowed down to a tolerable rate. He saw I needed to feel loved and he didn't hesitate to be what I needed. I trembled and kept my hand covering his soulmark, though the other felt over his back, trying to reciprocate the kindness. If he thought it was a weird fixation on a soulmark that wasn't even mine, he didn't say. Except it _was_ mine, even if he didn't know it. It _was_ mine. _Mine._ Kate Moreau may be the person he wanted for his soulmate, but he was the one I _needed_. In that time, I needed Neal like I needed air. _I want to be his._

We marked a milestone, there in front of the door, me with no emotional barricades and instead just throwing myself at him for the promises of being caught and tended to. It would have been nicer if we'd been alone, but Mozzie was respectfully quiet as a mouse, feigning indifference. As I got my tears under control and Neal vowed to me that I could stay with him as long as I needed, Mozzie made a little bit of noise as he sought out a box of tissues. My mate didn't so much as loosen his hug until I had pushed my hands between us and shoved against his chest just enough for him to know I was better.

Neal herded me with his arm around me to the table, wrapped my jacket tighter around my shaking shoulders, and knelt down to kiss my forehead before he took my shoes off for me. I felt like Cinderella and blushed. Mozzie tactfully didn't say anything about my red-faced looks or my desperate need for some emotional stability, instead serving me wine and Kleenex, which I thanked him for and then downed half of the drink in one go.

As I slowly got a little bit intoxicated to distance myself from the overwhelming events of the day, I filled them both in on not only coming home to my enemy, but to my sister being on his side of the war. I told them about his shiny new gun in the form of a heart-shaped lock and added that it was modeled after Katie's. Neal's eyes darkened when he learned why Fowler had bothered getting a fake mark.

I'd shuddered again. That lidded, seething detestation, only visible through his eyes, was all reserved for Fowler for using his friend through exploiting a concept and a real person (who was somewhere out there) that she _loved._ It was so powerfully moving that I had to shake. Neal the romantic would _never_ let Fowler get away with a move like that.

"It has to be fake," I insisted, keeping my blazer tight around me but relaxing gradually as my sporadic shaking seemed to be over. Neal stood behind me, hands on my shoulders, rubbing heated hands into tight muscles. "It has to be, there's no way-" I stopped, blinked, breathed, and then continued when I sounded less panicked. "There's no way Kate's soulmate is that bastard."

Moz seemed to be genuinely concerned – if not for me, then for my sister – and I was reminded of how quickly he'd come to Neal's. That was how seriously he took Fowler. That was how grave of a threat he knew the agent was to my sister, and that was the prioritization he held Katie in. Despite never meeting her, Mozzie disliked Fowler and honored my love for my sister enough to dash over to Neal's in the middle of the night for nothing but a phone call from a freaked-out fed.

He was also genuinely reluctant to be the devil's advocate. "I hate to be the one to say it, Suit," he led with, and going by the pained and unhappy look on his face, for once I believed him fully and without cynicism. "But you can't say that for sure. Everyone has a soulmate, even the big bads in the history books." He shrugged slowly while I vehemently gestured that he was wrong, shaking my head violently. "Doesn't mean their mates were bad people, too," he placated.

It was disarming how similarly Mozzie and I seemed to think about soulmates. The topic had never come up before, so I hadn't known his opinion, but he was awfully fast to remind us about my favored anti-soulmate argument: good people could be stuck with the worst. At the same time, it was Mozzie saying that Fowler might be for real, that Katie might actually be on his side permanently, not just until the marker job wore off.

"I refuse to accept it," I claimed forcefully. No one was shaking me off of that one. "Fowler wants to destroy me and he wants to get the music box out of Neal." I reached for Neal and I touched the back of his hand, brushing my fingers over his knuckles in a quiet message that none of this was his fault. Fowler wanted me because I was in his way, but _nothing_ excused what he was doing, not even Neal's alleged theft of some pricy artifacts. No one, and especially not myself, blamed him. How could I, when I knew how much he adored my sister? "I just need proof. First I need proof that it's fake, then I need to prove it to Katie."

It would have to be strong, solid evidence that convinced Katie. Just a little thing, a little doubt, would be enough for me, but Katie was such a strong believer in soulmates and so excited to have finally met hers that it would take a lot for her to be willing to give up on that daydream, even though it would only be temporary. After all, she still has a soulmate, it's just not Fowler.

"Okay," Neal said soothingly, his voice a gentle lull. His expert hands pushed his fingertips to both sides of my throat and started to apply pressure, slowly increasing as he moved down the line of my neck, digging in and scratching blunt, short fingernails across in pale crescents. I leaned back until my head was against Neal's ribcage. "We can do that," he told me, taking a hand to sweep up my throat, cupping my jaw.

If Mozzie had anything to say about the touching in particular, he bit his tongue. He did not do the same for his concerns regarding Neal's promise. "This is just another uphill battle," he shook his head with defeat.

Neal stroked his thumb down my cheek while I shut my eyes and let him massage me from behind. "If it wasn't for Kenna," he started to scold Mozzie, "I'd still be on the run or back in chains. Katie's my friend. Fowler is bad news." Letting go of me and pulling out the chair just to my right, Neal sat down with his legs over the side facing me. "If there's a way to prove he faked it, then we'll find it," he declared with determination.

I took a deep breath, then breathed out, and in again, and my congestion was finally starting to ease. "Thanks," I said quietly, sniffed, and then said louder, "Thank you." My eyes remained turned down to the table. I was still a little embarrassed that I came to run for help. _Running to Neal_. If it helped my case, I had only come after Moz had told me to. Technically, I had called Moz first.

Which meant I sort of ran to Mozzie for help. _Ugh, that's even worse._

Mozzie worried at us, yet he held back whatever it was he was tempted to say. I kept my eyes downcast while he and Neal had a nonverbal argument, emphasized by Neal's subtle clearing of his throat. The short one sighed quietly and he gave up.

"Alright, I guess I'm outnumbered." Moz put up the white flag. Though I could understand not wanting to be involved, I didn't want to listen to his complaining. With every intention of telling him that no one was forcing him to stay, I looked up to meet his eyes, only to see him with a look of completely bullheaded stubbornness beginning to take root. Once his mind was made up, he was hell-bent. "Okay, first thing is proving it's not real. You said it's on his wrist?"

"Mm-hmm." I held up my left hand. "Left wrist."

Mozzie drummed his fingers on the table. "The one beauty of having the government continually stalking its fearful masses are the cameras." While I took the cue and rolled my eyes less heartily than normal, Mozzie jerked a thumb at Neal. "They exonerated Peter Pan here," Neal looked a little flattered, "And maybe they'll help us now."

"If we go back to footage timestamped from the diamond heist case, then maybe we can get a shot of Fowler's left wrist and prove that it used to be clean," Neal suggested helpfully, looking at me caringly to see what I was thinking. The mention of that case stressed me out, but it was the only other time we knew of that Fowler had been in New York, where he could have been caught on easily-accessible videos.

"Okay." I nodded. I was just going to nod along to whatever they said unless they started talking about NASA or something out of _Cirque du Freak._ As long as they didn't sound like they needed institutionalization, I was going to give them the benefit of the doubt and trust them. A scary conclusion to come to, but less frightening than the thought of tackling Fowler alone. "What do you need from me?" I asked to volunteer my services. I didn't want to be left out, and I'd feel bad if they did all the work. "Traffic cams, surveillance footage, passwords…?"

"Actually," Mozzie started to say with suspiciously-perked interest, "Passwords would be-"

"We don't need passwords," Neal deadpanned his friend.

I giggled. _Should've seen that coming._

While Mozzie looked away from Neal, sufficiently chastened, he huffed and crossed his arms. "I have my ways," he announced mysteriously. "I can access everything myself, don't doubt that," he told me, waving a hand like I was going to start thinking Neal was his boss or something.

"Okay," I humored him. "Okay," I repeated, turning to Neal. Just seeing him there, his concerned but calm face, reassured me that the situation was manageable. Not easy, not fun, but… we could deal with it. He smiled at me. "I'm calm," I told him, proving that I had regained control of myself. By that, I meant that I wasn't going to start sobbing again. It wasn't on the agenda.

Neal looked way too serious when he nodded. It was obvious that he was indulging me, yet he was doing it with good intentions, so I let it slide. "I can see that," he stated.

I put an elbow up on the table, rested my cheek on my fist, and stared at Neal thoughtfully. He raised his eyebrows and peered curiously at me, sapphire eyes waiting patiently for me to decide what I was going to say. He was so supportive, so _kind_.

"How coincidental is it that Fowler came back as we started investigating a judge?" I asked him.

"Very coincidental," he answered, and then posed a follow-up question. "Is this a coincidence we're going to believe?"

I was denying it before the artist was even done speaking. "Nope," I popped the 'P' sound and looked across to Mozzie for the third opinion.

"Good," the conspirator declared resolutely. "There's no such things as coincidences."

"You say that every time it benefits you," Neal accused. Mistaking the fondness in his voice for anything else would have been impossible. He sounded like he was any other person having an old argument with their best friend that had long ago become an inside joke instead of a debate.

Mozzie's expression said _well, of course, duh._ "What sense would it make to say it when it doesn't?" He rhetorically asked, swerving right past the point of Neal's remark.

Neal smiled down at the table, lips tugging up over his teeth delightedly. Mozzie, too, looked more content than he had before, relaxed by the familiarity of the exchange. And each other. How could I have ever thought that the two of them should be kept further apart? They clearly needed each other just like I needed Katie. It was humanizing and sweet that these people relied on each other and had the same strong core friendship that I had with my sister.

I let them have their moment, avoiding looking at them so it wasn't so obvious that I was finding them cute. Once enough time had passed, I coughed into my arm. "So, have either of you found anything on Clark?" I shifted into business. We had several things going at once and didn't have time to waste.

Mozzie looked ecstatic that someone had finally given him an intro. Holding up his hands and gesturing for me to stay put, he doubled over, almost entirely disappearing below the edge of the table. Neal and I both shared confused looks and turned back to stare at Moz's jacket. Seconds later, he reemerged, shoulders pulled down by a weight while he hefted up an open box to the table. The box landed hard and made me cringe.

"As Mr. Caffrey's legal counsel, I advise you to peruse the following exhibits," Mozzie invited, shoving the box towards the center of the table. No way was he _not_ boasting about finding all of it – and I was not even going to try opening up the can of worms where I asked how he got his hands on any of it.

"This is a lot," I stated the obvious, while Neal shifted to the edge of his seat and thumbed in several inches from the side, pulling out a wide section of the packed materials. As soon as it was out far enough, Neal caught the end with his other hand and set them down as quickly as he could on the table before the papers started falling.

Mozzie did the same thing, but started on the other side of the box. Joining the club, I stole a bunch from the side facing Neal and I and looked them over. They were all legal documents, officially approved and stored after cases were closed. Moz was craftier than I thought to get so many of these private things at such short notice. I opened one of them and looked through. It was a name I didn't recognize; a seizure warrant for a bank, signed by Michelle Clark, the judge whose honor was in question.

I pushed that aside and opened up the next one, only to see a shockingly familiar name on the next entry. _Neal Caffrey._ It was an arrest warrant. Wide-eyed, my head snapped up to look at him. His head was down, his finger guiding his eyes on the page lines, soft brown hair getting floppier as it lost its shape from its styling all those hours ago in the morning. I looked back down. The same stamp ID, 476, and – I looked at the date. It was from almost exactly two months ago.

"Check these out," I blurted, moving the seizure warrant that was in the way and shoving it across the table. Because Neal was not only the subject, but he was also physically closer, I was pushing the things across to him.

The next several were all in regards to him, too, and all from the same dates. They lined up almost perfectly with the _Le Joyau_ heist, except for that even the arrest warrant had been approved the day of the heist. The case had only come to the bureau's attention the day _after._ As if I hadn't been convinced enough that Fowler had been targeting Neal the whole time, there was my proof.

"Court orders, search warrants…" Neal flipped open his own arrest warrant and scanned the cause. I hadn't even looked at the following pages, but even without them in front of me, I could tell that they were shockingly lacking in content.

"All things par for the course in criminal investigations," I confirmed as I thumbed up to the covers on the rest of the files I had selected. Most of the things Clark had approved of weren't probate law. They weren't even realistic. They were _jokes,_ especially Neal's arrest warrant, which had been put together so incompetently that it didn't even include Fowler's probable cause of the forged initials in the pink diamond.

Neal didn't seem at all rattled to be looking at a warrant proclaiming that he needed to be incarcerated. I figured suspiciously that it was probably normal for him, anyway. He played with the top right corner between his fingers. "So why's she now signing off on mortgage cases?"

"One or the other isn't in her pay grade," I replied firmly. I knew which one it was. Her job said she was supposed to be handling things like the mortgage frauds and the real estate claims, not approving for government consultants to be carted to prison and humiliated in the process!

Neal looked at the others and shook his head slightly, looking up to Mozzie around the box. I reached out to it and shoved it to the side so there wasn't an unwelcomed centerpiece blocking the conversation. "These are everything Fowler used when he arrested me for the diamond heist," he told Moz, who may or may not have known every step of Fowler's insultingly biased investigation.

"And check out the fine print," Mozzie scoffed. "She was Fowler's go-to judge while he was investigating you, but if these warrants were reviewed by an impartial judge, they may have been thrown out."

"Some of them definitely would have been," I confirmed. I had enough experience with getting warrants to know a fraudulent one when I saw it. Fowler was just _sad._ These weren't even last-ditch; they were hardly even enough to be considered reasonable attempts. "No wonder he's got such a long reach – he has a pet judge."

"Question is, what are you going to do about it, officially or unofficially?" Mozzie turned his arm up on the table. Both he and Neal deferred to me for the next approach.

 _Oh, great, put me in charge,_ I complained. I came here because I didn't want to be in charge, I wanted help, I wanted someone who knew what to do next. It seemed like it was time to grow up and stop hiding behind my friends. I'd had a nice hour off of the front lines. _Time to take back my position._

"Well, as much as I still want him out of my house, we have less than a week to get the judge before the Sullivans lose their home…" Katie and I could find other places to sleep and shower and live. We could afford hotels, but the Sullivans couldn't. If they could afford to live out of a hotel, they would have been able to afford a lawyer to help them with their case instead of having to beg the FBI. "The judge can hurt a lot of people…" _Katie versus a crowd._ It was an impossible choice. At least I knew that Fowler wasn't going to displace her or harm her; that would ruin his plan. He'd treat her well, at least for now. "I'm not resting on the soulmark thing," I warned before Mozzie started thinking he'd distracted me from my entire reason for having to be hugged and hushed. "But I think I still need to spend working hours going after Clark. And don't worry, if anyone asks, you didn't have anything to do with it."

"Hey," Mozzie turned, startled, to Neal. "Suit is actually a little bit agreeable today!" He acted as if I was never amicable. I thought I was rather indulgent of his quirks and less-than-lawful habits.

Glaring at Moz to keep him out of the bickering between his friend and his lover, Neal removed himself from the discussion by refusing to dignify that with any sort of answer for fear of digging himself in a hole with one of us no matter what he said. Instead, he took another handful of the folders from the box and dragged them out to pore over some more and see about anything else that could shed light on the case.

"Yeah, that's what happens when you agree to help me protect my sister," I pointed out coolly, irked that apparently I was constantly a bitch to be around.

"Huh," Neal said suddenly, intelligently breaking it up with a new topic. He had opened up the first folder he got to. "This one doesn't make sense," he told us without looking up. He picked up the first page and followed it up with the next several, skimming rapidly. "It's even more of an anomaly than the others."

"What is it?" I inquired, giving Mozzie another disgruntled glower and yawning into my hand.

"It's another criminal case, but this one's on sealing some records." I cocked my head. Record sealing was a closed case, but a warrant to seal the records was less common. My first thought was someone who turned state's witness and had their own criminal rap sheet closed in favor of Witness Protection. "It looks like it was on a blue-collar case." Neal let the papers all fall back down and he frowned at the cover.

Blue-collar was even stranger. Fowler was OPR and Clark was probate; neither of them should have had any fast connection to a blue-collar criminal. Clark had nothing to do with Neal, yet she had warrants specifically about him in her collection because of Fowler. That was easy enough to riddle out – Fowler went after Neal because he thought Neal had the music box. What was the special point of a blue-collar criminal?

"What's the name?" I asked, settling deeper into my chair and crossing one leg up over the other. I could Google the name and see what came up. Maybe if it had something to do with organized crime, there was a piece Fowler wanted from them, too.

"Køhler," Neal pronounced with attention to the foreign vowel. He hit it perfectly the first time. He thought nothing of it. Mozzie gave a little shrug when the name meant nothing to him. As for me, I felt like I couldn't do anything. "Sounds Scandinavian," Neal commented, already starting to lose interest in a name no one was reacting to.

I thought it was impossible. Unlikely, at the very least. What would Fowler have to do with _him?_ That psycho that I thought had ruined my life? Without him, I never would have been in the WCCD to have Neal… but he had come so close to ending me, had torn down what I'd worked to build for myself and for Katie, and though I wouldn't give up Neal, I had never loathed anyone as much as I did Tobias Køhler.

"Give me that," I said, somehow _not_ sounding like I was choking, holding out both hands to my CI for the part that he was reading off of.

Neal looked a little surprised by my unexpected commanding tone, but he slid it off the desk onto one hand and then deposited it obediently in mine. I pulled it close to me, dropped it onto my raised thigh, and opened it to stare at the name. My feelings were scrambled. Was I supposed to feel terrified? He was the subject of my night terrors, after all. Maybe I was just meant to feel disgust, or fury, or relief that he was gone, out of my life – God knew where, but not _here,_ not where he could hurt me or my loved ones.

I swallowed hard and was grateful that there wasn't a profile picture of him on the cover. I closed it up and pushed it onto the table while my abdomen did a flip, stomach churning.

"Recognize it?" Neal asked, deceptively casual. He scooted his chair a little closer and stretched his legs out, closing both of his ankles around the foot of mine that was still on the floor. I could feel the warmth of his socks and the scratch of the hem of his pants, the bumping of his anklet against my calf, and the little details locked me here, in his penthouse, with trusted friends.

I nodded my head. I wasn't going to lie. Tobias Køhler was a _huge_ influence on my life. He didn't dictate how it ran, but he sure as hell had a say in forcing it to change. One thing was sure – I did _not_ want to be alone, because I didn't think I could handle it. Neal's anklet had never been a comforting sensation until it reminded me I was with someone who was always accounted for.

Neal and Mozzie both looked like they were awaiting a specific answer. Mozzie was significantly more impatient than Neal. I pointed at the folder but didn't want to touch it. Nothing that symbolized him… it all felt like poison. The more time I spent with it, the more I thought about it, the harder it was to pull myself out of the funk it dragged me into.

"I'm, uh, I'm not sure it is what I think it is, though." I pushed back my hair unnecessarily and just made it a little bit messier, but I did it again to fix the new problem. _Maybe it's legitimate, maybe there's a reason, maybe… maybe I don't need to go back to fearing for my life…_ "Before I jump to conclusions, I want to get access to some other things for comparison."

Turning my head down to stare at my lap, I willed Neal silently not to move his legs and kept acting as if I didn't hear Mozzie's irritated huff as I held information that was clearly relevant close to my chest. Neal didn't move. He didn't defend my decision to Mozzie, which was a clue that he disagreed, but he knew my body, even if he didn't know my heart, and my body language was clearly telling him in some subtle way that, more than anything else, I was afraid.

* * *

Mozzie left when we realized that it was past one, and we didn't have any means of getting dirt on Clark _or_ Fowler. The impatient part of me that usually railed against any lack of productivity was angry that we'd given up, but even I had to admit that it would do more harm than good to keep looking for the night. My head hurt and my eyes burned, both from crying and from staring at papers for so long. Coffee had only been keeping me awake, not helping me calm down. If anything, the caffeine made me jumpier, and I was driving Mozzie half-insane with my fidgeting. If I wasn't humming (quietly, but audibly), then I was probably tapping my foot or fingernails. Although Neal didn't complain, he would've gotten to that point sooner rather than later.

Regardless of how much was finished here tonight, there was no way I would feel safe returning to my house and sleeping there. Even if I hadn't fought with Kate, I wouldn't feel like I was home. Not with Fowler invading my space, pursuing my sister, possibly planting bugs and devices and, God forbid, _cameras._ I'd rather camp out at a hotel for however long it took to convince Katie that Fowler was a fraud than risk being caught by one of those sticky little gadgets that Fowler seemed to have far too many of. Nevertheless, while it was something of a consolation that I wouldn't go back anyway, every time I remembered home, I remembered Kate and what she'd said, and it made my chest constrict because I knew that, in many elements, she was _right._ She made what I did to and with Neal sound a lot worse than it is, but the only point I think she was really _incorrect_ about was that I manipulated and took advantage of him. Manipulating and taking advantage of him would be showing him the mark on my wrist and then expecting a relationship in response. As it is, he makes the first move on every advancement, which works for both of us. I know that he's not doing something because I want to, which helps me feel better about the awkward position in which I have his custody, and he doesn't feel obligated to do anything that he doesn't, because I'm not pushing. I'm not even asking.

 _I can't go home._ What was I supposed to do, then? Sleep in my car, office, hotel? I had to sleep somewhere or I'd go insane. My pride was already burning from Fowler being witness to me being kicked out of my house. I couldn't risk him going to the bureau and seeing that I'd been relegated to sleeping with my desk as a pillow, or awkwardly stretched out in a leaning chair. Neal was wandering around the room while I leaned over his table, sighing softly with heavy eyes and a heavier heart. He picked up the boxes and moved them out of sight in case June came up, and then rinsed out the mugs the three of us had gone through. After placing the mugs in the dishwasher, he disappeared into the back and reemerged a moment later. His footsteps moved towards the table again, and the smell of laundry detergent was followed swiftly by a small stack of clean clothes being set down next to my left arm.

I lifted my head to look up at Neal, wondering what he was doing. He motioned to the clothes with his hands silently in invitation, then went over to the television and got down on his knees, opening up the movie cabinets underneath the TV stand.

I looked down to the clothes. They were his. I didn't really keep pajamas over here. In the occasions when I stayed over, they weren't exactly needed – instead I kept a pantsuit, jeans, and a couple of blouses in a small travel duffel that he shoved in his closet for whenever I needed fresh clothes. For pajamas, he'd offered me one of his white tank tops and grey gym shorts. I rubbed my eyes. I guess that kind of answered my earlier question, didn't it? Mumbling a "thank you," I picked up the clothes and held them up to my stomach, letting the heat from the dryer seep through my own shirt and to my skin. Ever since undergoing involuntary surgery, warmth on my abdomen has been soothing, which is why I have so many fleece blankets. I like putting them through the dryer, even when clean, just so I have the heat to curl up with on bad days.

I went into the bathroom and changed into his clothes quickly, tiredly stripping out of my own. I looked in the mirror dully as I reached for the clasp of my bra and then tossed it on the floor with my shirt and jacket. His shirt stayed up alright, but the thin sleeves kept trying to slide down my slimmer shoulders. The waistband of the shorts were elastic, so they weren't a problem. I wasn't sure what to do with my clothes, so I just picked them up, folded them, and decided to take them to the bag of mine in his closet. I brushed my hair out with my fingers and tied it in twin braids on either side of my head, a little messy with a lot of loose strands, but out of the way and not particularly _bad_ -looking, per se.

Neal took the clothes from me when I came to hover by the bedroom alcove, and he just put them on his dresser, going on to the computer propped up one side of the bed. The CD rom had a silver disc in it and he pressed the button to close it. The screen went dark as the video part loaded, and I stood in the doorway unsurely. It was weird how I could feel like I belonged in here when it was so dark I could barely see more than three feet in front of me, but felt out of place when I could look around just fine. _Probably says something about exactly how much time I spent in here paying attention to the room itself._

"I can sleep on the couch, you know," I said, speaking clearly and directly to him for the first time since Mozzie had left. It was a little bit too obvious while looking that Neal intended to share his bed; there was an unopened bottle of water on the side nearer to the door, which I tended to sleep on thanks to some protective and defensive instincts that wanted me near the entrance. The sheets were pulled back across the mattress, and the computer was too far to the side for just one person. "I don't mind. Or I could get a hotel room." The sofa wasn't big enough for me to lay down, but I usually curled up anyway, so it wouldn't be a big deal. It struck me that, were we not sleeping together, I wouldn't have seen a problem with sharing a bed with him. I'm always down for platonic bed-sharing. The romantic aspect made it seem awkward to me.

He looked up in surprise as if me considering anything else hadn't even crossed his mind. "Now you're just being ridiculous," he objected, holding out his hands in the same way that I do when I loudly demand what the hell he's thinking. "You need stress relief, not a sore back."

 _Oh, wow, I'm so old I can't sleep on a sofa?_ "My spine is more limber than you give it credit for," I said, defending the strength of my skeletal system. The screen had automatically paused before the computer started to play the video, so I had no idea what it was, but the velvety sheets turned down made me shift my weight uncertainly. "I thought wine usually accompanied this kind of stress relief."

"The mattress is nice." Demonstrating, Neal threw himself down on his – the – side of the bed, landing on his side and bouncing. He lifted his head from the pillow and grinned at me. "But I'm actually thinking the television."

"Television?" I repeated, looking meaningfully over at the actual television, which was still turned off.

"Television," he confirmed. He pushed himself up onto one elbow and patted the bed in front of him with the other hand. "June rented some movies for her granddaughter and she brought one up a couple days ago that she wanted me to watch." I crossed my arms, confusion between relationship lines cast to the side in favor of curiosity. Exactly what kind of movie would June choose for her adolescent granddaughter and think that Neal would enjoy? "She said it reminded her of us. It's animated, so it can't be too dark."

 _Ah. Animated. Now it makes sense. You're never too old for talking animals._ At least, that's what I have to keep telling myself, otherwise I have to start questioning why I still record and re-watch _What's New, Scooby-Doo_ on the cartoon channel.

I looked down to my front while biting on my lip. "Someone has never seen _Happy Tree Friends_ ," I laughed somewhat nervously, and I pulled up at the top of his tank top so that it was covering more of my chest. It seemed like a pretty strange time to suddenly get modest, but I was past the point of really caring how weird my actions were as long as I wasn't forced to talk about them.

Neal shrugged. "It's a Disney thing," he offered next as part of the explanation.

I crossed my arms, reluctant to join him on the bed. I'd probably end up being cuddled. It's one thing to wake up cuddling because then I can blame my subconscious, but snuggling to watch a movie was a lot more deliberate, and it's not like I could say that I didn't feel comfortable, because I love cuddling. It doesn't even have to be with a person. I'll be happy as a clam with a backpack or a computer to hug.

"So basically, you're… making me lay down and watch anthropomorphic animals?" I summarized. I don't know what I expected to gain.

"The bunny is a police officer." He widened his eyes and pouted, intentionally acting completely adorable because he knew I thought it was the cutest thing ever. "Doesn't that intrigue you?"

Giving up, I unfolded my arms and hit the light switch, then padded over to the bed. Neal leaned back and moved his arm so there was space right in front of him. Glancing over at the door, I hesitated before climbing up onto the bedspread and crawling further up to the pillows, lit by the computer screen. Neal reached over me and pushed down gently on the dip in my back, encouraging me to sink down in front of him. I settled down with my legs on top of the quilts and my head on the edge of a pillow facing the laptop, while Neal pampered me and pulled the blankets up for both of us. While he tucked it in around my legs, he took the opportunity to hit the space bar on the computer to make the screen come to life with fireworks over a castle.

"I repeat," I said quietly while staring, transfixed, at the Disney logo. That thing was a huge part of my childhood. I always told Kate to get a lover who would watch Disney movies with her. "Anthropomorphic animals. There's only so much intrigue that holds," I lied. Soft lips pressed against the back of my neck where my hair was parted for my braids, and then the blankets were pulled and sheets rustled while Neal made himself comfortable, pushing himself a little higher on the pillows so he could watch over my head.

"Sh," the artist quieted, wrapping one arm over my stomach and dragging me backwards a few inches, plastering my back to his chest. "That's not relieving stress, that's being cynical."

I exhaled long and low and tried to think of the colors on the computer screen and, eventually, Ginnifer Goodwin's voice. The bunny was cute and the fox annoying (at first) but then endearing, and yeah, it didn't take long for me to figure out why it had reminded June of Neal and I. The situation was eerily similar, except I wasn't a rookie.

There was just one problem. Even though I was hearing all of the words and paying rapt attention to the plot, not once did I forget that the reason I was so warm was because of the conman curled around me. I never stopped feeling the gentle rub of pressure as his hands got bored and he started drawing out patterns under my ribs with the hand holding me to him. And I was never not aware of the fact that I liked the way it felt to be treated like I was wanted and adored, even when it was being done for my comfort and peace of mind.

I fell asleep before the end of the movie (unfortunately, because it was a good movie), but it was pretty close to the ending. The final plot twist had been revealed and it turned out that the rabbit wasn't going to become dinner, and because it had become a kind of catchphrase of the movie, I felt rather than saw Neal picking up one of my braids and pulling his fingers over it, feeling the loops and dips of each section slide through his hand, and heard him chuckle and say with the characters, "It's called a hustle, sweetheart."

My sleep probably would've been better if he hadn't said that; given the acting job that had just been put on by the characters and the risky situation I was involved in, the otherwise lighthearted jibe sounded a lot more ominous than it should have, and again, I had to wonder if I was the one getting hustled here.

* * *

**The last few days have been a turbulent political scene. Someone claiming to be the soulmate of the French president nearly started a riot. It turned out to be a false claim, and now the government wants to press charges. The problem is that there isn't really a legal code for pretending to be someone's soulmate when you're not. If I remember right, they're trying for a claim of personal grievance and harassment.**

**Kind of makes me wonder, though. Why isn't that illegal? Why aren't emotional crimes illegal? Why isn't it illegal to lie about being someone's long-lost parent or sibling, or about being someone's** **_amê soeur_ ** **? I'm sure there have been other times when something like this has happened. It's illegal to beat your kids or to abuse your spouse, but there's no real legal punishment for conning anyone by taking advantage of their desire for their life partner.**

**People disgust me sometimes.**

**I've been looking into universities and immigration laws. I think it'll be harder than I anticipated, but I'm motivated. I can learn anything and my grades are high enough to get me into a nice school in America. I have enough money and determination to stick with the process to become a citizen. As soon as I'm registered, I'll start applying to schools. In the meantime, it might be time to start stealthily dispersing the money in my accounts. I won't get my inheritance just yet, but I have more than enough as it is. I just have to make the money accessible to me in America without my parents realizing what I'm doing. I don't want to give them the chance to try to stop me.**

**I can't believe my parents would try to stop me from trying to make a life for myself.**

**But this kind of life isn't what they feel I should have, so I know that they would.**

**Love (and learn),**

**Zarra L**


	18. It Feels Like Home and Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mozzie and Katie are finally introduced. McKenna sets her sights on the corrupt judge, but the situation at home only intensifies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Lucy Hale's "Feels Like Home."

**_Chapter Eighteen – It Feels Like Home and Family_ **

What woke me up must have been the shower turning off, because I knew something had roused me, but I couldn't tell what it was until I heard the _drip, drip, drip_ coming from the bathroom. I lifted my head enough off of the pillow to look in that direction. Yellow light filtered under the door. The bedroom wasn't too dark, either, but that was from sunlight coming in through the curtains. Neal hadn't turned on any of the lights.

For there to be so much sunlight, I realized, then I'd definitely slept a lot longer than I intended to. I looked longingly at my phone, an entire three feet away on the bedside table on my side of the bed. Well, I say side - I was lying in the middle, partially curled into a ball. Neal's scent still clung to the bedclothes, and the way I was lying very strongly suggested he'd been cuddled up to my back all night. Rolling over, I pushed my nose into the pillow and stretched my legs. Soft cotton brushed on my calves from Neal's pants, material pleasant against stiff muscles and cold skin.

If there had been a clock, I would've looked; as it was, I didn't trust myself to be awake enough to accurately judge the time lapse. I guessed it had only been a few minutes between waking up and the door to the bathroom teasing its way open, making only the softest noise on the hinge.

"You let me sleep in," I accused, voice muffled by the pillow I had my face buried in. It's a weekday; I wasn't _supposed_ to sleep in. And I'm _really_ not supposed to be doing the whole leisurely weekend, Sunday-sleep-to-Monday routine in my consultant's bedroom, for Christ's sake.

Neal chuckled. "You needed it." He sounded like he'd been awake for a while, but the heat still soaked into the sheets implied he'd spent at least recent time with me. I almost wished I'd woken up just so that I could hear his voice rough with sleep - sexy, but also the time he sounded the least guarded. He didn't sound as smooth and certain. It felt more honest. "Which of these?"

I took in a deep breath and then loudly sighed, letting the air slowly creep out between my mouth and the pillow. Then I gathered up my energy and rolled onto my back, sitting up. My hair was an absolute mess, but I gave my head a shake to get strands out of my face. Neal stood at the foot of the bed in dark grey slacks and a dress shirt half-buttoned, leaving a gap that showed his well-muscled stomach. It was amazing that he could look so lithe and then be so built. He was holding up two different neckties.

When he wanted my opinion on clothes, I almost always went with blue. Neal's eyes are so _gorgeous,_ so _vividly bright,_ that anything that complemented his irises was the first to be recommended. However, neither of these ties had blue in them; one was solid deep purple and the other was burgundy with gold trim around the edges. Way too fancy for a necktie. Neither particularly went with any outfit I could think of, but it's not like they would look bad with black _or_ white, the primary colors of Neal's suits, so I shrugged.

"You know, if it wasn't for Katie, I would leave the house wearing plaid and stripes at the same time," I deadpanned. I'd been advised that that was an unforgivable fashion faux pas. This advice was proved founded when Neal gave me a look of mild contempt tempered with pity. "I'm probably not the person to ask about fashion." Not at all subtle, I lowered my eyes from his face down to his pronounced abs. "Besides, I'm far more adept at taking your clothes off than putting them on."

He got over the whole plaid and stripes thing and laughed loudly and cheerily. "That you are, Kenna," he agreed mischievously. I considered what time it was. Probably before lunch. I was already late for work - what would an extra twenty minutes hurt? Oh, except then Neal would just have to shower again, so that would actually be an extra half an hour, and I was probably pushing my luck anyway…

 _I can't do this._ It was one thing to stay with him after being kicked out. Fowler himself was privy to what had happened between Katie and I, and even as mad as she was, if I was in trouble for crossing boundaries with Neal, she would own up to having thrown me out. Neal and I have to trust each other with our lives for our jobs, and so there was nothing wrong with me staying over, given the circumstances. What wasn't okay was pushing my luck with suspicious activity - such as being extra late to work for the sake of getting a quick lay.

I focused back in on Neal when he threw the gold-hemmed tie over the back of a chair, pulling at the long tail of the other to wrap around his throat. "Plaid and stripes?" He asked, grimacing in the mirror at my reflection over his shoulder. "Really?"

Looking put out, I scowled at his back. My bedhead made me look like an angry ferret. "She threatened to take me to a store and leave me there."

"I completely understand why," he quipped, and the worst part was that while it was definitely part of his wit, he sounded truthful enough when he said it.

My thief pulled the tail through the knot and tucked it through the keeper loop, then left it loose around his neck for the time being. He turned and grinned at me while he straightened it so it hung fairly even with the few buttons that had been done on his shirt. Abdomen still showing, hair a little mussed from towel-drying, and tie very unprofessional, he did _not_ look like a confidential informant. In fact…

"You look like a stripper," I tried and failed not to laugh.

In an instant, he changed his demeanor accordingly. I knew I'd brought it on by opening my mouth, but it was nice to feel like I didn't have to filter what I said. His smile went from pleased to predatory, he looked down with half-lidded eyes, and slowly licked his lower lip, falling gracefully down to his knees on the carpet less than a foot away from the bed. I giggled.

Wanting to see what he was doing, I moved onto my knees and crawled to the edge of the mattress. Neal smirked up at me, teasingly adjusting the necktie more than a little suggestively. He flattened his hand over his stomach and reached up under the confines of the shirt, roving his hand sensually over his chest, sliding his palm over gorgeous, flawless skin.

Fuck, his _skin._ I wondered how he did it; always glowing, always creamy, always so smooth and even and so beautiful. _Skin porn, I swear._ I could spent literal _hours_ adoring his body - the soft but taut flesh between his shoulder blades, the shallow dip in his back, the vulnerable, smooth, sweet taste of his throat and the firm muscles I could rub my hands across, trace the lines and molds of. I liked to touch - hard and soft, alternating between making possessive marks (that faded within minutes, of course) and feel with searching, blunt fingers. I loved to grip at his back, hands slipping over his shoulder blades and down the expanse of his spine.

He made a convincing moan and shuffled his knees, spreading his legs a little further apart. My eyes were drawn attentively to the visible bulge through the crotch of his trousers. I still thought he was being a little dramatic for what was essentially a throwaway joke, but hell, _I_ certainly wasn't going to complain.

Just intending to wake up, I rubbed the heel of my hand over my eyes and blinked, watching him with a raised eyebrow, interested in how far he was going to take the show, but drawing attention to my red cheeks must've been the wrong thing to do, because whatever mood he'd gotten into, he snapped out of it pretty quickly. I suppose I might've still looked pretty bad - I'd been crying really hard for a long time and hadn't washed my face since. Where he'd been leaning back pretty far to give me a good view, he sat up normally, took his hand out from under his shirt, and reached with both arms up to me. I held out my hands just on impulse.

Neal shuffled closer on his knees, squeezed my hands softly, and stretched up. I carefully held myself over the side of the bed so he could reach me and he gave me a gentle kiss on my forehead.

"There's still hot water." He kindly invited, climbing back up to his feet. He kept my hands in his. "How do you feel about pancakes?"

Far from dense, I understood a command, even when it wasn't being issued as such. Neal doesn't get to order me around on a normal basis, but he was trying to take care of me, and I appreciated that he had the respect to be tactful about it. What was more, he was offering to make me breakfast. Sometimes I think he's actively trying to romance me. Strangely enough, this wasn't one of those times - for which I adored him a little bit more for knowing that now wasn't the time.

"Yum," I replied quietly, holding his hands tighter.

* * *

Neal offered to drive my car so that I didn't have to worry about the responsibility of being behind the wheel, but I was reasonably sure that if he had a license, it was either expired by now or under an alias. I just patted the back of his hand thankfully and shepherded him away from the driver's side of the car and around the front to his side.

In the office, I set down my things. I wasn't as well-prepared as I usually was. My phone had been set to low battery mode, but I didn't have my charger since I hadn't thought to grab it while I was in my bedroom, so it was getting into its last hours. I wouldn't be wasting the battery playing Mahjong. I set it on the corner of the desk so I would see it if it lit up. Aside from my phone, there was nothing to give me away. The overnight bag in Neal's closet kept me from doing a walk of shame, and it turned out that he explained some of the situation to June before I woke up: Katie and I fought and I was staying with him while it blew over. June had happily lent some shampoo with the feminine tropical scents that I liked.

Neal went to go tell Derek that Fowler was back. He didn't say this, exactly, but I knew it was on his mind. I covered the windows of my office with the blinds so I didn't have to see Derek's reaction, and I didn't want the prying eyes coming into my office, either. The closed blinds were a sign to leave well enough alone. I sat down, yawned widely, and then got to work on the case I had at hand.

I worked without coffee for longer than I usually did. I had expected Neal to return, but he didn't. While walking around to wake up, I paused by my window and parted the blinds enough to look out into the bullpen. Neal sat at his desk, twisting his chair around back and forth, tapping the end of a pen against his plush lower lip and focusing on reading something in front of him.

I felt a little bad for forgetting what had transpired the day before and expecting him to be ready to spend all day with me. I just had so much going on that such a trivial thing seemed to slip my mind… was it really trivial? I sat back down and stared unseeingly at my computer, second-guessing myself. What would have happened if I'd said yes? We'd had to have met Herrera anyway, but maybe today we'd have done our coffee date. With Fowler in town, I'd have had to cancel any date-like plans. I was too nervous he would blow the whistle on Neal's and my closeness. In that event, we wouldn't have ended up going out anyway, so what did it matter? I tried my best to ignore my conscience reminding me that it still mattered to Neal, whom had invited teasing and more hurtful reactions by being upfront and making the suggestion, but it just wouldn't shut up that it had mattered, no matter what happened later on.

Closer to eleven, Neal came back up to my office. I had managed to shake off the cobwebs of the previous day's memories and ended up actually getting some things done, yet didn't submit anything for official documentation. It might get through to someone like the judge or Fowler, and I wanted my work to myself and my team until I had something to actually work with.

He knocked. I called for him to come in and then was already telling him my updates while he came inside, leaning back on the door to close it. "We were right about Clark going out of her way with Fowler's warrants. She deals primarily with probate law in civil courts. Her last case was the-"

"The Sullivan house," Neal interrupted to predict.

My mouth still halfway open to finish, I just closed my jaw and nodded instead. He wasn't wrong. I did wish he'd let me finish my sentence on my own. "Yes. Over the past two years, she's permitted various banks to take almost a dozen privately-owned properties, all on counts of mortgages and debts that pile up around the owners' ears. They all fight, but sooner or later, they drown."

It was such a pathetic and nasty way to play; let them fight, think they had hope, and then crush them entirely in a fell swoop that also took away their housing and their security. A lot of them had children to think of. I wanted to hit the judge in the face just for considering it, much less going through with it and displacing so many people out of their homes.

The wood buzzed loudly. My phone screen lit up, the little battery in the corner down in its yellow ranges. _Katherine Anderson_ flashed in the caller ID display. I looked at the phone blankly, blinking like I didn't even recognize that it was an incoming call, and wore a mask of apathy while I looked back to the desk, drawing my keyboard forward closer to the edge.

Neal frowned. "You have an incoming phone call," he hinted.

"I know," I said evenly, continuing to ignore it as it vibrated a second time.

What would happen if I answered the phone? What might Kate have to say to me after I so thoroughly pissed her off? Unless it was to tell me that she was kicking her new beau's ass right out the front door, I didn't think I'd want to hear it. Voicing my disapproval had been disapproved of already. If anything, she would probably try to stick out even a big deal just to prove me wrong, prideful over having refused to listen the first time. Was she going to have me come pick up my clothes and things to stay away longer? Taunt me about Neal some more?

None of them really sounded like Kate, but then again, the things that came past her lips the night before had been so out of character that I had done the equally abnormal and gone running away – from _her_ , of all people.

Neal kept looking to the phone, face puzzled. "It's from Katie," he read, hinting for me to pick it up again.

I pursed my lips. Did he think I was blind now? There was a _reason_ I wasn't answering, and whether or not I let it go to voicemail was my prerogative. "I see that," I informed. It vibrated a third time.

He took a seat in the chair by my desk, sighing softly through his nose. "Are you going to get it?" Neal prompted a third time.

I shot him a short glare before I lifted my gaze. I didn't want to argue with him, too. I just didn't want to deal with Kate and any more fighting. I was all for hostility when it wasn't with someone who could make me cry. "If she calls back, I will," I promised. That rule would never change. If she called back immediately after, then I was supposed to assume there was a problem.

My consultant looked like he was the one with the world flipping around on him. "You're making her work for attention?" He said incredulously. I glowered in place of saying that it wasn't really his business if I was, and he put up his hands and explained that it wasn't supposed to be rude. "Usually you tell everyone else to let you take the call when it's from her, now you're not answering unless she acts like it's an emergency. She did more than just kick you out last night."

I exhaled deeply and pinched my nose between my thumb and forefinger, putting pressure on the nasal bone. "Yeah," I admitted quietly. I had been doing well at avoiding that part, but when it came to his friends, Neal could be pretty observant. "She did."

Katie had done her best to tear into me and make me hurt, and because she knew what would make me tick, she did it and she did it exceedingly well, at that. Neal looked worried that the situation between his friends was worse than he had thought.

He eyed my countenance, not completely certain what to say, but he decided to go for it. "She's not a cruel person," he said with conviction. He thought highly of my sister; I had known that. At first I started to narrow my eyes, thinking that he was taking her side without even knowing what she'd said. "She might be calling to apologize." I relaxed. He wasn't invalidating my response, just suggesting Kate might be back in her usual temperament. "You say a lot of things without thinking when your temper gets shot. Katie might be the same way."

I stared at Neal, challenging myself. He had a point. And it was bothering him that Katie and I were fighting. How long could I really expect for my imposition into his home to be welcomed if I wasn't even trying to meet my sister halfway to get welcomed back into my own? There was a pretty big difference between staying overnight when he benefitted from it and just because I needed somewhere to go.

In the end, it was more out of thought for Neal than for Kate that I took up the phone and quickly slid my thumb across the screen at the tail end of the last tone. The vibration stopped instantly and the timer started counting upwards. I held it to my face. "Anderson."

I kept my eyes locked on Neal's. He smiled at me supportively from across my desk, letting me keep looking into his pretty blues until I felt like it was either too much interaction with too-important people at once or until I just felt more confident in talking to my Kate.

Katie's quietness belied her surprise that I had answered. By the time it got past the first few rings, she had probably expected to be send to voicemail. _"Hey,"_ she said unsurely.

"Hi," I said, keeping my voice monotonous and guarded. I was just going to hang up the second it went wrong. If I was bad at communicating with her in person, it would be much worse over the phone, where she couldn't see my expression.

An awkward radio silence started to dominate. _Yeah, Neal, this was a great idea_ , I thought, trying to tell him that myself with my eyes. His smile faltered and he shrugged as if absolving himself of liability if it went downhill.

Kate swallowed and quickly asked, _"Do you want to come home for lunch?"_

"Oh, I'm allowed to come home now?" I asked snidely before I thought to stop myself. Neal frowned and shook his head in cue.

 _"_ _McKenna…"_ She sounded pained, and, just like the hugely disastrous fight, I wanted to punch myself in the mouth for not being more careful about what I said. I was used to lashing out when I was hurt, and usually Katie was safe from it because she very rarely upset me beyond "accidentally" forgetting to record my sci-fi shows. _"I'm sorry,"_ she offered, sounding helpless, like she thought it was a pathetic apology.

To me, it wasn't. It was an attempt. And after going off on her about Fowler and how he disrespected our privacy and our rights, it would have been just plain moronic to be upset if she didn't give a more elaborate apology when the majority of what she'd done to me had pertained to things that really shouldn't be said over a phone, especially one that might not be the most secure.

"I am, too," I murmured. Neal sucked on his lip and waited patiently, but now that it was out of rocky water, he seemed content with his own intervention.

Kate breathed shakily. I knew what it sounded like when she was struggling to find words and I gave her the time. _"I said some really mean things… I mean it. I said some awful things and cherry-picked certain statements out of context to make them sound bad."_ She sounded disgusted with herself, as repulsed as I felt for making her feel like she needed to throw me out. _"You have as much right to be angry as I do, but I really don't want to be angry anymore. I'm all angered out."_

Katie had been good at remembering petty things, but not at holding any serious grudges. She hated the waste of energy that it took and she didn't like not talking to people when issues could be resolved just by talking.

"I'm not," I warned her with honesty. I had plenty of anger and fight left in me, it just wasn't meant for her. "But I really don't like fighting with you."

 _"_ _Garrett didn't stay the night._ " Kate's voice sounded tired and a little hopeful, like maybe that would make me feel better.

"Good," I just stated flatly. The less time he spent in my house, the better.

Kate didn't really have anything to say to that fast snap and I regretted not being more diplomatic for once in my life. She sighed over the phone. I could see her raking her hand through her bangs and then asking in worry, _"Were you okay?"_

"I had a movie night with Neal." _I was safe._ I almost started to blush at the admission that I had done as she had suggested and gone running to my soulmate, but "movie night" wasn't a euphemism this time for anything other than literally watching a movie while being spooned by a giant teddy bear-slash-part-time stripper (for my entertainment only).

I imagined that that didn't come as anything like a shock to Kate. She had suggested it because it was characteristic, no matter how meanly it was meant. I went to Neal. It just seemed like the natural thing to do. I had also gone to Mozzie, but it wasn't important that Kate knew that, especially since she didn't even really know who Mozzie was, aside from his existence as a reference to Homer in the past. I kept calling him Odysseus so she would have the benefit of plausible deniability. Neal understood the advantages, both legal and emotional, of that clause very well.

 _"_ _El called."_ Katie said conversationally with a forced calm and friendliness.

I went along with it. There had to be more to say. We'd greeted each other and said we were okay through the night without each other. That didn't settle the conflict, it just pushed it into the closet. Sooner or later, it was going to come bursting out of said closet with the vigor of Nicos from the _Legally Blonde_ musical… but over the phone wasn't the time for _that_ particular number.

"From Boston?" I asked instead, disposing of all the negativity swirling in my head that I could, instead focusing on El. Lovely Elizabeth Burke was Peter's fantastic wife. We called for him and ended up making lasting friendships with them both, but El and Kate had connected in particular.

 _"_ _Yeah."_ Kate lacked the excitement that talking to El would usually incite and I chalked it up to the obvious. _"There's an event she's working coming up pretty quickly and she has a list of caterers to try."_ El ran her own event planning business. _"She wants us to take one of them from the list and tell her what we think. So… do you maybe want to leave the office for lunch…?"_ She seemed to have trouble asking, cringing as she spoke to the phone. Having to _invite_ me home probably made her feel even worse. _"… At home…?"_

Giving her some slack, I interrupted her before she tacked on anything else unnecessary. Her nervous rambling was painful to listen to for many reasons. "I'd like that," I assured softly. I'd like to come home. I'd get my phone charger, if nothing else. And, as much as I liked wearing Neal's clothes, I should pick up some pajamas to put in that overnight bag at his penthouse for future use. "Is the menu something we'd know how to pronounce?"

 _"_ _I recognize_ _ **most**_ _of the words,"_ she said, sounding encouraged and relieved.

"That's promising," I commented, since Katie and I had a bad experience with trying to order when we didn't know how to say the names of the items.

 _"_ _Um… I don't know if I'm overstepping after…_ " I filled in for her. _After you accused me of toying with Neal for sex?_ I thought dryly, and rolled my eyes, avoiding looking at Neal in case he gathered something about what we were talking about. Neal was the subject, but my relationship with him was solid – at least, up until the part where he wanted to date me. The argument was just Katie and I using each other's weak points as fodder. _"But you can bring Neal. You know, if you want."_

"Duly noted," I said evenly. It was hard not to say something smart yet juvenile about how she should know I would _definitely_ be making Neal come. Sadly, Neal being present and listening was not the main reason why I opted out of that. After what she'd said, I felt I had the right to be a little bit in-your-face to her, but this was not the time. "I'll see you then?" I supposed, making the plan. She didn't specify a time, but it was almost lunch, so it would probably be as soon as we could escape the office.

 _"_ _Yeah. See you,"_ she finished quickly before I had the chance to change my mind.

She didn't need to be worried. I was more concerned that she would get short with me, but we were tiptoeing around each other for the same reason. We'd probably be offended if we weren't, though, to be fair to each other. I hung up first and sighed at my phone, grinding my teeth and looking up from it to meet Neal's eyes.

"Is everything okay?" He asked, eager to hear how his interference had turned out.

I bit my lip. Was it possible I was reading too much into Kate's hesitancy to speak? "Maybe it will be." I said, and gave him a warm, thankful smile for convincing me to face the problem instead of hiding away and letting it fester. Again, he was helping me. "She's inviting you to come have lunch with us today, if you like." I knew he liked spending time with us. Why else would he shamelessly invite himself over so often?

And it was only true to himself that on one of the occasions when he was actually invited, he stopped to think twice. "Will it be awkward if I take her up on that?" He asked me, careful to show that he just wanted to avoid the messiness of a family fight.

"Please, come," I advised, though I didn't directly say yes or no either way. "Diffuse the tension."

Neal nodded but then he started frowning again at my desk when he realized he hadn't actually gotten an answer. I pulled on my blazer and logged out of my email.

* * *

 _"_ _She said, we've gotta hold on to what we've got! It doesn't make a difference if we make it or not!"_ The light turned. My toes pressed on the accelerator and the car started rolling out into the intersection. I kept belting out to the Bon Jovi on the radio station. _"We've got each other, and that's a lot! For love, we'll give it a shot!"_

Returning to my own house was making my stomach twist more and more the closer we got. Singing to my speakers was not taking away the association of feeling out of control with going home, and if it weren't for having Neal right there with me, I might have just turned around and stalled on going to face Kate. I had to express myself somehow, and it was either singing or screaming (not necessarily anything coherent), and no matter how annoyed Neal could get by my boisterous loudness, I was certain he would rather I jammed out than started shrieking bloody murder in an enclosed space two feet away from him.

Neal was not as thrilled with the music as I was – possibly because he didn't realize the alternative – but he wasn't objecting. I wiggled my eyebrows at him and threw my right arm towards the passenger seat dramatically, other hand staying on the wheel.

_"_ _Ooooh-oh, we're halfway there! Ooooh-oh, living on a prayer! Take my hand, we'll make it, I swear, ooooh-oh! Living on a prayer!"_

Neal stared at my hand and then stared at me like I was being weird. I winked. He pushed my hand down, pointed out the windshield for me to pay more attention to my driving, and then turned the volume knob so far to the left that it became close to mute.

I pouted as my stomach fluttered. "What are you doing?" I complained, wanting to spend as much time unwinding as possible before confronting my sister on how her newly-discovered soulmate had risen from the depths of hell and had surgery to remove his demonic horns.

Neal took his hand away from the volume controls slowly, guarding them like I was going to fight to turn them up again. "I really don't mean to add this to your plate on top of everything else," he prefaced with. Pursing my lips, I reached for the volume and turned the radio off entirely. Neal was slow coming out with it, and he knew by now that the only thing he could say that would truly upset me was about his sister, Fowler, or renewed criminal habits. Sensing it was going to be one of those, I gave him all of the attention I had to spare from the road. "But… I need to ask you about Kate."

As predicted, it was about _her._ Why was it that she invaded so much of our time together? Was she always on his mind while he was with me, and he just didn't say anything? Jealousy and hurt, and questioning if I was good enough for him, made it hard to not appear outwardly negative. If Neal was respectful enough to acknowledge that I didn't like talking about her, I could keep my dislike to a minimum. He loved her, regardless of what I felt.

"I swear to you, I told you everything already." If this was something that had been stewing since I told him I'd met with Kate, shouldn't it have come up before now, closer to when I came (mostly) clean?

My consultant's seat belt stretched while he turned, hiking his left knee up onto the edge of his seat to look at me. "You didn't tell me how you contacted her."

 _Yeah, there was a reason for that._ She practically told me herself that Neal's love was one-sided, but she wasn't going to stop baiting him like a fish on a hook, and idealistic, romantic, devoted Neal would never control his emotions long enough to let her go. If Neal knew how to get in contact with her, he would try it. I didn't want her sinking her hooks in any deeper. I also didn't want him to make a plan with her so that one day I would wake up to my mate absent without leave to never see him again.

"I'm sneaky," I claimed airily, hoping he would see my reservations and leave them be. "Like James Bond."

"Uh-huh," he agreed cynically. Shifting again, he parted his lips, but was tentative about continuing. "Can you get a message to her?"

 _Thank God._ I was nearly blindsided by the trust in that – he knew I disapproved of Kate and believed she was bad news, but was still willing to take me at my word that I wouldn't lie, take things out of context, or otherwise unfairly color a reply from his sister. Simultaneously, I was saved the trouble of a fight with someone I _really_ needed on my side just then by Neal's avoidance of asking for information I wanted to withhold.

Still, aiding any correspondence between them gave my mouth a bad taste and rubbed me the wrong way… but he was compromising and letting me control how it happened, so it was either trust his judgment that he could handle it or be cut out while he found another way. I was in it for the long haul, so I couldn't afford to let our relationship regress back to when he kept things like Mozzie and secret meetings away from me. "I… can try. What do you want me to say?"

"Tell her…" While Neal searched for the words to articulate his message, he licked his lips and swallowed, twisting his neck to look out the window. I stole short glances between peeks at the mirrors, hardly able to keep my eyes off. "I'm starting to wonder if the bottle really did mean goodbye." He dropped his head to look at his hands, voice tinged with sadness and reluctant finality.

Internally, my heart leapt. _Is he ready to finally let her go?_ She was toxic to him, and he was struggling through her withdrawal. If he learned to let go of Kate, second-guess her motives, be more careful, be _safer_ – and there was the selfish flip side that I would get to stop warring for him against an unreliable liar who would abuse his heart and not realize how completely amazing he is.

However, I knew it was a touchy subject for Neal. Even saying goodbye to someone hurtful can be hard. It didn't mean he had stopped loving her. He rubbed his hands, playing despondently with immaculately-filed fingernails. I looked at his sorrowful eyes and the tedious pull of his teeth on his lower lip, mourning a relationship that may have been drawing to a close. It was hard to feel joyful when my lover appeared to be grieving something he was finally accepting he may have never truly had.

Empathetic and tender, I let go of the wheel with my right hand and instead placed it over his raised knee. I rubbed his leg comfortingly. He still had me. If things worked according to plan, then he always would. He looked at my hand, but was too depressed to positively respond. I knew better than a lot of people that it wasn't always the reception, but the _intent_ of a helpful and supportive gesture that mattered, and I kept driving solemnly while I kept my hand on him.

_I'm here for you. She's not here, but you're not alone. You are wanted. You are worth protecting and holding, Neal. Don't you dare think otherwise because of how that woman makes you feel._

* * *

The one poor reception soured the usual pleasure I got from the simple act of stepping into my house and swinging the door shut behind me. I breathed in to try to pick up the smell of anything in particular that wouldn't remind me of Fowler, but there wasn't anything strong to scent at in the air. Neal lifted his hand halfway up as if to take my elbow. I shook my head slightly. I didn't need that much support. I just needed to replace the bad memories to feel comfortable again.

"Katie," I yelled, unsure where she was. My voice was far more subdued than it had been the day before. "I'm home…"

I gestured for Neal to go in the first doorway on the right and I followed him into the living room. The lights were all turned on and the TV was turned on, but the screen had gone dark with inactivity on the Netflix account. Neal spared a short glance at it before he searched the attached dining room and spotted the food platters lain on the table like a gourmet welcoming. Kate was coming back in from the kitchen. We must have just missed her when we left the hall. She stopped when she saw us and fixed her eyes on me, swallowing.

"Hey, Katie, thanks for the invite," Neal courteously broke the ice while hurrying forward to the table to check out the food. "Oh, foie gras!" He exclaimed with a very easily-pleased tone.

The liver of an animal from the anatidae family was out on an oval-shaped, lime green serving plate. Behind it was a wide, but shallow, saucer of some sort of dip which looked like it was made with some greens and a lot of melted cheese. There were also Saltine crackers overlapping each other in a decorative display around the saucer, neatly organized. Kate had had too little to do.

"Catering samples," I told Neal. He picked up a fork from a tidily-folded napkin. Clearly, there was no stopping him. I rolled my eyes. "I guess go ahead," I invited sarcastically.

"Yep." Kate nodded, looking over at Neal and smiling while he cut out a piece of the liver. I looked away. He could have all the fancy experiences he wanted; I was not cut out for the French diet of snails, slugs, frogs, and livers. I would rather stick with the crepes and beignets and the other sugary things that were not once disgusting animals. "We just sample and then call El."

"El?" Neal paused before forking a bite into his mouth. "Elizabeth?" He checked.

"Yeah," I confirmed. "Kate and I kept their phone numbers. She and El talk every couple of days." While Neal tipped his head, either in acceptance of the explanation or in discerning taste of the food, I had nothing more to do to stop myself from looking Kate right in the eyes. She played with her hands in front of her and rocked, her body unable to decide whether to stay put or launch over. "Hi," I tried, smiling sadly.

"McKenna…" Kate started to say, but she stopped. Just the way she said my name made my smile a little more sincere. Like something had broken, like she was saddened and regretful and hurt all at once. For once, my sister was at a complete loss and didn't know what words to use to make it better.

I held out my arms, and that was all it took. In seconds, I had my little sister clinging to me, her arms thrown violently around my shoulders while my hands met behind the small of her back. Kate leaned heavily into me, chin on my shoulder, cheek to my neck, tightening her fists into the loose cut of the fabric around my sides.

"It's okay," I soothed, taking my hands apart. One found a new home over the back of her head, stroking her hair down and catching the ends between my palm and her neck. "I handled the situation badly," I acknowledged. I had flown off the handle and exacerbated everything.

"For good reason," Neal remarked stiffly, bitter about the whole 'framed and sent back to prison' thing that Fowler had established.

Not a single part of me disagreed with his assessment, but although Kate didn't seem to care right at that second, it wasn't going to resolve the conflict. Much as I wanted to talk trash about Fowler, Katie was clearly not the person to subject to it. "Neal, shut up and try the food," I commanded.

Kate laughed weakly as she pulled away and surreptitiously rubbed under her nose before she brought her hands together in a clap, as if the matter had been resolved. It would take more than a hug and an admittance of guilt on my part. I wasn't the only one shouldering some of the blame here. Even forgoing what she'd said to me about Neal, Kate had brought someone whom she had believed to be a stranger into our house, her excitement blinding her common sense. I hated even letting the USPS guy get all the way to the front porch. Her soulmate or not, if she had thought it through, she'd have realized that it wasn't the best way to go about any sort of introduction.

Meanwhile, Neal did as he was told, dipped a cracker in the spinach and cheese saucer, and smelled it curiously before shrugging and pushing it into his mouth. He wrinkled his nose almost immediately, looked downright _insulted_ , and went jogging past me and Kate into the kitchen.

His abnormal behavior made us both look after him with bemusement, curious if there was something wrong. A second later, we heard him spitting it out of his mouth and making disgusted noises. The sink tap turned on and the cabinet where we stored the glasses was opened. Katie and I both giggled at his expense. It must have been bad to make Mr. Class over there forsake some of his dignity.

Grinning slightly, Kate turned back to me, letting him suffer on his own. "Look, I picked up that stuff you have on the post-it in the kitchen." I did a mental inventory of my post-its in the kitchen and decided she probably wasn't talking about the note that was headed up with _I just had an awesome idea but it requires a trip to the store._ "I thought you could make dinner tonight?" She shuffled her feet around a little bit. "Since you like cooking that sauce from scratch."

I narrowed my eyes. I _did_ like making that sauce from scratch. More importantly, I liked _eating_ the sauce. Preferably with pasta and shrimp… sometimes shrimp scampi, but it depended on flavoring and spices on the shrimp. Kate often made me either cook it solely for myself or go to the store to get the ingredients myself, since she didn't like to enable my poor health.

"Why do you want me to cook?" I questioned her suspiciously. She furrowed her brows to take offense and I interrupted before she even started. I knew her well enough to answer my own inquiry. "No, wait, I can answer that. What do you think makes it necessary to ply me with letting me cook?"

I stared right into her glasz eyes in a move that rarely failed to get me honesty out of her. It was something about the intimacy of eye contact melded with the intimidation of me being taller than her, and it got to her every time but once, and those were extenuating circumstances so they didn't actually count.

Finally, she sighed and dropped her shoulders, swiveling her body to face her right and my left. "Garrett's coming over for dinner again," she confessed quickly, wincing and ripping off a verbal band-aid.

My shoulders sagged. _Not this again._ With my luck, I'd end up in tears on the phone with Mozzie and being fed, clothed, and sheltered by the man whose advances I had already turned down. _I could do with a little more dullness in my life sometimes._ I hated being bored, but it was better than being overwhelmed.

"Katie-" I just wanted to protest that Fowler was the worst person to invite to my house at the time, save for maybe Køhler himself.

"No, no, listen," she backtracked on her silence and put her arms up as if she was going to motion for me to calm down, but she thought better of it and instead held both of her hands to her chest nervously. "I know I handled it badly, too," she hurried to take some of the blame so I'd feel less angry. "I never should have sprung it on you like that. I should've talked to you first without him there – having him there just exacerbated it, I think, and I'm sorry I didn't think it through. I was just so excited…"

She let herself trail off. My shoulders slumped. The situation was distressing for all of us. She thought she'd met her soulmate and everything had gone downhill from there, and that wasn't the way it was supposed to work in her fairytale. At least she was still sympathizing with me and my tics enough to see how bringing him to my home may not have been the best move.

Kate startled herself out of it, performed a quick dart of her eyes to see my reaction, and then went on. "Um, anyway, if you want, I'd like for you to have dinner with us." _It's my_ _ **home**_ _, I'll have dinner here whether or not Fowler does unless I choose to have dinner with someone else._ "So that, uh, you can maybe get to know him a little." Well, that ruined the plan of upright ignorance. "And as a friend," she specified clearly. "Not as someone you have to investigate behind his back."

Kate just didn't get it. It was her soulmate whom she wanted to have close. It was my Neal that I wanted to protect. We weren't in an argument about not respecting each other's relationships. We were in an argument over whose soulmate's needs should take priority with each other, hidden underneath the residual bitterness and scathing temper that Fowler had left last time and the injustice of him being invited to saunter right in after already invading our privacies. What she refused to see was that it wasn't going to hurt her soulmate if Neal got too close or if he was forced to stay away from me and mine, but it _was_ going to hurt Neal if Fowler was permitted to get within range.

If we were all just friends, if Fowler didn't have something that looked like Kate's mark on him where she was allowed to see it every time she looked, I knew she would recognize the situation for what it was and compromise to defend Neal's security. That was another thing, then, wasn't it? She didn't want Fowler, she wanted her soulmate. I didn't want my soulmate, I wanted _Neal,_ and technically now I guess I want my soulmate _because_ he's Neal.

"I don't know as that's a good idea," I said warningly, trying to be diplomatic but unsure how to politely say _I don't trust the bastard anywhere near us so if you bring him here I might actually shoot him._ "You know how I feel about him." I hated Fowler even more than I hated Ruiz, and that was saying something.

Kate pressed her lips together thinly with frustration but she quickly wiped the negativity from her face and cupped the palm of her right hand against my left cheek. "You know him in a competitive professional capacity. Do you know what college he went to, where he grew up, and what his hobbies are?"

I could tell that there was a point she was getting at, but it wasn't one I cared for. What made her think that the way I knew him was too limited to be civil? There were plenty of people at the office about whom I couldn't answer those questions, but I still worked suitably enough with them to have each other's backs if the need arose. The implication that I had to know someone personally to get along was just erroneous, and as far as Fowler was concerned, if he has the moral compass that permits him to frame an innocent man for a lifetime in prison, then I don't _want_ to get to know what lies under the surface.

Still, she offered me a shot and she wasn't being very logical about the whole thing, so I took the shot. "No, no, and apparently framing Neal."

" _Please,"_ she emphasized, dropping her hand from my face to my shoulder. "I'm asking because I don't want to give up my dream since I was a kid, and I don't want to give up my sister, either." She paused. I supposed she was trying to find a way to say the same thing I had said yesterday, but in a way that sounded less like a threat. "I don't want to feel like I'm living as two separate people because you two won't compromise."

In my thoughts, I snidely compared her to Hannah Montana. I was familiar with Miley, while all Fowler saw was Hannah. And possibly a target. On Neal's back. That he was getting closer and closer to the more time he spent with the popstar.

Externally, I gave a long sigh. "Alright," I gave in. She was going to have him here whether or not I avoided him. At least if I was present, I could keep an eye on him to make sure he behaved, and if I was lucky, I could warn him off altogether. "Alright, I'll have dinner here." I balled up my fists and then raised a hand with my finger pointing to her chest. "But any truce goes off the table if he insinuates anything untoward," I vowed. I was _not_ going to sit by and smile plastically while Fowler accused me of fucking my CI or of breaking the law to protect him.

Just because they were true didn't mean I wanted to be called on it, and either way, it was really, really inappropriate of him to consider the former, and the second wouldn't have even been necessary if he hadn't started working around the system first.

"Deal." Her face lit up. It was almost worth the impending dread I felt coming. For the poor anticipation in my stomach, I might as well have just agreed to a kamikaze mission. "I'll tell him that upfront myself. Promise."

There was gurgling in the kitchen in the uneasy, timid lack of dialogue that came next. Kate looked in the direction of the hallway, now a little more concerned. I rolled my eyes. He was such a drama queen.

"What's this?" I asked, about to smugly challenge Neal's palate. Picking up a saltine, I dipped it in the spinach and cheese mix. It didn't look awful. _I bet he was just exaggerating, maybe to kill time and keep away from the sisterly conflict for as long as possible_. I stuck it in my mouth and froze. _Murder_ was the first word that came to mind. "Um." Moving my tongue as little as possible, I gave Kate a tight-lipped smile and muttered, "Delicious."

Kate huffed and crossed her arms. Since she wasn't buying it, I grabbed a Kleenex from the nearest bookshelf and spat out the cracker, throwing it in the trash. I was _not_ putting that _monster_ in my body.

"Yeah, _that's_ why I invited Neal," she told me, upset. I wanted to make her taste it and see if she'd actually be able to stomach it.

"Why, because he's a good liar?" I asked heatedly, regretting any and all decisions to prove myself the superior food taster.

"No, because where you'll call McDonalds a good meal, he'll appreciate finer cuisine," Kate sniffed. I sighed. Did she think I got to eat a ton of McDonalds when I was a kid? I had years of negligence in the fast food department that I was still making up for.

Neal came back into the living room, hand over his mouth uncomfortably. Poor baby's delicate appetite had been violated. "Which _that_ is _not,"_ he vehemently decreed, and glared at the spreads on the table. " _No one_ could lie that well. Sorry, I was just rinsing out my mouth."

At his verbal agreement, Kate forgave my transgression. Cheerfully, she picked up a pair of dark-colored coffee mugs I hadn't even noticed on the book case and went to carry them into the kitchen, calling brightly over her shoulder, "Well, thank God you guys tried it first, then!"

While Katie carried out her dishes, I shared a look with Neal. He too looked betrayed.

"That's why she wanted you," I concluded.

"We're her guinea pigs," he agreed sulkily.

Both of us were taking this to heart, but Kate had convinced us to try what probably had ant poison in it, for how terrible it was. My brain was fine, but my tongue felt used. "At least we're not the only ones," I told him, rubbing his shoulder and commiserating.

Kate heard the last comment as she came back in after putting the mugs in the sink. "What do you mean?" She asked in confusion.

 _You're supposed to know already_ , I reminded her mentally, but obliged her anyway. Neal and I were the only people she had over at the time. "You made coffee for someone earlier," I hinted.

Her expression cleared up right away. "Oh, yeah. The cable guys," she explained. "It went out a couple of hours after I woke up, and the guys came by the fix it."

"Guys, plural?" I questioned. She'd said it twice, I didn't think it was a misspeak when it happened multiple times. There was also one other aspect, but I wasn't quite ready to touch that yet.

"They got someone out here fast," Neal commented, looking over at me warily. He wasn't just making an observation. I saw in his face that he was concerned and trying to see if I thought it was founded.

"Well, yeah," Katie agreed, not taking it as something suspicious. I was going to. Cable companies are notorious for taking their time, and having two strangers in the house? I was going to throttle Katie if it turned out that she hadn't opened the door with the police pulled up on her phone, especially with Fowler just getting into the area. "They actually called me, and there were two of them. They had to get the entire block. They said a power line got cut down the street."

"Katie…" I started, physically pained that she had fallen for a ruse. "We haven't even _had_ cable in almost a year."

She motioned for me to calm down before I started getting on her about the obvious. "Look, I know, it seemed strange. But I went next door to ask the neighbors on both sides and their cable – which they're actually subscribed to – is out. I figured it was pretty acceptable." I covered my eyes with my hand. Fowler didn't protest to having someone steal a diamond just so he could grab at Neal. What made her think someone that desperate was afraid to cut some power lines? "I just told them to go on to the next house, but they insisted they had to check out our connection, so I let them in for a few minutes and they were gone as quickly as they came. No big deal."

 _No big deal._ I eyed the landline, moved to the other end of the table to make room for the catering spread. There was a blue light turning on and off intermittently to say that we had a new voicemail, and a green light on the side of the phone itself that promised the battery was fully-charged from being on the dock.

"So…" I stalked over to the phone and picked it up. "Did we just get free cable?" Kate asked, rubbing behind her ear through her hair.

The first thing I did was to turn the machine over. I took the phone off of the connection and flipped the voicemail machine upside down. The first time Fowler had tried getting ears in my home, he had slipped a bug into the panel on the underside of it. I pried that off with my fingernail, but there was nothing inside. That was a relief, in part, but it also meant that I didn't know where the go-to spot to look was.

I turned the machine back over and turned to look at both of them, holding up the phone. Katie was staring at me like I had done something weird, but when she saw that I had taken off the panel, she started to act antsy as she understood what I was looking for.

"They called on this, right?"

"Yep," she swiftly answered, nodding and raising her hand to her mouth. She bit on the ends of her fingernails.

I turned the small screen to face me. When it wasn't lit up with an incoming call, the little box was dimly lit and dark-colored, sometimes hard to read, especially when there was already other light in the room interfering. I pressed on the _history_ button and covered the top with my hand to see the little letters. The most recent call was from a restricted number. I dialed and turned on the speakerphone, which made a loud beep.

The phone didn't even bother to start ringing. _"The number you have dialed is not in service,"_ a female recording started to say monotonously. I ended the call from my own side of the line and held up a finger in front of my lips.

Kate covered her mouth with her hand and stepped back, paling. Neal moved closer to Kate and took up a protective guard behind her, holding his arms out and resting his hands on her waist. She grabbed at one of his wrists and held tight while he looked to the window in the living room over his shoulder. Watching the two of them protectively hold each other while Kate was scared warmed my heart, but it wasn't enough to combat the chill.

I withdrew my phone from my pocket and opened it up to a text. The last person I'd been texting was Diana, so I opened the box and typed _bug_ without sending the message. Text messages could be intercepted. I just turned my iPhone around for both of them to read. Neal nodded gravely.

I held a hand out and rolled my wrist in a circle for them to keep talking. Neal understood what I wanted them to do and considerately shuffled Kate closer to the table, pulling out a chair for her to take a seat in. "So, what else is going on with El?" He asked nonchalantly.

 _Cable guys. Not a bad disguise._ Since they had obviously fiddled with our entertainment center or Kate wouldn't have been convinced, I slipped past them and into the next room, going right to the TV.

"She has a pretty full schedule for the next couple of weeks." Kate sounded a little faint with shock. Neal pulled out a chair at the end of the table, close enough to take her hand over the top and squeeze her fingers reassuringly. He turned to sit sideways to keep looking between Katie and I while he encouraged her silently to keep talking. "There's a big gala one of her clients is hosting… oh, and a charity hired her for a fundraising event." Katie swallowed and looked over at me. I felt her eyes but remained focused.

I didn't want to force them to stall while I checked every single thing in the shelves under the television. There were speakers, game systems, movies, DVD cases, the wireless internet router and modem. Katie barely managed to keep the fear out of her voice as it was. Instead, I searched for anything that had been moved.

"You know they're opening a new show at the Met next week?" Katie suddenly asked Neal, out of things to recall about her phone call with Elizabeth.

"I saw that," he nodded. "I love the Met, they have a fantastic Matisse I've always admired."

 _There._ The power wires were all bundled up with zip-ties to keep them from getting tangled and messy, and they were fed through a hole cut in the thin backing of the shelves to connect with a power strip to the left. They had been moved. There was a clear spot on the right of their trail where they used to be preventing dust from gathering.

"It's on the second floor," Neal continued to speak, dropping his voice down quieter as he contemplated. "… Right near the fire exit…"

Katie giggled. I bet he'd done that on purpose. "Don't get ideas, Caffrey." I got on him for effect while I pushed the router to the side and shone the light of my phone into the dark. There, pressed up to the underside of the bundle of power cords, was a tiny, silver disc, about the size of a nickel, caught in the tension between the cords.

It probably caused some static on their end for it to be moved, but I wanted it gone more than I wanted their ears comfortable. I worked it out of the mass and let it drop into my other hand before I pushed the router back onto the shelf so it wouldn't fall and carried the listening device over to the table to show them both.

Neal already had his phone out, getting it ready to type into at some point while I'd been seeking, and he turned it around to face me. _What now?_ His text box blinked where the typing bar waited. Above the box was the last message he'd gotten from my phone.

"Now?" I answered aloud. I knew I wasn't going to say something incriminating, and I wanted Fowler to know he hadn't tricked me. He might have gotten his agents to pull one over on Katie, but he was going to have to try a lot harder. I even raised the bug belligerently to talk right to it. "Well, now, whoever thinks they have the right to invade my privacy goes to their boss and tells them that this trick is getting old, because now – _now_ I am _officially_ pissed off!"

I hurled the bug down onto the floor, where it bounced a little but didn't skitter far on the carpet. Utilizing the wedge heel on my shoe, I crushed it and ground the cracking, split shell into the carpet, destroying the wiring inside.

* * *

I pulled Neal and Kate out onto the patio with me after thoroughly wrecking the bug, including smashing it with a glass. I wanted to send it through the garbage disposal, but Neal grabbed my wrists and convinced me to stop. Instead, I took the irreparable bug and threw it out into the street. Anger did not _begin_ to cover what I was feeling, and Neal was damn lucky I didn't smack his hands away.

I couldn't decide who I blamed more – myself for not seeing it coming, or Fowler for daring to do _this_ again. Peter and I had both known that the diamond heist wasn't going to be the last we saw of OPR, but we had erroneously thought that we were, at least for the time, out of the woods. If anything, we'd just temporarily reached a clearing. This was almost worse; the only redeeming factor was that Neal wasn't arrested, and instead of me chaining his wrists, he was holding my hands and murmuring for me to calm down because I was starting to scare Katie.

 _Katie._ I stopped my furious, tiger-like pacing and turned to my sister. She was standing meekly by the corner of the patio, in the perpendicular connection of two sides of the guard railing. The patio wasn't high above the ground, but there were thorny bushes over the edge, and it seemed like a bad idea not to have something up there, just in case. Kate hadn't said a word since being pulled out of the house, and she was avoiding my eyes, playing with her hands meekly.

Kate calmed me down for two reasons. First, I didn't want to scare her. Fowler was doing a plenty good job of that already, and he was stealthy enough about it that she didn't even realize he was the one doing the haunting. Secondly, seeing her frightened meant that she was as caught off-guard as I was, and it was reassuring to have another piece of proof that meant my baby sister was innocent in all this. It fueled the fire that wanted to burn out Fowler for forcing her into the middle of our battle. Strategically, it was a good move; he couldn't go at me as directly, but I couldn't throw punches with Kate caught in the middle. In practice, I couldn't appreciate the tactic, because I was too busy imagining razing his house to the ground.

Later I would thank Neal for intervening, because if Kate's anxiety hadn't been brought to my attention, I might have just kept going, kept complaining and pacing and wanting to rip someone's throat out with my teeth, and made the situation worse for both of us. Kate was a victim here, too.

I told him as much with my actions, placing two fingers on the back of his hand and softly dragging my fingertips down from his wrist over his knuckles before dropping his arm and looking to Kate. "Only one of them came into the house, right?" I asked, trying not to look homicidal and more controlled. Like my skin wasn't crawling.

She nodded, answering fast. "Right."

"Were you with him the whole time?" I bit my lip while I waited for her to answer.

At first, my sister was shaking her head positively. "Yeah, I-" then, she cut herself off and her face fell with realization. "Except for when I was making coffee…" she hunched her shoulders over and looked down at her fists, curling her fingers in towards her palms.

Neal said what I was thinking, looking over his shoulder and through the glass doors to the living room. "There could be more inside," he muttered under his breath, and it was just loud enough for Kate to hear as a consequence of it being loud enough for me, as well.

Kate didn't take it well. Was she really supposed to? It's not like she was used to this. She's a civilian who deals with tantrums and the hurt feelings of five year olds, not being spied on by the agency her sister works at, covertly and manipulatively. "Oh, God." Raising her hands to her face, she covered her mouth and gasped shallowly. "I'm sorry," she mumbled profusely like she couldn't say it fast enough. "I didn't think they would-"

Two quick strides brought me right in front of her, and I took her face in my hands, fingers under her ears and thumbs over her cheekbones. I made her look at me, raising her face until her eyes followed.

"It is _not your fault,"_ I said deliberately, watching her listen and seeing the troubled expressions crossing her face. In between a look of fear and a gaze of guilt, there was a scornful _yeah, right_ hidden in there. "Coming after me through my sister is _reprehensible,"_ I said strongly, holding her firm. "They should be ashamed of themselves." _Fowler should be checking his own bags at the door to hell_ was what I was thinking to myself, but this was the last time in which Kate needed to feel like we weren't on her side. I couldn't leave her scared and alone without anyone she knew she could trust. "They'll regret trying," I vowed to her, and held her still while I leaned forward a few inches and kissed her forehead.

She sniffed and rubbed at her nose, covering up the motion by rubbing at her eyes, pulling her head away from my hands. "How do we get them out?" She asked, setting the thin line of her mouth with determination. I looked at Neal to see his response. He was sympathetic and looked concerned. Both of us could tell that she was keeping it together for pride. It was better than having a breakdown. I couldn't be expected to work at my best when my sister was crying, could I? I'm not a monster. I'd be too worried about her.

"Normally I'd say to call some friends at the bureau, but…"

It went without saying that that was out of the question this time around. The bureau had already been infiltrated by one corrupt agent, and who knew how many more there were? I wasn't in the mood to trust anyone outside of my team, lest they be living in Fowler's pocket. Derek had a training term in bomb tech under his belt and Diana had taken a currency-specific economic class in college, but neither of them were exactly technical aficionados who could sweep the house and pick up on any activity. The government had a lot of sophisticated toys, and Fowler had access to all of them. This wasn't like looking for a kid's walkie-talkie hidden behind some books. They could be in plain sight, and too small or too camouflaged to see.

No one said anything as we considered it. I was trying to decide if it was worth getting a hotel for the duration of the case. No way could I even _talk_ to Neal about it in an insecure location, much less leave my sister to sleep and shower where someone else was liable to be spying with eyes and/or ears. Kate jumped practically a foot in the air when a car door down the street slammed, acting as if she had more in common with a skittish raccoon than with an adult human. Mentally crossing off the possibility of leaving her alone anywhere, I pursed my lips. There really weren't that many options that would completely negate Fowler's attempts at weaseling through the security steps.

Neal coughed. Kate and I both looked to him. "Whether or not this is exactly Fowler," the man started to say, looking at Katie meaningfully. There was a tension in his jaw that stood out more than usual. He and I were hell-bent on Fowler and no one could change our minds, and though he hid it better than I did, he was just as eager to retaliate. Telling Kate that we were still one hundred-percent against her boyfriend ( _gag me please_ ), no matter how true it was, would only shove a wedge where a wedge was certainly not needed or wanted. I highly doubted Kate didn't know that, too, but she appreciated the effort we went to not to outright declare war. "We can agree it's OPR, right?"

Kate looked down, not arguing. I murmured agreement, and it seemed like the conclusion was unanimous. No matter who was pulling the strings, between the requisitioning of illegal recording activity on an agent's private property and the hacking into the data centers in the Marshals' office to delete Neal's tracking history, OPR was the shield that they were using to hide behind. Hiding things from OPR was about as easy as hiding in a straight hallway.

Satisfied at the consensus, Neal continued. "And even if it's not, whoever it is is watching us very closely. We can't go through the normal channels here." That one was more for me. I nodded bitterly. Having my own agency turned against me was infuriating, even if it was just one department. "I know a cleaning guy," he said flatly in suggestion.

There was no doubt who he meant. Having Mozzie in my house didn't set off any alarm bells in regards to my safety – I didn't think the short guy was traitorous or backstabbing, he seemed like he had higher standards for himself and more integrity than that – but introducing him to Kate while she was on high-alert sounded like a headache waiting to happen. Still, I'd rather have Mozzie in my home than some nameless, clandestine OPR jackasses.

I gave my assent before I ran it by Kate. Mozzie was the best bet and it would be impossible to tell Kate exactly why I trusted someone she'd never heard of – I _couldn't,_ not with the chance that we were being recorded. "Yeah. Okay."

"Wait, who is this guy? Do I know him?" Predictably, my sister looked displeased at the idea of a stranger being invited through our doors.

"No, but he's one of Neal's friends." I winced when the stare I got informed me dutifully that hearing me use that as a defense was not reassuring in the least. Maybe we had that coming; Neal wasn't exactly known for scrupulous pastimes. "It's okay, I know him… ish." How well did I really know Mozzie? Enough to judge his character, but he was pretty good at deflecting questions and keeping personal information to himself. I couldn't say I knew him the same way I knew Neal or Diana, but I was sure he wasn't a threat to Kate, and that, at the moment, was good enough for me. "You might want to keep an eye on him, though."

She narrowed her eyes at me, leveling me with the look she gave kids that tried getting out of picking up their toys. "If he's okay, why does he need to be supervised?"

"He's just a little odd is all," I promised her. Being very comforting wasn't exactly something I could do, because I couldn't tell her what she wanted to hear. The most I could do was promise that she was safe, and that I knew who he was personally. I wouldn't let some lunatic be alone with her. "And he has sticky fingers," I added as an afterthought so that she couldn't say I didn't warn her. I wouldn't put it past Mozzie to try lifting something that caught his interest if it wasn't very clearly displayed as something of massive importance to either of the residents. Neal had this game he liked to play at the office where he pickpocketed and swiped things from agents' desks to see how long it would take them to notice; although Neal gave everything back as soon as their owners asked for it, with a grin and a cheeky comment on how long it took, I wasn't so sure Moz would be as willing to admit to anything. Neal had been somewhat humbled by prison and the assurance that no one in the white-collar unit was going to punch him (even if it was only out of fear of what I would do to them if they dared attack my consultant), but Mozzie was the most paranoid person I'd ever met.

"He's odd in a good way," Neal tried to defend. Kate broke into a small grin that she tried to hide, since Neal wasn't even trying to deny that Moz was a bit off-kilter. The tiny giggle that she let out of her mouth made both the conman and I smile at each other, proud of her.

* * *

Katie got to the door before Neal or I could when the doorbell rang. Up to then, we'd been playing a card game just for the sake of killing time. Neal was distracted, otherwise he'd have won. It was a card game, for God's sake. As it was, Katie was kicking his ass and my point score was somewhere in the middle.

"Miss Suit's sister, I assume?" Mozzie politely asked Kate, smiling crookedly and holding a briefcase with his right arm. He had wire glasses pushed up his face and wore a suit, too. It was either silly or cute how much effort he was putting into a cover that wasn't particularly important, anyway.

I hooked my thumbs through the pockets of my trousers and took a look at Kate's face. She looked at Mozzie with conflicting amusement and irritation. "This is-" I started to introduce the two so that maybe the irritation would go away. I didn't want to think of what would happen if an agitated Kate was left alone with a paranoid conspiracy theorist as nuts as Neal's friend.

"The cleaner," Mozzie interrupted me, giving me a very pointed look. I took my hands out of my pockets and held them up. _Whatever._ If it got his help, then it couldn't hurt. It's not like I really believed Mozzie was his real name, anyway.

Kate's expression was one of complete cynicism. She glimpsed over at me to see how I was taking behind interrupted, but she relaxed significantly when she saw that I wasn't on any higher alert than I'd been before Mozzie turned up at our doorstep. "Where's your mop and vacuums, Mr. Clean?" She asked sarcastically, but she stepped aside and let him in.

Mozzie sniffed. "I do not take your remark as an affront, but rather as vindication of my ability to blend in." He went straight into the living room in the first doorway to the right of the hallway and found the nearest relatively-clear table, pushing a shaded lamp closer to the back edge to have the room to put down his briefcase. Kate and I followed after him, Kate skeptical and myself just kind of wondering what the oddball was going to say to set off my sister next.

"Man, you weren't kidding," she told me, leaning against the doorway and keeping her eyes on him.

"No, I wa-" I started to say, but when he opened his briefcase and happened to move his arm out of the way, I saw what was in it, and it wasn't papers. "Is that a spotting scope?!" Now that I looked, Moz's entire briefcase looked to be filled with things that he shouldn't need, much less even _own._

"Fifty dollars from the Russian Military Surplus." Mozzie answered proudly, disregarding my disapproval.

Feeling a headache coming on already, I reached to my nose and pinched the bridge tightly, looking down to hide my face. "Why?" Katie asked, suspicious and baffled.

Mozzie very slowly looked at her and surveyed her with the same skittishness as he had given me with the first few meetings. "The real question here," he said slowly, narrowing his eyes like _she_ was the stranger in _his_ house. "Is why don't _you_ have one?"

"Because I'm a semi-normal person," she deadpanned right back at him.

Sighing, I intervened before either of them started getting too wound up. In hindsight, planning to leave them unsupervised together may not have been my best idea. "Just – just don't let anyone in the house," I told Kate, landing a hand on her shoulder to draw her attention away from the curious illegal items in Mozzie's briefcase. Neal hadn't come out of the kitchen, either deep in his own thoughts or wanting to avoid the room in case introducing our friends didn't go so well. "Neal, myself, and him." I pointed at Moz so she would have no grounds of misunderstanding. "Derek and Diana, if they come by. No one else. Got it?"

"Absolutely," she vowed, but then she hesitated. "What about Garrett?"

I was just about to sigh before I remembered that that was not the kind of reaction Kate expected from me. Her idea of "grown-up behavior" wasn't the same as mine, and unfortunately for me, Kate was old enough to call the shots in her own twisted mirage of a relationship.

"What time is he supposed to be over?" I asked, keeping the snarl out of my voice. I could play nice. The key word was 'play.' It was just a play, just going along with it as part of a larger plot to get him out of my house more permanently.

"Quarter to six," she smiled pleasantly, proud of me for what she thought was me keeping up my good behavior.

"I'll come back at five," I decided. "That way dinner will be ready when he gets here, and you won't be alone with someone I suspect." The smile dropped from her face and was replaced by the look of an angry schoolteacher who caught one of her students swearing, and I held up a hand. That might work in her daycare, but it's not going to work on her sister. "Don't start again, Kate," I cautioned, eyes flashing. I could be civil, but I wasn't going to pretend the situation was something that it wasn't. "This has got to stop. We know he's bugged the phone before. Is it really over the top to think maybe he tried bugging us again?"

She opened her mouth to protest, saw the dead set of my jaw and the dare in my eyes, and relented. She had gotten as much leeway from me as she was going to get, and she could tell. Normally I melted to what she wanted, but not when it came to keeping her safe.

"I don't like it." She muttered.

"I know." I could almost imagine what it would be like if I had had her dream of a wonderful, loving soulmate – Fowler could present himself as the perfect gentleman, regardless of his true colors. He wanted to drive a wedge and push me out of my own home. If Katie and I hadn't been each other's best friends for so long, he might have had a chance at succeeding. "If I could change the situation, I would," I said truthfully.

She nodded slightly, saddened. I took her face in my hands gently and lifted her chin, ducking my head to press my lips to her cheek fondly. Kate didn't grin at me, or even look particularly uplifted, so I dropped my hands to my sides and let her step away. She wasn't in the mood to be touchy-feely and that was okay.

Neal joined us then, having heard our voices getting quieter since Mozzie's arrival. He stood behind me and a warm hand found the swell of my hip, palm hugging the curve. "Thanks," I said, leaning my head back just enough so I could feel the back of my skull touching the hard warmth of his chest.

"Any time," he replied softly. "This has to stop."

Neal moved out of my space but stayed near like he wanted to be close in case I changed my mind and needed him after all. Katie had gracefully feigned ignorance to the close proximity and once it was no longer at hand, she looked over at Neal questioningly, seeking further reassurance.

"So you're sure this guy's okay?" She asked, knowing that Neal had known Mozzie for longer than I had.

"Promise," I repeated myself from earlier.

"Do you have any rare paintings or coins?" Neal asked. I stared at the blank television screen. _Yeah, that's really reassuring, Neal,_ I almost groaned. "Generally anything old or shiny?"

Katie frowned and darted her eyes at Mozzie, suddenly even more concerned than she'd been when he'd first come sauntering through the front door. "Um… no?" Katie looked like she had actually tried to wrack her brain for any memory of such an object in our possession.

I was almost starting to regret letting Neal even open his mouth.

"You'll be okay," he told her, looking a little bit relieved. Of course, at that moment, from the next room we heard Mozzie chime excitedly.

_"_ _Ooh, a baccarat vase!"_

I looked up to the sky, pleading for patience, and then back to my sister apologetically. "Maybe you should follow him around and make sure he stays focused," I advised a little more realistically. Of course, maybe he was deliberately trying to push my buttons. _Seems like the kind of thing the little pest would do._

Kate swallowed, shaking her head and catching her long fingers in her shorter hair. "Whatever you guys are getting into this time, wrap it up fast, please." Distressed, her words weren't as pleading as they were short-tempered. "I hate this. I shouldn't have to have a stranger in my home in case the last strangers planted hearing devices all over."

Angered by the situation (at least, I hope that's what she was angry at, rather than at me for bringing my work straight to her), she stormed off in the direction of the stairs, going right to Mozzie and snapping at him to keep his hands off the vase. At this point, Neal winced. I knew for a fact that Mozzie had better self-control in June's house. _Yep, definitely trying to annoy me._

"She's right," I mumbled, exhaustion crashing over my like ocean waves travelling to shore. "This is ridiculous." I covered my face with my hands and exhaled into my palms.

"We'll figure it out," Neal promised compassionately, reaching across the short space between us to catch his hand on my shoulder. I kept my face down but relaxed into the touch, and he stroked his fingers over the curve of my shoulder down my upper arm, dropping his voice down into a lulling whisper. "And you know he's good at this sort of thing. We'll get Clark and find a way to out Fowler, and then we'll get back to the music box."

Now would've been a nice time for a hug, but at the same time that I wanted to feel like I had company, I felt like any more touch than I was already receiving would feel like I was being stifled beneath thick lies and uncertainties. As much as I expected justice to prevail, there was always the ghostly thought that kept floating back that was less certain of the outcome.

"Okay," Kate heatedly objected, startling me into lifting my face from the protective cover of my hands and blinking, turning my neck to look off in the direction of her protest. "I appreciate your help, I really do, but I'm pretty sure he didn't bug _me!"_

"Amateur!" Mozzie retorted swiftly.

Wide-eyed, I looked at Neal. His expression matched mine almost perfectly – bewilderment and alarm, tempered by the amusement of what must be going on between the other pair in the house.

I grabbed his wrist, breaking into a smile. "Okay, let's go." I pulled him along and we left the house quietly. My full intention was to skip out before they came running to us like we were their parents. Neal snickered and pulled the front door shut behind him as Mozzie and Kate kept bickering in the living room.

* * *

"How does he get a pocket judge?" I wondered, disgusted and holding myself close to Neal. Being taller, he got to hold the dark blue umbrella up over our heads in the splattering rain. He turned up the collar on his turtleneck and held his arm over my shoulders, walking close to my side to stay under the umbrella. "What kind of person becomes a judge and then goes corrupt?" I wasn't sure whether I hated Fowler or Clark more at this point. Which was morally worse? Both were supposed to defend the public fairly, and both abused their power. Fowler was attacking people who came after him and trying to put them in jail – Clark was going after victims who had never heard of her and taking away everything they had.

Neal kept his free hand buried in his pocket. "Not a very good one," he answered vaguely. I pursed my lips. His tone was off. He was supposed to be light and playful, not this darkly plaintive in his responses. "She's probably laundering the money from the mortgage frauds and Fowler is protecting her from anyone noticing."

 _I noticed._ Yes, and then right after I noticed, he turned up in my house to drag my sister this way and that in a game of Let's Fuck With McKenna and now not only was I having to go under the table to disprove him, I also had a career criminal scoping out my house. I trusted Mozzie in my house more than I trusted another FBI agent.

"He knows I started asking about Herrera," I glumly complained, resisting the urge to just… lean to the left and lift my arm around his back.

"He realized you were on his trail, so he started attacking you."

"Us," I corrected him, dragging my fingernails across the palm of my open left hand. My skin prickled and itched. I took a deep breath when Neal didn't respond and I sighed. "I want you out of it, but the fact is, the best way to attack me includes attacking the people close to me, so you're included by default."

 _Katie, Neal, Derek, Diana._ Half of the people on the list had already been targeted. Kate was still an active concern, and I truly hoped that Neal stayed off the list this time. I didn't think I could handle it if Kate and Neal were being set up for failure at the same time. I barely handled it last time!

"I'm close to you?" Neal asked. That sounded more like his typical teasing demeanor. I glanced to my right, at his fingers curled around the handle of the umbrella, to avoid looking at him and letting him see the exasperation on my face.

"Sure," I said with a shrug, writing it off. He deserved for it to be written off if he was just going to act surprised that I cared about him. I may not say it, but I make it pretty damn obvious. "Not a lot of people help me illegally investigate OPR agents," I explained with a smirk. "I'd say that makes you pretty special."

Neal shut his mouth and didn't say anything for a few seconds after that. I crossed my arms over my front to warm up. It was pretty cool out, and the rainy weather wasn't doing much to help the sun brighten things up. It was a rather accurate depiction of my mood, really.

His mind still wasn't off the case. We weren't wandering along aimlessly, heading in the general direction of the FBI building, but we didn't have a plan beyond finding a lead to follow and figuring out how to prevent Mozzie from having his services utilized again.

"Maybe we can get to Fowler through Judge Clark. We can get two birds with one stone if we can take her down, and if nothing else, it'll ruin his day." Neal was definitely picking up priorities from me if he was seeing annoying the nuisances in our lives as a worthwhile reward of risking our careers.

 _When did my life get so strange?_ Less than a year ago, someone like Fowler would have been my partner, someone like Neal would have been my mark, and I certainly wouldn't have been comfortable walking close enough to share an umbrella with my cohort.

"You know what's weird?" I worried thoughtfully, chewing the inside of my cheek. Neal hummed shortly in question. "We don't like them because they're doing illegal things, but then… look what we're doing." We were being such hypocrites! "Half of our investigative techniques on this one are under the table!"

The weight of his arm shifted, the pressure moving from the back of my shoulder to the front. "We're not the same," he strongly argued. I winced, realizing too late how sensitive a comparison like that might be. Of course he'd object to being compared to the lunatic that kidnapped his sister. I'd be pretty agitated, too. "They're hurting people. For money, for covering themselves. We're doing what we have to to protect innocent people."

It was the same argument I'd been using to justify my own actions, being rephrased and given to me by Neal. I shouldn't have been surprised. It was just getting to be a little too much. Besides, didn't a lot of bad guys think they were justified, too? Having someone else agree with my motives made me feel better. I didn't forgive myself for it, and I doubted I'd ever be completely fine with it, but it was a lot harder to hold a grudge when it was put in perspective by someone else that I trusted.

"Katie didn't do anything to deserve being wary in the place she lives," Neal continued, deliberately hitting a sore topic just in case I wasn't agreeing. It occurred to me that I hadn't replied after a few seconds and I might've seemed skeptical. That wasn't the case. He ended up fanning the indignant, furious fire that called for revenge and the defrocking of a repulsive agent.

I set my hand over his lower back to assure him I was still on the same page. What he'd just done was low, but I couldn't say that didn't understand why he'd done it. And if he'd wanted to hit further below the belt, then he could've brought up the faked soulmark rather than just allude to the planted listening devices. No – Neal may not be playing by the book, and I may not be thrilled with it, but I definitely understood why it was called for. If protecting my sister makes me a villain, well, then I guess we'll just have to be the sane, white-collar versions of Harley Quinn and the Joker.

"I guess I needed to hear that from someone else," I told him, almost thankful that he'd done so. "We're about to attack a federal judge." And if I wasn't one hundred-percent sure that it was necessary before I did so, then I'd have to be an idiot. Which I prided myself on not being. I dropped my hand from his back and brought my arms back in front of my chest, re-crossing protectively. The dripping rain and cool air had nothing to do with it this time. "God, if I'd known _this_ was where I'd be…"

Trailing off, I shook my head incredulously. I didn't know when I'd had it good. Back in my glory days in the bureau, everything had been very solidly black and white. There was killer, and there was cop. The killer _never_ had an excusable reason to get his rocks off by committing homicide, and I was _always_ right in apprehending him. Now, not only was I the agent that was demoted, but I was struggling with my own moral compass. Which is worse? Mortgage fraud, or illegal fraternization? Tampering with evidence, or aiding and abetting the framed fugitive?

Neal finished my sentence for me. "You would have never made the deal?" He said it like a guess. His voice sounded sad, downcast. Sharply, I looked over. That wasn't what I'd been meaning at all. His eyes were on the sidewalk.

Bringing Neal into my life also brought Kate Moreau and Agent Fowler. That part was true. If I had remained free of my criminal consultant, then I would never have been humiliated by being forced to arrest my partner, I wouldn't have bugs repeatedly planted in my house, and I wouldn't go to work afraid that _Katie_ was the one who would be hurt.

Life wasn't that simple, though. No Neal meant… well, it meant no Neal. Sure, I could _start_ with the sex, but really, he enriched my life even without that. I trusted him. He looked after me to repay me for protecting him. He was one of Katie's friends, and he, Derek, and Diana have at least a sort of friendship going on, even if it was fostered by me, the mutual party. He taught me not just new ways to do my job more efficiently, but he actively showed me new perspectives and illuminated the experiences that other people in another class had to go through. He hugged me when one of us was afraid or relieved. He brought me coffee because he knew I liked it. He holds himself to the promise he made not to lie to me. We're in a very precarious position, but I trust him. If he told someone about our affair, I could get in trouble, but he could be in a much worse place if I tattled on all the antics he got up to without official permission. Even without that sort of insurance, I would still trust him.

Working in the WCCD was never a day at the carnival. I doubted it ever would be. I couldn't go through those doors without remembering that I wasn't there by choice. I gave it my all because that's what I promised to do as an agent, but mortgage fraud and bond forgeries aren't my passion. I thought having Neal at my side would be a bit of a headache, but one that professionally paid off. Instead, I feel much better going to work with him than I had without. He's the bright spot that makes it… not _okay,_ but bearable. Acceptable. I can't change the past, anyway, and it seems like a compromise with the universe that I may have lost my job and some of the shine on my reputation, but I got a close friend from the exchange.

Without Neal, I also wouldn't have Mozzie, and the paranoid little wacko may be strange and alarming at times, but I obviously like him more than I let on. If I didn't, then there was no way in hell I'd have left him alone in my house, let alone with my sister. Not only has he saved my life, but he looks after Neal and usually has some form of helpful involvement with the cases – not that that would ever be shown on a record, of course. It's a complicated relationship with him, for sure, but not one that I regret.

"I'd have read up on more espionage books, actually," I chuckled, giving him a soft nudge with my elbow. I may not enjoy all the things that came with having him, but I don't regret getting him. I needed him to understand that. "I feel like I'm over my head and have no idea how to get back to the shallow water."

There was no _we'll be okay, Kenna_ or _I won't let you drown._ There wasn't a sappy reassurance, or even a comforting rub against my shoulders. Neal had such a habit of trying to please me that it was shocking, like a bucket of icy water, when he _didn't._ Whether it was a promise not to lie or a bouquet of flowers, the conman seemed to try extra hard to keep in my good graces. _Not_ being comforted somehow was about as uncharacteristic as me all but outright admitting that I wanted comfort.

"It's worth it to take down Fowler," Neal firmly stated. I risked a look up at his face. He looked stonily determined. There was no way I could talk him out of that, even if I had wanted to.

I dipped my head. So he wasn't going to be reassuring. _Fine. I don't need to have my hand held. I'm a big girl._ I was looking after myself long before I met him, and I didn't suddenly need him to make me feel better.

"It absolutely is," I voiced quietly, swallowing as I stared at our feet – his dress shoes and the combat boots I chose to wear while I wasn't officially on FBI casework. Even with him walking right next to me, I still felt somehow lonelier than I had five minutes ago. "So, basic plan in summation," I looked up again, tightening my jaw and focusing on the repressed anger I felt in my stomach. "We stop Clark from taking the Sullivan home, get Fowler away from Katie, and get the dirty judge disrobed. Not necessarily in that order."

As long as they all happened, and quickly, I really didn't give a damn in which order they happened.

Neal's high whistle made me look over at him. With his other arm, he reached in front of me and switched the umbrella to his left hand. He avoided my eyes pointedly.

"No," I protested, while he moved the umbrella over his own head and quickened his steps. "Don't!" He kept whistling innocently. "You know what I meant!"

His whistle broke up while he laughed and tried to continue whistling like he was unaffected. I stopped and stomped my foot. Droplets splattered onto my hair and dotted my face in flecks. Despite the rain, I felt a lot warmer than I had. It was annoying that he was teasing me, but I much preferred his playing to his previous solemnity.

"That is not what I meant and you know it!"

I tossed my head back and groaned loudly, tasting the fresh rain on my lips, and then wrapped my jacket around me and started jogging to catch up.

* * *

There's a certain atmosphere when you bring your liberal lover to meet your conservative parents for dinner. The parents make a nice meal, everyone enjoys the food because it's genuinely good, but it's a very awkward quiet where no one quite knows what to talk about except for the liberal, who is trying very hard to make friends with his girlfriend's family.

In this instance, I felt like the conservative parents in that I still upheld the traditional meaning of justice as _fair and unbiased treatment_ rather than Fowler's liberal definition as _justice is whatever's convenient for me._

He was trying too hard. "This is delicious, Katie," he complimented enthusiastically about the pasta and sauce topped with baked shrimp. Both of the two were drinking white wine to relax, while I was half-expecting to kick Fowler out and wanted my mind to stay as clear as possible, so I had a glass of apple juice… but it _was_ on the rocks. "How did you learn to cook like this?"

If it were anyone else, I'd have been pleased by the praise of my food, but because it was Fowler, I would have preferred for him to hate it, just to be spiteful. And the immediate assumption that Kate had been the chef rubbed me the wrong way. What, did he expect her to move in with him and cook him nice, homey meals every day? It was exaggerated and dumb to feel like that, I knew – it wasn't a 'she's female so I'm assuming she cooked' thing, because according to that same logic, he could have said the same thing to me, and if the intention was to be sexist, that was definitely the move he'd have made, just to piss me off.

"Actually, I didn't." Blushing, Kate redirected him. "This is all McKenna." She was settled in with a warm glow, enjoying her alcohol and her people in the same space, filling herself up on carbs, crunchy breaded fish, and melted cheese in roux. I wished I was as content as she appeared, but instead I ate robotically. My favorite meal didn't make me feel any better.

Fowler turned to look down the table and opened his mouth. I was further away from both of them, distancing myself for my own comfort, and Kate was still trying to compromise, so she didn't ask me to move closer. I explained quietly before he could ask, "Someone taught me."

"Who?"

"No one you'd know, so it's not important." I brushed him off. He was supposed to be here so he and Katie could get to know each other. That was the entire point. He had said himself in front of her that he was willing to be mere coworkers with me, and coworkers didn't have to tell each other where they learned their hobbies and activities from.

Sighing loudly, Fowler made me look up to him in irritation. He set his silverware down on his plate so the metal clanked and turned his hands sideways on the table, dishes in between. "Don't be like this," he chastened me.

 _Don't be like this? Me? You're faulting_ _ **me**_ _?_ I sent Kate an incredulous look. She _did_ see what I was dealing with, didn't she? "Then ask my favorite color," I retorted to Fowler.

He did. "What's your favorite color?" He asked, rolling his eyes.

"Blue." _Like Neal's eyes._

"Where did you learn to cook?" _Persistent bastard._ I put down my silverware like he had but I did it with less gentleness, so the metal banged on the ceramic plate, and I thudded my elbows on the table obtrusively, lacing my hands under my chin and staring. Kate started wolfing down her food like she expected one of us to get so far into our fight for the alpha role that we flipped the table. "I'm asking you an honest question!"

"One that I don't care to answer," I testily responded. Fowler didn't have the right to decide what was and wasn't inconsequential to me. I had the right to deny him information that had nothing to do with him.

Kate lowered her fork until the prongs were just over her pasta. "Her chef taught her," she intervened, explaining to Fowler. Completely stunned that she was handing over _my_ information, I dropped my arms off of the table and stared across at her, mouth dry and lips parted. "It was one of her favorite meals, so she learned from the chef."

"Which restaurant?" Fowler asked, deferring to Kate instead of the subject of his inquiries. I'd have been royally pissed if it weren't for the nerves that he was getting closer and closer to the revelations I didn't want coming out. There was a _reason_ I refused to answer certain questions, and Kate was completely disregarding it and my privacy.

"It wasn't a restaurant. She actually had a chef."

I hated getting mean with my sister, but this was going beyond an argument about our beliefs. It was her violating my privacy, my trust, and my respect for her. I didn't go blabbing to everyone on the street and their parents about her personal history or her background. I didn't spill my guts whenever I got the chance about things she told me in confidence. I had more reason to trust Neal than she had Fowler, and yet I still kept the secrets Kate told me close to my chest. Neal only knew as much as Kate wanted him to know, and unless it was the difference between her safety and imminent danger, it was going to stay that way.

Why wasn't she respecting my right to my own backstory now? She said she understood my reasoning. A couple of times, she hinted that she'd have appreciated a little more overlap – namely in the financial department – but drawing from those resources wasn't overlapping. To me, it was more like giving in. It was making a concession I was unwilling to make. I just worked harder to allocate money to things Kate wanted, even if it meant paying her to do me extra favors so she had that money herself.

The rest of the time, Kate seemed to understand. There was a reason I so strongly tied up my identity with my career. McKenna Anderson had never been a little girl; she had started out an adult with just enough security not to struggle for shelter or food, and had had to claw her way up. McKenna was the one who envied Neal his easy lifestyle that came from smiling a lot and getting cappuccino in the clouds right out of a four-year prison stay. The girl who grew up with her own chef would have been right there with him, probably in a silken robe, _Victoria's Secret_ lingerie underneath, and no civil responsibilities to report to. Clearly, they were not one and the same.

I picked up my hands and banged them on the table with a slam. "Katie, that's enough," I said loudly, glaring at her vehemently. _He has a tattoo. Big deal. That doesn't mean he's Kate's one and only, it just means that they share a fucking tattoo._ Neal and I share tattoos and we're not a fairytale, we're just depressed and trying to make the most of it. Like _real_ people. "Spill your guts about _your_ life, if you insist, but keep mine private."

Kate looked caught out as if she truly hadn't considered that I had been stubborn out of anything other than spite, and she quieted down quickly with apologetic eyes.

The dining room became tense. I wished I'd just stayed at Neal's another night. We could've had Mozzie over and been productive. And Mozzie wouldn't have objected to just heating up some ramen. We didn't always agree, but we had never wanted to murder each other, and our disagreements were strangely comedic.

My sister saw the train was crashing, but she still tried to keep it on the tracks. With a nervous smile, she asked Fowler, "Have you always wanted to be an FBI agent?"

He took her cue and picked up his silverware again. "Oh, no," he laughed. "Nah, for the longest time I had other ambitions. Fireman, marine biologist." He snorted at something he remembered. "When I was six I wanted to be a lion tamer."

Katie giggled and laughed at the huge change in direction. I smiled docilely at my plate while I speared some more fish and pretended that I still had any sort of appetite. _Fowler as a lion tamer. Fowler as a failed lion tamer. Fowler as lion food…_

"What about you, McKenna?" Fowler redirected the conversation to me.

I looked back up at him. There was a little challenge in his eyes in the way he was looking at me. I could have been imagining it, it was so slight, but I just knew in my gut that it was there. Kate wasn't looking for it, so she didn't see it, and if she had, she would have written it off as playful. I was the bad guy here. It was hard to remember that I was the one being tested, not Fowler.

 _I promised Katie,_ I thought mournfully, really beginning to regret that promise. Unfortunately, playing nice did not constitute any version of 'go fuck yourself.' "I don't like injustice, so I chose to do something about it. Hence, the bureau." I made sure to say it as shortly and impassively as I could.

Fowler nodded as if he was truly interested. "What was it that made you choose the white-collar unit?" The blond prodded curiously.

My shoulders tightened and rolled back. Under the table, I crossed my feet and rubbed my ankles together painfully. Fowler wasted no time turning over every stone he could get his grubby paws on last time, and I highly doubted that that had changed. He likely knew exactly why I was in my division.

"Bullets are a pain in the ass, as well as whatever part of my body I was shot in."

 _How much wine can I drink before my blood-alcohol gets too high to drive?_ I wondered, locking eyes with the label on the white wine bottle between Katie and the unwelcomed.

"Interesting." For someone claiming I was interesting, Fowler didn't sound too fascinated. "And Dr. Crane had nothing to do with your decision?"

I just dropped my silverware onto my dishes and leaned back, surveying him thoughtfully. Was it too much to throw my butter knife at him? It's not like it was a meat cleaver. Or a skewer. Or a pole. Although there were poles I'd like to throw at him. And sticks. Sticks hurt, their bark was sharp sometimes… bang sticks would be good, too… Fowler was enough of a shark for hitting him with a bang stick to practically be its intended usage…

After being reminded that I am human and have my right to my own life, Katie did a better job at veering the topic into safe grounds. She got credit for trying. "Um, Garrett, that doesn't seem like the best thing to talk about." She frowned guiltily at him, feeling bad for telling him there's a boundary.

 _And she wonders why I don't want him alone with her?_ If she felt bad about putting a boundary up, then who was to say she would continue to do so when I wasn't there to enforce them myself?

Too late. The matter had already risen. Kate couldn't fight my battles for me. "Dr. Crane had a strange affinity for Kelsey Grammer and quoted David Pierce too often," I told Fowler curtly and crisply, managing to sound appropriately condescending at the same time. "I wouldn't credit him with _any_ of my life choices."

I picked up my glass and drank some sweet apple juice to calm my upset stomach. _Crane. How had Fowler known about Crane?_

As a follow-up to… _that day,_ I had been forced to see a bureau psychologist before I could even sleep without narcotics. And then I had to keep seeing him regularly for a month before I was off of my paid injury leave and came back to work. By the time I was back at work and felt like I was being useful again, the decision had already gone through, and I was being demoted.

Crane had been terrible. It had been like seeing Sweets from _Bones,_ except instead of a young and open-minded therapist, Crane was older and a Republican conservative. So really the only part that was like John Daley's character was the part where I didn't like the idea of therapy and was reluctant to go. A mid-forties, heterosexual male with a wife and a single kid who was in college by that point, he was the picture of 'normal' for America, and I… wasn't.

He disapproved of everything and he drove me up the wall. No boyfriend? Bad. No animal? Bad. Live with my sibling? Bad. Not looking for a relationship? _Well, dear, you won't be a spring chicken forever._ To which I had said something very rude and extremely homosexual to watch the blood pour out of his poor, prejudiced eyes. There was no literal blood, but it had looked to be a close thing.

Luckily for me, his personal beliefs had no bearings on any sort of professional evaluation that he submitted, and an impartial second opinion also talked to me and looked over Crane's conclusive reports after every session. Unluckily for me, Crane served very little purpose, and all he had managed to do by the time I stopped seeing him was convince me that, first of all, I had to avoid bureau-mandated therapy, and secondly, I was suffering post-traumatic stress. As if I'd actually needed a certified doctor to tell me that.

Yet still, even his unbiased paper triggered a reaction in the higher-ups, and once Crane had started the ball rolling, it had only gained momentum until it crashed into me full-speed. By the time I even realized what was happening, I was already being carted downhill, just to slam into the tree that was embarrassment, fury, and depression.

I didn't like to think about the time I'd spent with Crane, and I liked even less talking about it with other people. Fowler and Kate's voices had drowned out, but as I assured myself that I had never talked about Crane to anyone in my unit that could have spread it around, I fixed Fowler sharply with a look like a hawk.

Katie was in the middle of saying something. Her lips were moving and sound was coming out. I interrupted, unable to hear anyways. "How do you know the name of my therapist?"

Both of them seemed surprised I had inserted myself roughly into the discussion again. Kate smiled awkwardly. Fowler chuckled a little bit like laughing at a very serious and not funny matter was going to be the key to taking away all of the uneasiness that we all felt around the dinner table. I should've punched his teeth in for treating the matter so lightly.

"Well, I did read a little bit on you back during the diamond heist," he said, as if he hadn't just remembered the time he had tried to put my soulmate in jail.

"And that involved looking into my therapeutic treatment?" I demanded, setting my almost empty glass down. Kate covered her face, food all eaten, and looked ready to predict that we were going to be going at it again.

He smiled thinly. "I find it interesting that you're no longer in therapy," he remarked pointedly.

"I was never officially Dr. Crane's patient," I growled back.

"Hm." He knew that damn well. "That's strange… considering." Fowler sucked one side of his mouth in and turned his face to stare at the pasta he had left to eat, gathering up the sauce on his fork.

Tentative to bring the attention to herself but desperate for this not to devolve into the same scene from the night previous, Katie nervously inserted herself verbally between us. "Garrett, can we talk about something else, please?" She asked, glancing at me like she was trying to say _I know, I'm sorry, I'm helping._ "I don't think McKenna needs to be reminded of this."

If Fowler hadn't already pushed me so far, I might have been willing to let it slide. It wasn't exactly shocking he'd gone and gotten information he wasn't supposed to have. There's only so much respect to be expected from someone who would try to send an innocent person to prison.

"No, now I'm curious." I challenged the OPR agent and put my elbow up on the table, smiling saccharinely. Judging by Kate's expression, my smile did not make her feel any better. "Considering _what?_ "

His face fell. "Well," he said, drawing out the L sound with his tongue and playing with the consonant as he pretended that he had to muse over what it was he wanted to say. "Severe abdominal trauma… there must be a lot of stress with what happened."

He truly had no idea. When I got stressed, my body associated it with the scars and my old wounds started to psychosomatically hurt. I could get a stomachache for no reason other than being in an overwhelming environment. I could feel like I was going to be sick from the feelings of pulled stitches and torn muscles when there was nothing physically wrong. Sometimes I ended up tensing, unable to help the knee-jerk reaction of bracing to run away and protect myself, for no reason other than Neal's hand landing over my abdomen or Katie hugging me sideways or from behind and putting a little bit of pressure over the bottom of my ribcage.

I woke up in cold sweats and had nightmares. I could wake up sometimes with congestion and a red face, having sobbed in my sleep, and not remember what had caused it, but I could make a good educated guess. There were certain kinds of clothes I didn't wear anymore, even in appropriate circumstances, because I hated the world a little more when I had to look at or answer questions about my body.

That stress, that trauma, was what had gotten me demoted. I had been demoted because of something that wasn't my fault, because it was _never_ the victim's fault when someone went at them with a knife, and if there had been any chance of me actually getting over what had been done to me, then maybe it would have happened by now. Maybe I'd be able to take my shirt off with company without feeling the need to block my stomach from view, either with a shirt or by pressing so close that they couldn't see. I wasn't going to get that relief, not when I was faced with and reminded of the incident every single fucking time I went to work or thought about my job. Hell, I adored Neal (most of the time), but even he is a walking, talking reminder. I wouldn't have a white-collar specialist as my consultant if I still had my former job. In fact, I probably wouldn't have a personal CI at all.

The patronizing way that he took it when he would _never_ be able to understand how the ramifications have affected my everyday life made me feel sick and achy. "I handle it," I said archly.

"It must help that the man responsible is 'in more chains than a bondage scene with no chance of parole and a lonely, lonely life ahead.'" Fowler remarked sympathetically.

I stood up so suddenly that my chair screeched backwards and toppled over. Kate jumped. Fowler just kept that infuriating smile on his face as he looked up at me. It was only my sister's begging expression for me to just leave him alone that stopped me from lunging across the table and strangling the man.

"Excuse me," I said hastily after a few seconds of me just awkwardly standing at the edge of the table, no one moving, looking like we were all part of a freeze-frame.

I wanted to believe I was better about running away than I actually was, but this was one time I fled without shame or guilt or annoyance with myself. I picked up my dishes from dinner and took them to the kitchen with my head down, just removing myself from the OPR agent. Katie was an adult. She could look after herself for long enough for me to slowly wash my dishes and stall on putting myself back into the situation. And if she needed help, she could always scream. I was going to the kitchen, not Timbuktu.

First thing was to turn on the tap water, the knob for the heat coming all the way. We stored our steel wire pads underneath the sink in the cupboard alongside dish detergent, Lysol wipes, Windex, bleach, and other household cleaning supplies. While my hands were still dry, I also pulled a dry dish towel from one of the drawers and set it to the left of the sink basins before setting to work.

Fowler had been quoting me. _Me._ And the thing was, it was impossible for him to have known what I'd said, much less _verbatim,_ without either being there or talking to the second party, the psycho I'd been saying it _to_ , because I sure as hell didn't share the scene with anyone, not even Katie. That line had never even stood out. It had been one in a long list of triumphant promises I made to the particularly repulsive killers I caught, made significant only by the person I'd delivered it to. It was just the most important facet of my day now that I knew Fowler had _talked to him._

I needed to talk to someone else about it before my head got away from me. He was still at large, after all – good at hiding and even better at manipulating other people. He probably wasn't even holing up in the underground, just slipping into the masses and interacting with oblivious civilians daily. I was forbidden by all of my bosses to actively look for him. My solace was that he had left me for dead and probably assumed that I'd bled out before anyone got there to help. It was dumb luck that Katie had been coming home early.

Fowler was obviously in more dirt than I had imagined, and this dirt was so blood-soaked that it had become mud. Talking to Katie about it was out of the question… this counted as one of the things I wanted to keep her as far from as possible. She was too sweet and too inexperienced with murder to expose to it, and if I told her my evidence, she'd probably find some reasoning to invalidate it, which would just make me feel worse. No one in the bureau would listen to me for obvious reasons, and if I tried accusing Fowler, then OPR would crack down on me and the people I love with double the whipping power that they were already using. That left Derek, Diana, Neal, and Mozzie. Derek wasn't likely to be all that on board with just not doing anything, even though there wasn't anything that could be done unless Fowler talked. Diana was a probie and wasn't trained for blue-collar crime. I desperately wanted to keep Neal as far away from the skeletons in my closet as possible, but it seemed more and more like that was a pipe dream.

Fowler missed the very unsubtle cue that I had wanted to be alone and he came strolling into the kitchen, his own dishes in hand. I saw his reflection in the shiny grey steel of the sink, and then in the window when I glanced away from my hands.

"Was it something I said?" He asked, feigning innocence and guilt. I gritted my teeth. "I'd never intentionally offend."

The promise I had made snapped. It had been made on the grounds that Fowler behaved, and he was stepping so far out of line that he might as well have raced over it in an attempt to set a record. "But you would let bad men out, and intentionally put an innocent man in jail," I snarled, quietly seething, not wanting Katie to hear us arguing. I wanted to give her a respite, even if it was only for as long as I could drag out washing my dishes. Fowler could do his own for all I cared. I was not going to clean up after him – I'd already cooked literally, I'd already spent a few nights cradling Neal and promising him as he woke up with shakes that he was safe and home, not back in a prison cell with inmates who hated him even more than before.

Fowler stepped closer to me, coming up to my back at a pretty good distance to thrust a knife through my spine. "We both know Caffrey is anything but innocent." He sneered.

"Shut your mouth," I commanded bossily.

"I'm just trying to look out for you," he lied laughably, sounding soothing but looking wicked, with a half-smirk in place that screamed he had not only _gotten_ the canary, but had also ripped its throat out. He thought he had me pinned to do the same. _Well, this bird has feathers tipped with razors._ "How long will it take before he flips on you, his pretty face at the bureau?"

 _He's trying to get a rise,_ I reminded myself, patiently scrubbing the SOS pad over the plate in my hands, water slipping between my fingers and washing away soap, avoiding catching any unnecessary looks at his smarmy face. _I can trust Neal… he trusts me… and I'm not just a pretty face, I'm his friend. I'm his protector._ Even if the date he'd wanted had been me reading into things, I was still vital to his comfort. Even if it was purely out of selfishness, Neal wouldn't backstab me.

"What happens when he gets bored playing for your team?" He pressed when he didn't get the desired explosion of temperament.

The blond had already tried once to convince me that Neal was always going to be a criminal. Maybe he was right. It wasn't like he really hesitated before he broke some laws for one reason or another… but part of trusting Neal included trusting his judgment, and when he broke laws, they were for good intentions, even if the actions were a bit misguided. If he got bored being a good guy, he'd suck it up until he was no longer as easy to catch as opening an app on my phone to check his anklet. Impulsive, yes, he certainly was, but Neal was also very smart.

 _"_ _Don't_ test me," I lowly threatened. He wouldn't like what happened if he didn't stop it. "You're already wearing a sham and lying to my sister and I swear to God, I _will_ shoot you if you hurt her any worse than you already are."

I wasn't even a big romance idealist, but his actions were still repulsive. Even to me, who had spent a lot of my life acting out to prove I didn't need a tattoo to prove I wanted or needed someone in particular, exploiting such a thing as a soulmate mark, which was so inherently personal and sacred to many, was disgusting.

Fowler lowered his head so he was whispering close to the back of my neck. If my head hadn't already been down to do the dishes, and my ponytail swinging over my shoulder, his face would've been in my hair. I longed for Kate to walk through the doors and misconstrue the situation. At least then she'd be pissed, too.

"Let me tell you something about life, _sister,"_ Fowler grated out mockingly, as if he really expected to be my brother-in-law one day. "Soulmates aren't a promise. They're a curse." _I know_. "A gorgeous girl like Kate doesn't get a fairytale prince charming to take care of her. She gets a man who wants money and sex and the respect for having gotten a hot piece of ass on his arm."

I pushed my tongue into my molars on the left side of my mouth. "You're making a huge assumption that her _real_ mate is even male," I deflected primly.

It was disappointing that he wasn't homophobic. At least, not to the point of yelling and getting a nose bleed and screaming revolting slurs. Surely that would be enough for Katie to force him to leave.

Fowler paused, staring at my reflection in the window in front of us. I glanced up for a second under the pretense of putting the SOS pad onto the edge of the sink and turning off the water. What I saw was disturbing. From the outside, we looked like lovers. He didn't look particularly vicious and I was trying to control my temper and not lash out. His head was ducked down towards my throat to speak into my ear so that, even if she came into the room, Kate wouldn't be able to listen in. Neal did this whenever he caught me washing the dishes in the penthouse, coming up behind me to rub his nose against my neck or stand on his toes to set his chin on my head.

"You're lucky I'm giving her this," he told me egotistically, sounding entirely reasonable, like we were discussing business profits and not my sister's future as a trophy wife. "I have a respectable job-" I couldn't stop the little snort I made. _Fowler,_ respectable. _Yeah, right._ "-And very little interest in a wife who works. She could retire early and live securely."

"Kate loves her job and adores her children. And if you think you can bully her into giving that up to satisfy a jackass like you, then you've got another thing coming. She'll never let you." I stated confidently, rubbing my hand on the dish towel and then picking it up to soak the water off of the dishes.

The blond agent chuckled darkly. "Sweetheart, I think you're forgetting that she's already kicked _you_ , her beloved older sister, out of the house once. On the very day she met me." My hand slowed the circular motions over the plate. "Katherine Anderson is _mine,"_ he declared erroneously. "I have her heart – in _both_ ways." _No, you can't fall in love with someone in twenty-four hours, all you have is a forged tattoo and a cruel sense of humor._ "Soon it won't be very long before you have to go through me to speak to her."

 _No, I won't, because you won't be in the picture for much longer._ All I had to do was prove the mark on his arm was a fraud. Once I did that, then Katie would hate him for lying to her, and presto, Bastard-Be-Gone. That was easy. It wasn't long enough for him to call himself my brother, or learn about my chef, or boast to his elite douchebag friends about his hot girlfriend.

My eyes caught onto the SOS square on the edge of the sink again and I stared at it, wiping down the plate slower and slower. It was made of steel wire, it was loaded up with strong pink soap, and the soap had already been activated by the water. If it was a press-on tattoo or something, then the steel would drag it up. If it was a paint or body crayon, then the steel would flake it off. If it was a run-of-the-mill body staining practice, then the soap would draw it out.

I hadn't even thought about seriously doing it until I realized that nothing was stopping me.

I dropped both plate and towel right back into the sink, where the plate crashed and thankfully didn't crack. I grabbed the SOS pad and while he was pushed up right behind me, I spun around, hooked my right leg behind his left ankle, and snatched up his left arm in a vice, twisting his arm up so his shirt cuff fell down to expose the coloring. I took the steel and started scrubbing down against him as hard as I could.

"Ow!" Fowler shrieked and twisted around like a fish. I had experience fishing. "Let go! Get off of me!"

Footsteps came running. I kept at it. His wriggling was getting annoying. I was pushing so hard into the SOS pad that the soap was coming up and digging in underneath my fingernails while I was pushing it into his pores, rubbing and rubbing it raw. Water soaked onto his wrist and travelled down to make marks on his sleeves, soap got on the cuff and was quickly almost covering that disgraceful forgery.

"What's going on?!" Kate shouted, coming in from the dining room and not at first able to tell what was happening.

"Hold still," I snapped at Fowler as he tried wrenching his arm. I clung determinedly and yanked my right leg back, making him stumble as I dragged his foot forcibly forwards with my hooked ankle. "You're a fraud. A fucking fraud, and I'll prove it!"

"You're insane!" Fowler spluttered, finally realizing he could fight, not just flee, and he brought his hand up to try to get at my throat. The arm doing the scrubbing was moving too vigorously for him to get his hand under my chin fast enough, and I snapped my teeth, tossing my head forward like I was going to bite his hand. He retracted that idea.

"What are you doing?!" Katie shrieked furiously, running over to do interference.

"I'm scrubbing his fucking skin off, what does it look like?!"

"Get this psycho bitch off of my arm!" Fowler roared.

Kate wrestled with me, grabbing me from the side and pulling me away. Unfortunately, she wasn't doing so in the direction that enabled me to break the man's arm if I just kept holding tightly enough. I struggled, but Kate did the same thing I had done to Fowler, getting one of her feet between my legs and unbalancing me to pull me, staggering, away.

"Stop it," she yelled, swatting at me and knocking the steel wires out of my hands, getting soap on both of us. "Stop it! Jesus Christ, McKenna, what the hell is _with_ you?!" I panted and only had eyes for Fowler, thirsty to see the progress. He glared at me, picked the towel from the sink, and rubbed off the soap. His skin was delightfully abraded, red and rough and irritated. "We talked about this!" Kate shoved me. I went fumbling backwards towards the fridge and caught the handle of the oven to stay upright. "You said you'd behave!"

Fowler's wrist was roughed up, but the faked soulmark was just as perfect in shape and color as it had been before, which should have been impossible.

"You didn't hear the things he was saying about you behind your back!" I yelled at Kate, rubbing my forearm across my mouth and glowering at Fowler, who breathed heavily as he hunched over the sink.

"What was he saying?" At least she was listening somewhat, and she turned on Fowler.

"Oh, right, like _he's_ going to tell you the truth!"

"You can't _actually_ believe her," Fowler huffed, drawing himself up furiously. "She's just mad that your soulmate isn't someone afraid of her!" He rumbled the last part over Kate's shoulder.

My sister looked back around to me as if asking to see if what Fowler said was true. I heatedly replied. I had gotten to attack him. There was no punch-pulling now. "Unlike you, I don't need people to fear me to be treated decently!"

It wasn't enough for Katie. My word wasn't enough – _I,_ our relationship, wasn't enough. Tearing up and blinking them down her face, she raised her voice louder than either of us, and to a higher pitch to shrilly make such stop throwing accusations at each other.

"Get out!" Kate threw her arms down and stomped. The house was stable, so nothing impressive happened except for the sound of her sock smacking the linoleum, but her point got across. Fowler stayed quiet and let her fight his battle, the coward, and she pointed furiously at the door. I stared at her in disbelief. Hadn't she regretted this choice of action yesterday? And now she was going to repeat it? "You told me you'd behave and you broke that promise! You _assaulted_ him!"

It seemed to be occurring to her that I had legitimately tried to hurt him and was disappointed that his skin wasn't completely ripped away from the bone and muscle. Covering her mouth to sob, Katie went straight to his side to empathize, as if I hadn't been the one who protected her a thousand times over in a hundred different ways. "Oh my gosh, Garrett, are you okay?"

Without giving him a chance to answer her, I rubbed at my throat and snarled, "The only thing bruised is his dignity – not that he had much to begin with!"

" _Out!"_ Katie shrieked, loud enough for the neighbors to hear, turning around and almost slipping on water that had dripped to the floor. She tripped forward.

Instinctively, she reached out to catch herself. I stepped down into a half-lunge with my right knee bent in front of me and let her hands fall heavily onto my shoulders while I caught her upper arms near her elbows. Kate regained her footing with her face burning and I helped her to stand up. She looked down to the floor and stepped away from the shiny reflection of the water so it didn't happen again.

A little shaken by her near fall, Katie crossed her arms, taking herself out of my grasp. No matter how angry I was with her, I had still kept her from getting hurt. It was an instinctive reaction, not a deliberated choice. She seemed unsure what to do with that.

Lip trembling, she repeated herself and stood her ground, but with a much softer voice, like she felt guilty. "I don't know how else I can say it," she said, hugging herself tightly. I noticed that she was placing more weight on her left leg, not as trusting of the one that had let her slip to begin with. "I can't even look at you right now," she whispered, turning away and walking across the kitchen.

I raised a hand to Fowler and jabbed my fist in the general direction of his chest. "This isn't over," I swore, eyes alight with fire. Katie was dealing with enough, and at some point, I had to protect myself, too. I wasn't safe with Fowler – not if he was going to throw around information that could trigger a flashback or a nightmare or anxiety without warning.

I stole my keys back from the kitchen counter, slipped my shoes on, grabbed my messenger bag (which, thankfully, had my phone charger this time), and went out the door, slamming it on my way to my car. _What a great night._

At least I knew one person who would actually listen to me.

* * *

**I spent all day at the mall today. Again. I do that a lot, you know? Wait, of course you know – you're there. It's just really annoying and it's nice to be able to vent, even if it's just on paper. How am I ever supposed to develop meaningful, substantial hobbies when I spend my free time at the mall? I might've had a choice to do a puzzle or something if the parents hadn't forgotten to pick me up.**

**I just can't believe they just left me there! Even worse, they didn't do it deliberately. I get being pissed at me and making me wait until dusk to take me back home. I'm not always very nice, and especially not to them. We're still having that fight about whether or not I need to conform to heteronormativity and learn to play with dolls and be a nice stay-at-home mother. But no, they didn't just act like spoilt brats – they actually forgot about me. How little do you have to care to forget about a** **_person_ ** **for that long?**

**I know you're going to say that I'm better off without their guidance if that's the kind of parenting they're bringing to the table, but it's hard to know that and to accept it. I love them. Mom and Dad are my mom and dad and that won't ever change, but neither will I, and it's putting us in a really hard position. I don't want what they want and they won't respect that I have my own ideas. One of these days I'm going to pack up everything and leave. They won't have to worry about me for much longer because as soon as I'm old enough to stand on my own, I won't need them to remember me to find a way home.**

**I got some nice outfits out of the mall and got a massage, but instead of feeling relaxed or soothed, I just feel hollow. My stress detox just drove it in deeper that I had something to detox from. It makes me sad that I can say "detox" and not be incorrect. That's what home is anymore – a toxin. Once you get your own place, I will never let you be driven out of it like is being done to me now.**

**Love (and appreciate your home when you have one),**

**Zarra L**


	19. I'm in the Middle of the Madness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> McKenna and Katie begin to reconcile, but McKenna's plan to take down the judge backfires terribly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Lucy Hale's "Road Between."
> 
> Advance chapter-specific warning for strong and offensive language in relation to homophobia and sexual harassment. To avoid this, just skip reading Zarra's letter at the end.

**_Chapter Nineteen – I'm in the Middle of the Madness_ **

"This is getting bad," I moaned softly, dropping my head down to the table and wrapping my arms around my stomach weakly. The very filling dinner I'd had was now one among many in a list of regrets about my day.

Chased out by my sister, two nights in a row. _Check._ Running pathetically to my soulmate, who I really don't want to need but feel lost without. _Check._ _All I need now is for Neal to see the wing on my inner wrist and get kicked out of this house, too, so that I can go sob in my car until my eyes burn._ This was just too much to deal with at once. I was amazed I had managed to stop crying before midnight as it was.

When I'd gotten here, Neal had been playful until he'd seen the redness of my eyes and the depressed sag of my shoulders, emphasized further by a travel backpack. Without saying a word, he'd opened his arms and let me breathe raggedly into his chest, struggling not to cry even more. Since then, he'd rubbed my cheeks with his thumbs, kissed my forehead and my lips soothingly, and given me a glass of wine. After the wine, he'd turned me over to water.

Now, with my forehead on the hard wooden dining table, he reached across the width of the furniture and threaded his fingers easily through the loose strands of my hair, rubbing his fingertips into my scalp. I could've lulled off to sleep like that if he hadn't started talking.

"It's not the first time you've stayed with me a couple times in a row," he said softly, talking peacefully and quietly in respect to the headache I'd been harboring since the yelling and screaming in my kitchen. Well. Katie's kitchen, at least.

"No," I agreed. Socialization with Mozzie and June, working from the comforts of home, and lazy nights of sharing tastes in music and movies had all combined to mean that I spent a lot of time at the penthouse. Most of the nights ended in the bedroom, but several had found me dozing off on the couch with a fleece blanket and a throw pillow. "But it _is_ the first time I've done so because I'm fighting with Katie."

His hand stilled in my hair for just a second, but then he took his fingers out of the locks and patted the back of my head before retracting his arm. "We'll figure it out," he promised. "You know, there are a lot of things that water won't take off of skin. Waterproof markers, for one."

Finally ending my affair with the table, I sat up and stared tiredly ahead at my treasured consultant. He had no idea how much I needed him – without him I'd probably be a wreck. "Well, yeah," I said slowly, mostly because I was trying to think it through and my brain had to work extra hard to get through the haze of alcohol and exhaustion. "But I think those would've bled, at least."

It was subtle, but the line of his mouth thinned because he didn't have something reassuring or helpful to say to contradict that. He swallowed and looked away, reaching to the side and dragging across the photocopied folders he'd been permitted to take out of the office. "Sullivan's father signed the original mortgage in November of nineteen sixty-two." He found the second page down in the thin file and turned it around so it was facing me and picked up a slender pen. "This is his signature on the second mortgage he supposedly took out."

"You said supposedly?" I said, lifting my eyes to his, going along with the change of subject. Progress on any front would be good news. I couldn't afford to be picky.

Neal uncapped the end of the pen and used the thin tip to point out a little mark on the second signature that I wouldn't have noticed on my own. "There is a mild hesitation mark in the loop of the L. It's a forgery." It looked like the ink had been stationary for just a half-second, long enough for it to swell and bleed out around it.

I raised my eyebrows. The signatures looked like they came from the same person. We couldn't forget that the eldest Sullivan had been old and in a retirement home when he had allegedly signed the documents, too, which meant that he was liable to have shaky penmanship anyway. "In a few decades, my signature's probably going to look a little bit different, too," I pointed out.

"Forging a signature is all about confidence," Neal educated. I resisted the obvious reply of how he had plenty of that, so no wonder he had gotten away from Peter for so long. The conman slipped the paper off the desk and flipped it over so the blank backside was facing up, pushing it across from me and rolling the pen after it. "Here, sign this."

I expected an explanation to come after this, but I humored him and signed my name in cursive. The A in my surname was thin and the ups-and-downs in the Ns were fast and not very neat because I'd gotten used to signing rapidly for things like mail, debit transactions, and FBI paperwork.

Neal took the paper, spun it around to face him, and plucked the pen right out of my loose grasp. While I watched, he brought the tip down underneath my original signature and started to copy – he wrote down my full name exactly how I had done it, no pause, no editing, and no errors. It really looked like I had written both, except the pen was still between his nimble fingers.

"Neat," I said, unsure what else I could really say to that.

"Your hand is programmed over years to write letters a certain way," Neal explained. Something went off in my head. So he had learned it the same way I had – except it was probably easier for him, because I had decided to teach myself to recognize letters being drawn sideways, upside down, and backwards, which meant the trick didn't come as easily to me. "You try to mimic someone else's, and your own style will always creep in. But, turn the signature upside down, and-"

"-And it becomes a drawing," I said, giving him a bone and letting a bit of admiration into my voice. Neal had more talent than parlor tricks. "It's not letters anymore; it's just copying the drawing. Yeah, I read it somewhere."

Taking it as my turn to be impressive and such, I pulled the pen out of his hand and swiped the paper around again so that the real and the forged signatures of my name were facing me and pretended I was completely sure of what I was doing as I signed again. Except this time it wasn't my name that I was signing.

Neal had a habit of his melodrama getting into everything that he did, including his writing. The edges of his letters tended to be sharp, the angles more acute, and loops and curves in cursive were loose and flowing without as much rigid control of the hand.

Frowning at the unexpected turn of the tables, Neal leaned over the paper and looked between it and me. The surprise on his face made me giggle, and I reached up to rub at my dry cheeks where salty tears had dehydrated the skin. Then he just started to grin at my amusement, so I knew I wasn't in trouble or anything. Not that he'd have had much room to talk if I was.

"It took a few times," I admitted. Forgery didn't come as naturally to me as acting, evidently. "But I figured it out. Now, don't ever copy my signature again," I commanded, mostly on principle. I had the feeling that if there were a justifiable reason, I wouldn't care too much. I had Kate sign for my mail when I wasn't there half the time, and in a line of work like either of ours, having an important signature at the right time could mean all the difference.

"Never again," Neal vowed, shaking his head simultaneously. His agreement came a little too fast.

"You _have_ copied my signature," I interpreted with a soft sigh, wondering what it had been that he'd signed for.

"Let's focus on the crime at hand." Neal evaded.

"Okay." I had to laugh a little some more at how keen he was to avoid talking about it. It was funny how much trouble he liked to get into and then how little he liked being scolded. "I'll get clearance from the bureau to talk to the judge," I promised, reasonably convinced about the forged signature.

"You need clearance?" Neal asked, looking flabbergasted, like waiting for permission just to talk to someone had never been an issue before.

And it probably hadn't – if he'd needed signed consent, he probably would've signed it himself.

"To talk to her on the street? No. To speak to her in her chambers about absolutely anything relating to her cases? Yes." It was one thing to go up and say hello or ask for directions, but I wanted to ask about a supposedly closed case, which meant I had to follow the rules that had been placed to protect not just the integrity of the case, but the safeties of all involved parties. "And I want you staying out of that office," I continued as an afterthought, "Because last time you were in a judge's room, you decided to jump out the window."

"Will you ever let go of that?" He groused, arms on the table turning so his fists were facing down and tilting his head back, whining to the ceiling. I still saw the little smile he was fighting to repress.

"Probably not," I confessed. Not if making the joke would get me more of those pretty, genuine smiles.

Neal gave up trying to be irritated, and I returned his smile, grateful to have him in my life. I stood up from my chair and knocked it under the table with my foot, taking my water bottle and carrying it over to the recycling bin by the end of the bar counter.

"Movie or game night tonight?" Neal asked, clicking the cap back over the pen.

I couldn't think of a movie that would occupy my attention enough to keep me from dwelling on Katie, and I couldn't think of a game that wouldn't require too much thought without also posing the same issue as a movie. I wanted to be occupied, but I didn't want it to be complicated. Really, I wanted something to occupy my body, but not necessarily my mind.

Instead of going back to my side of the table, I came to Neal's and pushed his arms off of the table and out of the way. "I can think of another way to pass the time," I offered with a sultry smirk, biting my lip temptingly and climbing into his lap, straddling his thighs.

Neal seemed to like my suggestion for the pastime before we turned out the lights. He set his hands up higher than my waist. I draped my arms around his shoulders and pressed my lips down to his, gently twisting his short hair between my fingers and enjoying the soft sigh as I took my mouth away to breathe and started to kiss at his cheek, then lower across his jaw. I hummed happily and pressed my nose to his cheek, nuzzling adoringly against his face. He brought his hands up higher to my shirt collar and tickled his hands over my throat before he started to pop the buttons out through the slits, revealing more and more skin.

I shifted on his lap and leaned back against the table as he pushed the sides of my shirt apart, trailed his hands down to my hips, and lowered his mouth to kiss over the hollow of my throat while my breathing picked up. I gave it about three minutes before I forgot Fowler even existed.

* * *

The blonde secretary led me into the waiting judge's chambers the next afternoon, the door already open. "Agent McKenna Anderson is here to see you," she said in lieu of an introduction, startling Clark's attention up to the two of us. The woman, in a blue blouse and black skirt, waved her hello. Clark smiled amicably.

I hadn't speculated on Michelle Clark's appearance, but she looked somehow exactly like I might have pictured. Iron-curled brunette hair to her shoulders, pale pink lipstick, subtle eyeshadow darkening her eyelids and emphasizing hazel-colored eyes. Except, jeez, forget the long, dark robes. In her chambers and out of a courtroom, Clark wore a sleeveless, V-necked dark purple dress with the front held together with a stylish belt with a large golden buckle. A glint of earrings flashed when she turned her head and her hair parted.

"Judge Clark?" I smiled back at her and turned shortly to the blonde who led me in. "Thanks, Jackie," I said politely, going off the plate on the front desk. She nodded and left, still smiling with pearly-white teeth. "Thank you for agreeing to speak with me today," I told the woman behind her desk as I approached.

The door closed behind Jackie and Clark rose from her chair. We shook hands over the desk. "Please have a seat," she welcomed confidently. She took her hand away from mine first and reached to the arms of her chair, pulling it back in while she sat down. Without being given much of an option, I sat in the leather-backed chair across from her. "How can I help you?"

Her office was a picture of a judge's chambers right out of the textbook, from the yellow-glowing lamp to the elaborate glass bookcase across from her desk and against the wall. It was cream-colored with plain white trimming on the walls and the door and thin white curtains accentuated the skyline outside. The desk was made of some sort of chestnut wood. A framed panoramic view of the Brooklyn Bridge hung behind her, along with a shorter and smaller bookcase without a glass cover.

"I'm here looking into a foreclosure dispute," I explained, pulling my messenger bag up into my lap. Leaning it back against my stomach, I pulled open the front and fingered through the contents until I found the file folder alongside my laptop. I produced it swiftly and passed it along over the desk. "Mr. David Sullivan came to the bureau protesting the legitimacy of a mortgage his late father filed, and you were the judge who oversaw the estate ruling."

Clark took the file with a little uncalled-for speed and opened the front. She saw her own court ID stamped on the documents as she perused through the pages on top of the selection and set it down on her desk to look over the details.

"I thought this case had been settled," she cleared her throat. I had enough experience to take her subtle tics as clues.

"Legally, it was. By you, in fact." I smiled at her in that same infuriatingly plastic way that got on my nerves so badly – a nice smile, kind and happy, except it didn't meet my eyes, which were instead smugly triumphant, lording it over Clark that I knew she had made some very questionable actions. "However, recently my consultant and I found a discrepancy between the signatures. I'm sure you know what that implies."

She raised her eyebrows and leaned closer to her desk. "Discrepancies?"

"The signatures on the second mortgage were forgeries," I elaborated pleasantly with the same casually cheerful grin. "That's enough for _me._ "

She sucked in her cheeks and closed up the file, carefully pushing the pages back into order and lining them up evenly with her fingers. She pressed the cover down like she could make the contents disappear if she just tried hard enough.

"I wish you good luck with this, Agent Anderson." She said, although she obviously wished the opposite. Clark recovered smoothly and pulled herself up with a little more confidence, keeping up her wits. "Handwriting analysis won't have enough weight to restart the investigation, and do you have more than this?"

 _Ooh, you set it up for me!_ That was a fantastic opening and I didn't even have to manufacture it myself. Barely able to stop from starting to look mischievous, I looked down, pretending to be a little less certain of my argument, what with her decision of the lack of concreteness of handwriting samples.

"Well…" I paused and looked up at her. She seemed to look inviting of more forthcoming information. "There is one thing."

She nodded. "May I ask?" She inquired politely.

I slowly opened my mouth, then closed my jaw, bit my tongue, and finally said, "You." Just that simple one word, and I swear her face paled a little bit. My lips quirked at the edges and I sat primly in her chair, hands over my messenger bag, watching her intently while she digested that she had a fed hot on her trail.

Clark swallowed. I could see her throat moving. "Me?" She asked evenly.

"There are nine suspicious foreclosures," I said, using the exact number since it was a high number, and the more precise I was, the more reason she had to think that I wasn't just barking or fishing. "I intend to look into all of them for signs of forgery. Handwriting may not be much, but it is something. And the commonality being the judge that sighed off on them… well…" I winced and turned my hands over, palms up dramatically. "You understand?"

Clark leaned back in her chair and crossed one leg over the other.

She understood.

Eyes darting to the door, she seemed to be searching for an exit route before she made a last-ditch attempt. I just kept up my grin which I was trying to force some sort of decorum and awkwardness into so it didn't seem like I was enjoying this so much. This was the best part of my week – cornering a reprehensible judge with enough dirt on her to get a warrant to turn over evidence. Evidence which, when examined, would only give way to more evidence, which would eventually become enough for an arrest, which would lead to a conviction.

After fidgeting like a rabbit deciding that the predator was too close to the door, Clark crossed her arms closely and protectively across her sternum, tight to her breasts. "What sort of salary does an FBI special agent make?" She posed suddenly.

Out of everything that she could have done, inquiring about my finances hadn't occurred to me. I didn't have to fake the surprise. The mild offense at having personal questions asked was genuine, too. "Excuse me?" I asked, leaning back and glaring.

"I'm curious," she insisted, taking another quick, paranoid look towards the doorway, checking that no one had cracked it open or stuck a microphone inside. "An agent of your stature in your department makes… a hundred and forty thousand a year, at most?"

 _What does my money… oh. Oh._ Although I was insulted she took me for someone she could buy off, I could feel my excitement growing when I realized what she was trying to do. If I'd known that it would go this way, I'd have turned on my phone. I regretted not recording the conversation… though I wasn't sure how legal that would be in a judge's chambers… and if it was illegal, then evidence or not, it would be thrown out…

I couldn't be _too_ eager, I scolded myself. Too eager made it too easy. I wanted her making the offer not just for talk, but in preparation to follow through so I could catch her with the money in her hands. This potential for a scandalous and irrefutable catch made me jittery with excitement. That was the drama I needed, the climactic ending to a case where the culprits really deserved more than one hard punch in the nose.

Cover in mind, making myself appropriately guarded, I sat straighter and slowly tightened my fists into the fabric of my bag, tucking my feet under the chair. "I don't see how my income is any of your concern, ma'am," I informed her stiffly.

"I just think it's such a shame that you don't make enough for the services you provide. What you do, the risks you take for the sake of public service…" She trailed off suggestively. I almost snorted. _Lady, if you only knew…_ Conspiratorially, she almost doubled over in her chair, leaning over the table with her hands down. "I think you deserve double that."

I shuffled my arms around and set them on my lap, rubbing my thighs. "Are you attempting to bribe me?" I asked suspiciously.

Clark's eyes widened and she shook her head, but I noticed that she did not do it with very much vigor. "I would never," she declared silkily. Her words said one thing, her tone and her expression said another. "That would be unethical."

" _Very_ unethical," I agreed fervently.

She picked up her shoulders in a careless shrug and looked away casually. "I'm merely suggesting that you should make a lot more money for the work that you're doing." She looked back with just her eyes and they peeked meaningfully down to the folder that was still resting on her desk before her. "Or… _not_ doing," she amended. "For that matter."

Subtlety classes had not been on her core curriculum, I could tell. Then again, how subtle could she be while offering to bribe me into breaking the law to let her keep ruining peoples' lives?

"I live quite comfortably, actually," I reluctantly told her, unwilling to let her just turn me over so easily when there could be so many strings that I, the goaded FBI agent, was unaware of.

"I think _you_ deserve a bonus, Agent Anderson." She was relentless. Clark knew that if she didn't win me over, then there was a more than fair chance that I'd go squealing to whoever I had to talk to who would have the power to start dragging her down from her high throne, and she was unwilling to let me go. "A quarter of a million," she propositioned. "Does that interest you?"

 _Holy fuck. Where would she even get that much money? More illegal rulings, probably. Maybe the foreclosures aren't her only fraudulent cases._ I had felt my mouth go dry. It was a _lot_ of money… and it was enough to buy over the character version of myself that I had just stepped into the role of a few minutes prior.

"There are… always additional luxuries I wouldn't decline," I said slowly, looking to the window instead of to her.

Her smile reminded me of a snake. Thinking she had me ensnared in her web made her expression much more relaxed. The creases of her brow smoothed out. "Perhaps you'll agree we should continue this conversation next week, somewhere less… official," she decided to term as she took her eyes around her office.

I nodded slowly, standing up and letting my bag fall to my front. "Perhaps we should," I agreed, holding my arm out over the desk, symbolically challenging her to make the deal and make an honest promise.

Clark shook my hand firmly, and this time, I was the first to let go – the nervous agent about to cross a hundred lines that she knew were bladed with sharp knives. "Good luck on your case," she said, picking up the folder, weighing it in her hands, and then holding it out. I took it hastily and shoved it in beside my laptop, unable to get it out of sight fast enough. The sooner I got rid of the evidence, the sooner I could go about my lucrative yet repulsive money-making plot. "I hope you don't run into a wall."

My heart was picking up. The threat, the danger, and the excitement of having her exactly where I wanted her all joined together as my body couldn't tell whether I was really a dirty agent or a winning actress. "So do I," I said, and both versions of me meant it, albeit for different reasons.

* * *

A solid rap on the open door preceded Neal's voice, but his presence didn't come as anything of a shock. While I knocked the edges of papers on the top of my desk, I'd happened to catch sight of his slacks and shoes in the doorway.

"Did I miss anything good?" He asked curiously, eyes catching the reflection of sunlight through the open blinds behind me. It made the color look even lighter – I wasn't sure which I loved more: the unreal cerulean they seemed to be at night or the gorgeous cyan in the sunlight.

"She's trying to bribe me," I told him, rolling my eyes. At least it wasn't blackmail, but honestly, bribery seemed surprisingly dull after the exciting cases of the last eight months or so. Even white-collar crimes could be enthralling, but not when they were easily predictable.

"For how much?" He asked, putting his arm up at the doorframe and leaning against it casually.

"Another twenty-five hundred thousand annually." Which was a big number and a lot of money, but if I wanted big numbers and baths of dollar-coins and green bills, then I wouldn't be bothering to crash my career with dishonesty – I'd just make a phone call to my dear parents. "Through her laundering stock, no doubt."

"A quarter million? That's it?" I wasn't sure if Neal was disappointed because he thought it was small-fry or because he thought I'd have pressed her into offering up more, but either way, it seemed silly to be treating this as a small matter. Lots of money, lots of motive – I'd be surprised if Herrera and I were the only people she'd tried to bring to her side before she turned her attack dog out of the gate. "If I'd known you were that cheap, I would have bribed you myself."

 _Where would you have gotten the money?_ I started to think before I realized it was a dumb inquiry. _Stupid question for someone who can create masterful forgeries of priceless art._ "You're worth a lot more to me at my side than you are halfway across the world and wiring money," I said to him solemnly, stilling behind my desk. I'd rather have nights like the last one – with teasing touches and tipsy giggling and lots of kissing – than a huge television and my own personal chauffeur and whatever else a quarter million a year would add up to.

Neal's face went all emotional like I'd just given him one of the highest compliments he could have possibly received. Would it be of the same value to him if he realized that I had easy access to large finances of my own? It was just stubbornness that kept me away from it. "I'm playing along with it in hopes of organizing a sting with Hughes," I told him so he wouldn't be shocked when I got a time and place from Clark. "We catch her out, and Fowler _hurts."_ I clenched my fist behind the papers I was holding, imagining that it wasn't my flesh that my nails were digging into, but that of an arrogant OPR agent who more than had it coming.

* * *

I was brave. I had to have some courage around somewhere, didn't I? After all, I faced down killers. That wasn't really what my job entailed anymore, since I wanted to keep working with Neal and he didn't have specialties that involved very many serial killers, but I still did dangerous things. Getting strapped with Semtex. Getting shot at in a residential neighborhood. Being threatened by an ex-pat who burnt peoples' houses. Almost getting caught by armed members of Chinese organized crime. That vault where the oxygen was all sucked out. Someone who couldn't keep themselves together wouldn't have been able to go through all of that and come out the other side.

But if nobody's perfect, then even I had my limits, and I found them. I was not brave enough to be at home when I asked Mozzie to do another sweep of my house in case He Who Must Not Be Named had planted some more bugs during the disaster dinner that I _would_ have liked to forget, if it weren't for that I'd also gotten to attack him. With dish soap, granted, but an assault was an assault.

When I arrived home, it was closer to nighttime, and all I wanted to do was curl up in a bed. It didn't have to be my bed. I wasn't picky. In fact, it didn't even really need to be a bed, just give me a nice piece of clean floor and I would use my jacket as a blanket and my arms as a pillow.

Except Katie was exasperated with Mozzie already. He grated on her nerves more than he had ever gotten on mine, which was just _weird,_ considering that I was the agent between the two of us. I kind of wanted them to get along – not _too_ well, but well enough – just because I liked when my friends were each other's friends, yet Kate had a lot of emotional strain going on right now and she was already pissed at me, so hopefully her aggravation with Moz was just an extension of those other things.

"Is it the Suit?" Mozzie asked from somewhere in the dining room. Kate confronted me in the hallway as soon as I got home. Mozzie sounded cheerful, but Kate looked ready to maim.

She glared at me. "Yeah," she said back to him in response, politely enough, and I gulped. That meant all of the irritation was reserved for me. _Don't I feel special?_ "I can't _believe_ you sent him back," Kate whispered at me with her voice almost loud enough to no longer be called a whisper. "Who was in the house this time?"

"You know who," I told her flatly, and because I remembered what happened when I made her angry, I put my forearms up to block any impending halfhearted (or wholehearted) hits. Kate did not like my reply and she drew herself up, hands in fists, lips pursed tightly and eyes narrowed. "I'm not taking chances, Kate!"

The third person in my house popped out into the hallway, a pair of headphones wrapped around his neck and the wires dangling to something that he conveniently held on the other side of the doorframe, out of my line of sight. "I'm just wrapping up for the night," he cheerily informed.

He interrupted the conflict and took some of Kate's focus away from me. She was never into being rude to people who didn't have it coming, and since Mozzie was trying to help, he didn't qualify as one of those people. Some of her anger was thrown to the side. _I never thought I would feel this way, but God bless Mozzie._

"Will you be done soon?" Kate asked tightly, clearly still not pleased that he was there.

Mozzie cocked his head and realized that Kate wanted him to leave. It was getting later and it would've been pushing to ask him to stay, so when he glanced at me, I just nodded and rubbed my forehead. "The downstairs is clear for sure," he promised us both. "But the upstairs is still a potential mine field. One wrong step and _bam!_ You're dead." He jerked theatrically.

Kate jumped back at the sudden, loud onomatopoeia, raising her hands impulsively and glancing back at me with more alarm than anything else. The sentiment of affection for the man was replaced with chagrin.

"He means metaphorically," I edified for her while shooting him a _look_ while Kate was watching. Then, when she shook her head, turning to look at the front door and sighing deeply, I mouthed 'thank you' at him. He nodded and went to go pack up his things.

I stayed in the hallway with my sister because I thought leaving might make the situation worse. If she wanted me to answer questions, I would damn well be there to answer the questions… at least until they got too intense, because then I might actually flee like the French army.

Eventually, blinking tiredly, Kate turned back to face me with one hand on her hip and the other rubbing the back of her neck, fingers pushing through her hair. "If we can't be upstairs, then what are we going to do?" She asked me dully.

I picked up my shoulders briefly. It would be a pain in the ass that we couldn't sleep in our own bedrooms or even talk too close to the staircase, but getting the first floor cleared was more practical, if less convenient. "We can go upstairs to get clothes and showers, but we should sleep on the pull-out," I planned. I felt bad that she was under so much stress, but I was _not_ going to apologize for trying to protect us both from unwanted audiences. "If you want to shower first, I'll move the coffee table and get some sheets."

"Hm." Kate folded her arms and toed her slippers off next to the messy little collection of shoes we kept by the door, a couple of pairs for each of us. "Okay," she agreed, discontented.

Mozzie came through the living room to enter the hallway via the doorway closer to the front door and myself. We both watched as Katie went out of sight, arms over herself comfortingly and her head down. We heard her kick one of the stairs more than we saw it happen.

When we heard the footsteps creaking on the upper level of the house, I dropped my chin down and rolled my neck around on my shoulders. Today was just a tiring day. The sooner Clark was out of the game, the better, so that I could focus on Katie and making things up to her.

She would never tell me expressly because she knew how truly depressing it had been for me when I'd been demoted, but I wasn't dumb and I was a good detective. She liked it better now that I worked white-collar. It meant the hours were… well, not nine-to-five, but they weren't as insane as sleeping from four in the morning to three in the afternoon and being gone for days at a time, traveling entire states away and leaving her home to worry in between phone calls. There was a much lower chance of coming home to a crime scene. She had me to herself more often and didn't have to spend her days at work being afraid that she might be next seeing me at my own funeral.

Katie knew when we moved in together that my work was a priority in my life. Not more so than my friends were, but it was up there. Work was how I proved to myself and my parents (not that they cared) that I could be everything I wanted to be without needing to follow their plan for my life. So what if I wasn't regularly dining with diplomats and attending press conferences? I preferred the privacy of not being news fodder. I just don't think she realized what it would be like. I was always careful to leave work at the office and check my baggage at the door when I came home, and I never left my files lying around while I was working from the house. Now that the crimes weren't of people being murdered and… I don't know, weird, awful, disturbing things like being crucified or having their tongues cut out or whatever, I brought them home to her some. I liked talking and she liked to know what was up with me and if she could help.

This was just bringing a lot more of my work home than I had ever wanted to, and even _she_ was fed up with it. Fowler and I were fighting because of work, we were worried about our privacy because of work, Mozzie was here because of my work. And I wasn't even with her at her side the entire time this was happening because I had other concerns… at work. After transferring to white-collar, she had relaxed and molded to fit me into her schedule now that they aligned better. Now that already limited security was being stripped away as it was brought into the aspects of her life that didn't revolve around me, and I couldn't say I blamed her for being short about it. You don't get much more intrusive than having to move because of a home invasion, and she had probably hoped that would be the end of it.

"She's a little icy," Mozzie observed casually.

I exhaled deeply and nodded. His presence wasn't good for Kate, but I liked not being alone. Kate was mad at me, but Mozzie understood the gravity of the situation more than she did. Kate was barely appraised of the dirty judge that I was also tackling with, and Mozzie actually appreciated the threat that her precious OPR agent posed.

"This entire situation has her more than a little mad at me."

"Attacking her soulmate with a dish towel probably didn't help." He said flippantly. My eyes snapped up and then I slowly turned my head to glare at him, fixing my jaw intimidatingly. It was one of the few times that Mozzie didn't revert back to his "anti-suit" attitude directed specifically towards me. He didn't use my name, but I wasn't always a fed anymore. I was just Suit. Like that was more of a name than a title. "Neal told me."

 _Well, maybe Neal needs to be reminded that my poor life choices are not an approved topic of conversation…_ And maybe he had just thought that it was important to keep Mozzie aware of everything going on, because the circumstances were getting more complex by the hour. I just sighed. My home life was going to continue to be Mozzie's business for as long as I kept calling him up to come do sweeps for audio and visual devices.

" _Supposed_ soulmate," I corrected him stubbornly. "I'm still not sold."

Mozzie rolled his eyes but was placating. "I'm still looking."

I rubbed my face tiredly. "Thanks." It was weird how far we'd come from me taking a cigarette and him fidgeting anxiously while avoiding interacting directly with me. Now he wasn't afraid to be a mouthy little jerk. But I could also call him my friend, so there was that. "Want a ride home?" I offered automatically, just like I'd extend the same courtesy to Neal, Derek, or Diana.

But not to Fowler, because I would rather make him walk. Even if it was winter. _Especially_ if it was winter.

Mozzie laughed. I didn't think I'd said anything funny. I looked down at him in confusion. Grinning, he pointed at me. "Nice try, Suit, nice try," he chuckled. I started to open my mouth to say something, but he seemed way too amused. It occurred to me a little late that he probably didn't _want_ me to know where he lived, regardless of that he trusted me enough to help. I bit my tongue before I asked if his nice, cozy storage unit was embarrassingly dirty. "Haversham out," he announced, saluting and carrying his briefcase full of suspicious equipment out the door.

* * *

 _I could have sworn this was much more comfortable._ I cringed when I shifted to one side, felt a spring trying to pop up against my shoulder blade, and quickly wriggled away from it, consequently moving closer to the middle of the bed. Kate sighed as if agreeing that the mattress sucked and I spread my legs a little, starfish-ing on the bed in the space that she wasn't already taking up.

We had passed each other in silence as I showered, and then as we each made food for ourselves, and then Kate had been the first to crawl into the bed. I had stayed in the kitchen long enough to finish a jigsaw puzzle online in hopes that it would let her get to sleep before I added myself to the bed.

It turned out that it hadn't been and while we both knew the other was awake, we pretended that she was asleep.

The digital clock's eerie glow changed as two lines making up a one on the display were altered, adding three more sticks of light when it became a two. The air conditioner in the dining room window over the rose bushes kept humming. The dishwasher finished its load and after the water drained out of the bottom, it sat quietly, somehow even louder than the air conditioner. The fridge sounded like dull white noise. A car drove by outside and the headlights flashed through the curtains, filling the room for a few seconds. Somewhere, a car backfired. Ten minutes later, that happened again, and someone outside screamed before they laughed at their own fright.

 _The city that never sleeps._ Usually I liked the night sounds of New York. The upside to people always being awake was that there was always someone to scream to, someone's attention to catch, if I was hurt. It meant the world was never too quiet. Wakefulness made the place lively and exciting. _The city that never sleeps needs a sleeping pill._

Which was weird, because it was easier for me to fall asleep to background noise – stupid TV or quiet ballads from my phone. Neal didn't like having much of a lullaby if it wasn't coming through the windows, so when I was with him, my background noise became his breathing – sometimes his heartbeat, too, depending on how we were laying. Now there was just _too much,_ I was hypervigilant, I couldn't filter it out, the light was frustrating because it was distracting and the dishwasher was supposed to be making noise and then it stopped.

Kate rolled onto her back from her right side. Her left arm fell over my right. Thoughtlessly, I picked up my forearm and locked my elbow around her arm. Once I realized what I'd done, I tensed. Conversely, Katie made a soft, content sigh, and she stretched a little to wind her fingers around my wrist. I relaxed.

A little sound came from her, like she had been about to start to say something but cut herself off right after she started. "I don't hate you, you know." She tightened her hand on my wrist. I chewed on my bottom lip while she turned her head to face me. I felt her eyes on my cheek.

Katie could tell me everything she felt and she never had to feel ashamed. We had an open line. We just chose not to communicate everything. I knew that she was glad I was in an overall less threatening job. She knew that I had felt like I'd lost everything I'd worked for, and had salt poured into my stab wounds on top of it. I had a pretty good grasp on how her mind worked and how her emotions ran a gambit when she was angry. No matter how angry or upset or disappointed she had been, and maybe still was, she didn't hate me any more than I hated her.

"I know," I promised her at a normal volume, giving her arm a gentle squeeze with my elbow. She could be angry and not hate me. I could be mad and not hate her. It was perfectly acceptable if we were still angry at each other, what with everything that had been said and done. It was also totally okay for us to take a minute just to remind each other that we still loved each other, too.

"It's just that I'm really frustrated…"

"I know," I said again, patiently.

"I've wanted my mate forever," Katie went on like I hadn't spoken. She evidently just needed to get it off of her chest, but mine was tightening. "I mean, he's my _soulmate_ …"

I swallowed. "I _know,"_ I said, a little louder. I could be patient. I could let her reaffirm her feelings. I just didn't want to get the explanation about it again. I understood full well where she was coming from, she just didn't see the danger in ignoring my own point of view. _Soulmate._ What did that even _mean?_ To Kate, it meant a life of love and happiness and unconditional support and friendship, and she couldn't see past that. To me, it was supposed to mean unpredictability and concern and anxiety because that was what I had come to pair with the term; and my soulmate was, ironically, the person I ran to when things went wrong.

Kate squeezed my wrist and sighed, a gentle rise and fall of her chest in my periphery. I was reasonably certain that within an hour of one of us falling asleep, the other would be being viciously cuddled. We're both terrible about being clingy sleepers, attaching like cling wrap to whatever's nearby. My head sank a little bit deeper into my pillow and I let my eyes drift shut.

She sighed deeply then, loudly, and she stretched, arching her back up from the mattress, shifting lower in the bed, pulling the sheets up higher on her body with her free hand, adjusting them how she wanted them, all without letting go of me.

"I didn't mean what I said about you and Neal," she promised me guiltily, rolling onto her side and holding my hand with the arm not trapped around mine. I flexed my fingers to let her intertwine hers. Though I thought we had already been over this, it was clearly still eating at Katie. "I know you don't just use him. You really care about him, otherwise you wouldn't be getting yourself into so much trouble for his sake."

I hummed my agreement. I really was just setting myself up for some heartache and headache by caring about Caffrey, but though my brain said no, my heart said yes… and so did my spite against Fowler. Spite is a very powerful motivator for me. My brain was overruled by affection and by spite. _That's something to be proud of…_

"I just want a more normal relationship, where I can say 'I love you' and hold his hand and spend time together for fun without worrying what everyone else thinks." She stopped for a second. I kept my eyes closed. There was more to come, I was sure. "That's just… not the situation you're in," she said, voice sad on my account, "And only part of it is because of your decisions."

My sister had never told me what I could or could not do before, and though she didn't hesitate to tell me that she disapproved of my approach to Neal's soulmark ever since I discovered it, she had kept my secret and let me make my own choices. However, the one thing she had never done was validate those choices with an excuse other than me being afraid. Giving me that credit was not just a concession to my reasoning, but it was acknowledging a flaw in her own beliefs. Not all relationships could be fairytales, and not all soulmates were the best for each other.

I wanted to hear more, but not for the reasons I'd have expected. It wasn't about saying _I told you so, Katie_ or feeling like I'd been absolved of the blame and the guilt that I felt every time I caught a look at the wing printed on Neal's back. "How so?" I asked, expecting it to come out dry and raspy and surprised when it didn't.

"Well," she mused tentatively, very attentive to her phrasing, but undeterred by my sudden interest in the conversation that had been mostly one-sided. "The powers that be were… kind of a dick to you with this," she chuckled. "It's your decision to try to remain at an emotional distance – which I think you're failing to do, by the way." I grunted huffily but didn't deny it. "But… because of his deal, you can't really be a couple anywhere but the penthouse, even if you chose to be. You'd always have to be careful what you said and did in public, because if the bureau knew, then…

"You'd be jeopardizing his safety with you, and if he's given to another agent, they probably wouldn't wait to chuck him back behind bars." I pursed my lips. That was a huge part of my decision-making. Neal couldn't go back to prison because of me. He _couldn't._ I wouldn't let that happen. "It won't be forever, but four years… well, I guess it's less than that, now – it's a long time to keep up an act. Maybe it's safer to stay apart, just so you don't get caught up and accidentally blow it in front of someone else."

I thought back to when my biggest concern had been Neal asking me out on a date. A real date, not a work date where we talked about work and got a drink because Dana was crying and my house felt like a minefield of tears. I'd thought I should ask her about her opinion on the subject. With everything else that had come up, with her new stance on the situation, I couldn't bring myself to. She was finally seeing things the way I was. Adding in Neal's returned romantic interest in me would just make everything more complex than it needed to be. Kate had enough to worry about.

Kate swallowed audibly. "I know he's given you trouble in the past, but maybe you don't know the whole thing. I still think it's worth giving him the chance."

 _Who, Neal?_ Everything got confusing. When was my tolerance of Neal ever in question? Well – okay, dumb question, but since when was I at my wit's end with him within the week? Neal wasn't my hero and I wasn't dramatic enough to call him my life vest, but he was a comfort and a help. I was stubborn enough to drag myself along with my arms, but it was nice to have crutches. Neal and Mozzie were being my crutches, if in different ways. Mozzie was the pain and caution that reminded me of the reality and kept me from getting ahead of myself. Neal was the comforting brace against everything else and let me feel like I could keep going.

"You're giving another to Neal," Katie beseeched when I didn't respond, and then it hit me that she had started talking about Fowler without a really obvious transition, and I had just missed it.

I didn't want to talk about Fowler. I didn't want to talk, period. But if she wanted to, then I should do my share of a heart-to-heart, and I compared Neal to my crutches, someone I could depend on and who eased my struggle, and I felt my lungs tightening.

"I'm scared," I whispered out of nowhere.

 _Conman. Professional liar._ It was all coming back. Neal wasn't just some helpful friend who Fowler had a vendetta against. Neal was a criminal. And a damn good actor. Relying on anyone was like relying on a stick – it could snap and suddenly not be there. I was learning to depend on a con artist who specialized in being people that he wasn't, being whoever he needed to be to get what and where he wanted. That was a very flimsy stick to rely on. What if he turned out to be a liar to me, even though he always said I was the one person he was honest with? What if he left me when I needed him?

Kate scooted closer and pressed her forehead against my shoulder, pulling her knees up, legs pressing against my right thigh, knees about at my hipbone. "What of?" She asked compassionately.

I sniffed. With my left hand, I rubbed my face and pinched my nose, squeezing my eyes shut tighter and trying not to cry. Why was I even crying, anyway? _Just a dumb overload. Stupid brain circuit._

"When I stayed over that first night when you kicked me out, all we did was cuddle and watch a movie." I scoffed. We were adults. Adult friends didn't watch Disney movies about anthropomorphic animals who solved crimes. Adult friends didn't sleep in the same bed, holding each other and playing with each other's braids. Friends didn't pretend to be strippers and sex entertainers in front of each other. Friends with benefits were supposed to exercise those benefits, which the impromptu performance counted as, but it was an afterthought, an opportunistic joke.

"Which one?" Kate inquired curiously, strategically redirecting my focus to the movie instead of to the subject of my distress.

I sniffed again and smiled a little. It had been a good movie, after all. "The new one, with the talking bunny and fox."

"Aw," she cooed. "That's a cute one."

I nodded and craned my neck until my cheek was warmly against the top of her head, loose strands of hair tickling my jaw and nose. I made myself comfortable there. Her flyaway hair wasn't going to chase me away. "Anyway, I'm scared because…" I drew in a deep breath. "It was really nice," I said, feeling small. "I liked it. And… I want to do it again."

 _With Neal. I want to do it again with Neal._ Because Katie and I did that sort of thing all the time, cuddling on the couch and watching a movie, or sitting on opposite ends and playing footsie or throwing popcorn at each other or just tangling our legs, and in horror movies I usually ended up holding her because she didn't like to watch them in the dark, even though I insisted that "darkness immersion" escalated the "creep factor" which was "scientifically proven" to "enhance the awesomeness levels."

Kate contemplated this for a moment. Wanting to watch a movie with someone seemed simple. No doubt my reactions were completely mixed up, in her opinion – my trepidation over watching a movie was on par with what most people felt about having sex, and yet, to me, that was about as big a deal as watching a movie. Not that sex wasn't serious, because it was, but it was serious in a different way. Wildly intimate, but it could be reduced to physical intimacy, whereas it was hard to eliminate that factor in something as sweet as movie-viewing.

"You're… a very touchy person." I made an unhappy noise in protest. "You don't like to acknowledge it, but you're very tactile. You like hugs and cuddling and even at work, you have a tendency to touch people – their shoulders, arms, hands, backs."

I'd have tilted my head while I thought except for that I was quite comfortable where I was. She wasn't wrong. I didn't even have to think about it – I led Neal with a hand over his back, I touched Diana's shoulder or arm to get her attention, I held Katie's hands and kissed her face, I playfully punched and wrestled Derek almost regularly. I had never been touch starved, but I had been assaulted an inordinate number of times. Casualty of voluntarily approaching violent criminals. The result was that I had an even stronger appreciation for kind touches.

"You've been trying not to be any touchier with Neal than you are with anyone else, but the thing is, sex is very, _very_ tactile. And you've sort of ignored that there's a lot more to sleeping with someone than just instant gratification, especially when it's someone you see every day."

I opened my eyes and looked over the room without moving. It was tactile. That was part of the reason why I liked it. Now I supposed I could get where she was coming from. I liked the tactility of sex, so wouldn't it stand to reason that I also liked the tactility of being held? I liked to wrap my arms and legs around someone and rub their back and rake hands through their hair. It felt sexy and hot and close and it was always a reassuring reminder that I wasn't alone. I could feel as lonely as I wanted, but _someone_ cared – at least in that moment – to touch me, to make me feel good, to make me feel wanted. Thing was, even if it wasn't orgasmic, it was still a good feeling to be handled with care, to be touched, to be wanted.

"What do I do about it?" I whispered vulnerably.

"I think…" Kate paused and regretfully just told me the truth. "I think either you have to stop sleeping with him, or you have to admit – even just to yourself – that you see him as more than just your criminal consultant."

_Oh, Katie, he was never just my criminal consultant. Confidante, friend, lover, partner, supporter._

I sniffed, the urge to cry gone but the mild congestion only just starting to clear up. "Emotions are a bitch," I whined.

"Life in general is a bitch," Katie agreed vehemently, and both of us started to laugh anxiously. I shifted onto my side and wrapped my left arm around her back, giggling stressfully into her hair while our arms remained trapped in between us.

 _Knock, knock._ We both stopped laughing, although Kate's shoulders mirthfully shook. The knocking was followed by the _ding_ of the doorbell. _Someone_ wanted our attention.

When someone came by at night, I assumed the chances were higher that it was someone dangerous, and I untangled myself from my sister to go check. "I'll get it," I said, rubbing her back as I sat up and threw my legs over the side, rubbing my face. My eyes had long since adjusted to the lighting, but whoever was outdoors wasn't going to be as accustomed. Warning Kate briefly, I flipped on the switch in the hallway before I looked out the small window in the door. The glass was frosted and hard to see through from either side, but I could see a familiar face.

"It's Hughes," I remarked aloud. Kate made a surprised noise and the bed creaked while she moved around and repositioned. I twisted the deadbolt to the side and turned the lock on the door to the left. Hughes heard the locks and focused on the door. I pulled it open.

He looked tired. He also looked like he hadn't been home. His shirt was wrinkled and he still wore his holster, gun in place and half-covered by his blazer. The white-haired man should have been cold on the porch, but he made no indication of the temperature bothering him. He just surveyed me quickly, saw that I was intending to be headed to the realm of unconsciousness, and looked back to my face apologetically.

"Hey, sir," I said, forcing some invitation into my voice. Hughes had never bothered me unnecessarily and he took care to keep work, where he was involved, away from my home life – never calling my home phone and instead only using my cell number, only coming to me in a non-professional capacity in the settings where the entire team was doing it, like when we did teambuilding exercises and ended up playing baseball. Which was always interesting… Hughes was surprisingly good at hitting the ball, Derek not-so-surprisingly, and when Diana did hit it, the crack was almost scarily loud. My strength was making the sprints between bases. "Come on in…"

Hughes stepped in when he was invited. I waved him forward with one hand and pointed into the living room. Hughes left the hallway while I closed the door and locked it for security, then followed after him. My boss just stood there a couple feet inside, taking in the unfolded couch, the coffee table moved to the window, and my sister sitting up against the back of the couch cushions, self-consciously pulling at the neckline of her shirt in case it had started slipping down immodestly.

He wasn't a stranger to Kate, but they had never spent much time together. Usually I was a buffer, either introducing them in passing or being intercepted for a minute by my superior while Kate happened to be with me. "Evening, Katherine," he said. She nodded hello meekly. "What, are you camping now?" Hughes turned to me.

It would be hard to explain what we were doing – not because I didn't think he would take me seriously about the bugs, but because I didn't want to have to explain exactly how I'd gotten someone to sweep my house without going through the right channels in the bureau. "We were watching horror movies on Netflix and…" _and Kate has a weak stomach,_ I was going to finish, but Hughes had tipped his head and was staring dully. "You're not buying it, are you?" His mouth tightened. "No…" Appropriately ashamed of having tried to lie, I looked away and stared at the sofa. "Okay, it's just a long story."

The boss nodded as if he had figured as much. "I need to speak to McKenna," he told Kate respectfully.

Because he was my boss, Kate took the hint. "Okay." She crawled off the edge of the bed and stretched up on her toes, yawning. "Would you like some coffee?" Giving us privacy to talk about what civilians weren't supposed to overhear, she started to pad out to the other doorframe, headed to the kitchen, presumably to get some caffeine of her own.

"No, but thank you." He waited until the kitchen light had flipped on and a rectangle of yellow had illuminated part of the dining room. Hughes turned around to face me. I pretended I was wearing a bra for my own peace of mind. "I'm not here in an official capacity…" he murmured, glancing over to make sure Katie hadn't snuck back in. I could have figured, since he was creeping around in the middle of the night. "I'm here as your friend. OPR has launched an investigation into you."

_"_ _OPR investigates us, we don't investigate them back. It's practically career suicide!"_

I rubbed at my forehead. Career suicide it was, then. "On what grounds?" I was pretty sure I could defer them to something to slow them down long enough to finish my case, and then I could worry about myself.

Hughes crossed his arms. The man was thin, a little bit scrawny, but tall, and he was still wearing the suspender-like straps of a shoulder holster. "Did you take a bribe from a judge?" He asked me skeptically, rolling his eyes even as he asked. He knew me better than that.

When he asked, I felt like a punctured balloon. "I… I spoke with Judge Clark and she offered me money," I skirted around answering because if _that_ was what Fowler was coming at me with… well, he couldn't really prove anything, since money hadn't changed hands, but it didn't need proof to look bad. There was a reason I had wanted to wait to organize a sting until I could go directly to Hughes.

"And did you tell her no?" Hughes pressed, not letting me get by with half-answers.

I grimaced. Normally that would have been fine, but if it was already going awry, then he might very well kill me. "No, I didn't," I confessed. He started to sigh, looking away. "I didn't say yes, either," I defended. "I just wanted to play her and see if I could get her in a sting." Hughes glared at me. I couldn't tolerate being looked at as if I'd done something terrible when all I'd done was toy with the rulebook. I may have flirted with the law a bit, but flirting's a huge step away from fucking it over. "You would've done the same thing in my place," I accused.

Hughes rubbed his chin tiredly and looked away from me. I relaxed infinitesimally. "Probably," he agreed. "OPR's got you on videotape and Fowler's presenting it tomorrow morning." _Videotape?!_ While I was halfway to zoning out, my boss touched his hand to my shoulder and looked right at my face with concern. I tried to seem visibly worried. It wasn't difficult. "I can't protect you from this," he gently warned me.

And I hadn't expected him to, nor did I want him to. I would rather go to hell than back down to Fowler, but I didn't want other people to get caught in the crossfire between us. If Hughes had volunteered to start being a shield, I would have told him that I was an adult and I didn't need my boss to defend me. It was nice when it was relatively inconsequential, but something like this? Herrera had already lost his job for reasons I didn't even fully understand, but I wasn't going to encourage Hughes to follow the pattern.

"Great," I sarcastically moaned, covering my face with my hands. Videotape. _Well, fuck._ That would be hard to explain away. _There must've been a hidden camera…_ When Herrera started getting close, Clark had gotten freaked out and put in an extra security measure. This way, if I was dirty, she had insurance, and if I was trying to get to her, then she could strike back.

Videotapes were hard to fight. If it were just audio, I could buy time by demanding a full analysis. It wouldn't buy much, but it would give me enough to make a second plan. Some pictures could be lied about or taken out of context easily enough to make a review board question Fowler. And it would have been pretty simple to disprove some alleged signatures – Fowler was no Caffrey when it came to faking someone else's work. But a video…

I took my hands away from my face, breathing deeply. I'd need to think of something to do to save my own ass, but I also needed Hughes out of the way to do so. I couldn't plot around the rules with him right there, and he was already stepping way, way out of line by coming to let me know there was a blow intended to blindside me on its way.

"I understand," I said, motioning with one hand limply towards the front door. "Thanks for the warning," I added more sincerely, but the dismissal remained evident.

Hughes nodded to me gravely. "Good luck," he bid before he left, wrapping his jacket tighter around himself and slipping back outside.

Hughes I wasn't worried about. He was trustworthy. He wasn't Neal's biggest fan, but he, Derek, and Diana comprised my largest cheering section. There was no point of coming to tell me ahead of time if he didn't expect me to do something about it, or if he didn't want to give me the chance, and so clearly he took his leave in stride, having never intended to stay long. He was giving me the option of discarding the book, which was not only very unlike him, but a testament to his trust in me that he believed my integrity was stronger than my desire for creature comforts, which I was notoriously a sucker for at the office.

Katie heard the door and came back, entering the room sans coffee. The kitchen light had been left on. I sank down on the edge of the pull-out, the spindly metal legs creaking in protest.

"What was he here for?" She asked me, climbing up onto the thin mattress and then bouncing down onto her rear, crossing her legs and folding her hands in her lap.

"Nothing good," I said honestly, pulling my own limbs up onto the bed to sit with her. I couldn't possibly hope to go to sleep, even if there was nothing I could do. There didn't seem to be much. All I could think of was to go and burglarize the tape, but I didn't know who had it or where it would be kept, and I wasn't that practiced with cat burglary to begin with.

Kate scratched her face with short nails and then folded her hands back again, leaning into the pillows. "You haven't talked to me about this case like you normally do," she observed in a small voice. "Whatever it is, it's serious, isn't it?"

It wasn't brutal murder or nightmarish crime scene photos, but in many ways, this was worse than most cases I'd had, no matter what department I was in. It was so much more personal. It was following me home, banging on my door, introducing itself to my sister. The thing I'd tried to keep from ever happening was not only happening, but it was doing it with gusto, advertising itself loudly and refusing to be swatted down.

I nodded and folded my hands in a steeple under my chin. "Very," I confirmed her worries. "Hughes could lose his job for what he just told me." Realizing I had only given her more reasons to be upset, I dropped my head into my hands and rubbed the center of my forehead. "I'll fix it," I mumbled.

Kate unsurely asked, "How?"

"I don't know yet."

That was an answer I didn't have. That was an answer I may not come to before morning. What was someone supposed to do when their career was in jeopardy, their sister threatened? If Fowler could convince anyone else with the video, then I was _over_ as an agent, full-stop, and quite possibly as a free woman, too. People were sent to prison for much less. If I was incarcerated, Neal's deal would be rendered moot. Making the large assumption that he was permitted to stay on as a consultant, he would be switched to a handler who wasn't nearly as careful with him as I was.

Thinking about Neal reminded me that I wasn't the only person to have ever had their freedom threatened. I wasn't sure how to feel, but Neal might have an idea. He also might have an idea of how to buy time. If he didn't, I still owed him the explanation in person of what was about to come raining down.

"I'm sorry, I have to go." I stood up quickly and opted to skip on the morning routine before I left the house. I had an overnight bag at Neal's still, and it wasn't going to be a big deal to drive over to June's in my pajamas. I wasn't on the clock, anyway.

"To see Neal?" Kate guessed knowingly, sounding just a touch sad.

It could have easily been that she was sad our time together was cut short, or that I was in more trouble, but just as easily it could have been the beginning of another wedge being stuck in at an angle. What if she was starting to think that I felt better with Neal as a comfort than with her? I turned back around to the bed and leaned over, grasping one of Katie's hands tightly.

"He is the only person that could possibly help me at this point," I swore to her. It wasn't just running away for a hug. I wasn't leaving her because she wasn't helpful enough; I was leaving because she didn't have the skillset or the experience of a convicted conman. Her eyes cleared up, seeming to understand. "I love you. Stay safe." Kate picked her head up and kissed my cheek after I kissed her forehead.

* * *

I didn't bother with knocking on the door to Neal's section of the manor this time. There were too many problems going on to bother with politeness, and time conservation was definitely something to consider. That was how I was reasoning it out to myself, anyway - in actuality, I knew that the reason I was just walking in was because I wanted a safe place to be, and I was growing to associate Neal with said safety.

I closed the door behind me and did a cursory sweep of the penthouse. Truthfully, despite what I had told Katie, I really didn't see a way that Neal could get me out of this one; I was going to have to rely on some spur-of-the-moment plan, or Diana and Derek continuing to work on finding dirt while I was dealing with the justice system firsthand, a thought that scared me a lot more than I wanted to admit. I knew Neal had handled it, but I also knew that it could potentially be a _lot_ more hostile for me. A fed in a prison was just _asking_ to be targeted.

Mozzie and Neal were both seated at the table near the small kitchen, Mozzie with a chessboard and Neal with his arms crossed, relaxed, over the top of the table. Both of them looked in my direction when the door opened, and when it seemed like a safe place, no hidden surprises nearby, I let myself lean backwards, uncomfortably falling back against the closed and locked door.

 _God._ This one was bad. This one was really, _really_ bad. He was coming at me from two angles - the moment he had a way to justify attacking Neal, he would be coming at me from three. Maybe he'd find some way to tie Neal to my alleged corruption. I had a friend in the US Attorney's Office - a prosecutor, but a damn good advisor, and if nothing else, she could probably appoint me a _very_ good defense lawyer.

This was the risky part that came with winging lies. If I had set up a sting before Fowler came forward claiming to have something on me, then I'd have been fine; I came forwards about it with a full plan, and maybe close watch would be kept on me, but I'd be fine, because I'd prove I was working on the right side of the law once the sting was pulled off. But I'd been videotaped. Fowler had already made it clear that he had something that I can get in a lot of trouble for. If I move to justify myself now, then it looks like I'm trying to cover myself before retribution hits. If I'm _lucky,_ I get suspended, pending investigation - given Fowler's role in said suspension, he'd likely be the OPR agent appointed to heading it up, and his tendency of fabricating evidence didn't bode well for me. Worst case scenario, my good history and quite frankly brag-worthy experience serving the FBI is completely disregarded in light of Fowler's status in OPR and his age experience, and I'm arrested before I can even leave the building.

Either way, there was no way that this was going to end well. Hughes telling me really didn't do much for me, but it did ensure that I wasn't walking in blind. I could run - sprint away and hide until I had exonerating proof; Neal's an expert at that, I could always enlist him, and I'm sure Mozzie would have a few helpful tips and contacts in the Manhattan criminal scene - but doing so would not only make me look guilty, it would've threatened Hughes, because then people would have to start to question how I could have known to run, and while it might be an option worth considering in other circumstances, I wasn't going to jeopardize other innocent agents when there were other routes to try, however desperate they were.

_Right - like going on the run isn't desperate already._

I wanted to think that being apprehensive of a prison scene was getting ahead of myself, but at this point, it really wasn't.

My panic must've been readable on my face. I felt like something was twisting in my stomach, slowly making me more nauseous. _Orange is the New Black_ isn't my favorite show, much less a show that I want to start living in. What would happen to Katie if I went to prison? Would she believe I was - no, Katie knew me better than to think I would go corrupt, not after working so hard for years to become the best agent I could possibly be. Without me to protect her, she'd be easy prey for Fowler and OPR. And _Neal._ If his supervising agent was discredited and arrested, he'd have to go back to the super-max jail, too, because God knew that I could have been enlisting his criminal expertise to keep myself off the radar. Derek and Diana would come under suspect, too. _Oh, God, it's one huge whirlwind of trouble._

"Oh, again?" Mozzie started to complain with a bad attitude and I couldn't really be upset with him. I was too busy being frightened in the direction of cardiac failure to bother with being that upset with Mozzie for the commonplace banter that we drove Neal up the wall with. "What did you use this time, a spatula?"

There wasn't the time or the patience to partake in cop-versus-crook, so I pretended not to hear, lied to myself that I didn't want to imagine smacking Fowler with a spatula (preferably one that had just been on a griddle or four-hundred-degree frying pan), and cut straight to the main problem. "Clark was _recording_ me," I said with wide eyes.

The change in the atmosphere was immediate. Instead of feeling like I carried a personal grievance, the entire room was suddenly shadowed. Mozzie took his fingers off of the chess piece he'd been debating between moving to another square. Neal sat up straighter and moved his arms off of the table.

"She was bugged?" He asked, alarmed, and turned to the side in his chair, draping his elbow over the top of the back and stretching his legs out to the side.

"I think it was a camcorder," I said in distress, having thought about this for almost the entire drive here. "Why put a bug in her office? The equipment's pretty noticeable and it's much more suspicious if it's found. No one would question a little camcorder, though."

Mozzie and Neal looked at each other and had a wordless exchange in about two seconds. Mozzie looked past Neal and back at me with a sigh. If I didn't spend as much time around him, I would have assumed it was because Neal wanted him to help. Having seen him be put-upon and overly exasperated, however, I could tell that this was just resignation. "What was it she recorded?"

I moved away from the door only when I felt like I could walk without my knees threatening to collapse, and I swallowed thickly, pulling my hands up to my hair and raking my fingers through the loose strands pulled back into a ponytail. As much as I straightened some of it, I also pulled some out of my hair tie.

"I talked to her about the foreclosures and she offered me a bribe," I explained for Mozzie. Neal already knew this part, but it was best to make sure everyone was fully aware of the situation. "I didn't say yes, but…" I sighed. I really should've just said a flat-out no. I shouldn't have taken for granted that a dirty judge would respect a closed-door meeting. "I didn't say no, either. I was going to set up a sting, but I won't have time to follow it through because Fowler is getting the tape and presenting it in the morning." Which, when I looked at the digital clock in the oven display, wasn't as much tomorrow as it was later today. "That's enough grounds to have me suspended while he pretends to care about an official investigation."

Did I sound bitter? I _felt_ bitter. My eyes lingered on an open bottle of Sauvignon but I didn't dare ask for a drink. Adding alcohol to my system while I was already in very hot water with the bureau was _not_ a good plan.

Neal stood up from his chair and pushed it back under with a foot against the back left leg. "You could go to jail for something like that," he said quietly, his eyes shining in concern.

 _I kind of figured that part out already!_ I tensely held out my arms to each side, hands open, in invitation. _Any other obvious points you'd like to make?_ I would not do well in prison. The only good thing that TV advertises for it is a lot of sex, and I get enough of that safely and, more importantly, _on my own terms_ in the real world. I can't be forced into one of those stupid, obnoxious jumpsuits, led around with chains, forced into a barred cell every night and exposed to criminals who would happily do very bad things to me - those things could range from name-calling to fucking _stabbing_.

_Really, Neal, that was not a helpful thing to remind me of._

"Hughes had already risked his job by warning me, but unless I can think of a way to stall it until I have something on him, I'm screwed." I appreciated not going in blind, I really did, but in a way, this was worse. It was tearing me up. It's like knowing what day you're going to be humiliatingly murdered in advance (although I admit, comparing legal trouble to homicide does seem like a slight exaggeration).

I stayed nearer to the door than I did to the two of them. Just walking in was a little presumptuous, wasn't it? I mean, it's not like Mozzie and I were exactly _friends._ I mean, sure, I considered him a friend, but for all I knew, he called me Suit because he forgot my actual name. Where Neal is concerned? Well, hadn't I spent a lot of time already putting down the sweet things he tries to do, the flirting, trying to convince him (and myself) that we're only friends and we're better off as such? There was no personal obligation here for him to offer help to me again.

The two men looked at each other for over five seconds. With Neal looking over his shoulder at Mozzie, I couldn't see his expression; Mozzie went from worried to confused to belligerent.

Neal didn't let Mozzie put a voice to the objection he was quite clearly thinking. "How is the tape getting to Fowler?" He asked me instead, turning back to look at me.

My eyes went wide and I held up my hands, shaking my head furiously. "No. I am _not_ asking you to steal evidence from federal employees," I vowed. I had a lot of lines that it turned out I was more willing to cross than I had thought - to protect my friendship with Neal, then to protect Neal himself, to protect myself, to fight for Katie, to combat the heinous scruples or lack thereof that Fowler demonstrated - but I was absolutely not going to contract my friends to commit a serious felony for my sake.

"We don't need to steal it," Neal assured, rolling his shoulders in a smooth, graceful motion back. "Just… intercept it," he rephrased, mincing words.

Mozzie stared at Neal's back as if he'd lost his freaking mind. I was inclined to agree. "Are you for real right now?" The conspiracy theorist demanded, his voice going up in incredulity. "Do you have any idea how dangerous it is to break into federal property?" At least Mozzie had some sense of self-preservation; it seemed that Neal and I were both seriously lacking in that department. "A judge's chambers, no less?"

"I've already broken out of one," Neal pointed out casually as though breaking into _or_ out of a judge's room was about as noteworthy of picking up the mail from the post office. I shook my head again. Mozzie made a scoffing noise. The more empathetic conman held out a hand in my direction, fingers outstretched like an invitation, and he looked back at Moz. "If we don't do something about this, she could go to prison," he reminded imploringly.

He sounded so soft and sad that it was easy to think that his first thought was about me and my wellbeing. If worse came to worst, then I could maybe press for diplomatic immunity and be extradited to some country in Western Europe where my parents would have a stronger pull, but as an agent of law enforcement on a charge like accepting bribery, I highly doubted that that would pan out. As for Neal, though - if he was arrested for trying to tamper with evidence or break into federal property, then there was no way to get him out of it. Not only was he already a convict, but he was wanted in at least a dozen other countries, too. The FBI had technically won the jurisdiction battle over his case because Neal Caffrey was as close to his real identity as we could get, and Neal Caffrey was apprehended on American soil.

"Yeah," Moz said slowly, pushing for Neal to realize that he was being reckless and impulsive – the same kind of recklessness and impulsivity that got another four years added to his sentence. "And if you do, you could go back."

If Mozzie were an agent, I might've thought that he was taking sides against me. As the circumstances were, I understood that, while he may have empathized with me, his loyalties would lie first and foremost with protecting himself and Neal. Both were criminals, and both operated primarily by a code that I didn't really understand. I could guess at the rules, of course, but they were hazy and unofficial.

Criminals have to take care of themselves, and Neal has to realize that. He has to be fully aware of the personal risks he takes on by participating in criminal activity, even without the FBI ties. In several ways, I was thankful to Mozzie for being the "voice of reason," as it were. I had no idea how often he had played devil's advocate for Neal when the latter was starting to get his mind set on something dangerous. I could at least be certain that the paranoid little weirdo wasn't going to let Neal move on a stupid impulse with a half-baked plan and a large chance of failure and retribution.

Being an adult - and especially being an adult law enforcement officer with criminal friends - is really frustrating sometimes, especially in months like this one, where it felt like I couldn't get a moment of peace. If Neal wasn't suspecting me of kidnapping his sister, then I'd gotten a corrupt OPR agent breathing down my neck and invading my sister's personal space. The moments of peace I did get were only half-peaceful. Restful sleep was interrupted by nerves and nightmares. Companionate quiet with Neal was rudely invaded by worries and thoughts of unprofessionalism.

I pointed at Mozzie meaningfully and looked sternly right into Neal's eyes. "Which is why I'm not asking you to steal evidence!" I declared loudly, then looked back to the door and dropped my voice considerably. I did not want June overhearing this.

I'm pretty sure I saw Moz raise his head to me respectfully for prioritizing loyalty to Neal over fear for myself.

Neal strode from the table and across the wooden expanse to me, holding out his hand the whole way. Once he was close enough, he brought his palm down on my shoulder and then slipped it down my back, gently caressing over my shoulder blades as he brought his arm behind me and pulled me further into the room. I lowered my eyes and firmed my resolve not to be drawn in by sad puppy dog eyes and kind words. I had to stand my ground here, damn it, not be a sucker for a guy I'm not even supposed to like.

 _But you_ ** _are_** _supposed to like him,_ a voice in my head that sounded annoyingly like Katie objected loudly. _You're his soulmate; there's not a better excuse for liking him._

_Shut up, mental-Kate, no one asked you._

"You're in this because Fowler wants you off. Why?" Oh, and there it was; he subtly moved his fingers up to my throat and gingerly dragged soft fingertips over my neck, rubbing at the soft spot above the dip over my collarbone. _It's just mean to use my weaknesses against me like that._ "Because you're helping me." Yes, okay, so that did likely have a place in it, a role to play, but Fowler hated me, just hated me, and I very strongly doubted that we'd have gotten along like peas in a pod if Neal wasn't around to clash over. "This never would have happened to you if you weren't trying to help me get back Kate from him."

Ultimately, Neal will be Neal. As he proved when he escaped prison, he'll do anything for the people he treasures. After the lying I do to him every single day just by wearing my gloves, I don't think I deserve to be on that list, but I'm too selfish to tell him that; telling him that would involve telling him _why_ , and I'm too much of a coward to go through with that. If I couldn't stop him from going off the handle, then I could try to monitor it to make sure he wasn't being too cocky with his assumptions or plotting.

If he was going to play dirty and touch that space on my throat, I was going to damn well fight back… in the same passive, not actually aggressive or mean at all, manner. I bumped my head against his shoulder lightly and looked up at him through half-lidded eyes, blinking slowly.

"There's no way I can talk you out of doing something stupid?" I had too much pride to simper or purr, even if Moz _wasn't_ less than ten feet away by the time Neal got me to the table.

Neal just grinned handsomely. "Not unless you can think of a better way." _Ah, shameless._

My eyes went downcast and my mood plunged again. "There isn't a single legal approach I can think of," I murmured. I was practically a dog who had gotten kicked one too many times. A pitbull, maybe; a friendly dog that longed for comfort and love and then became one of the most vicious when placed in a hostile environment. Fowler, in this case, was the dog fighter, and the current situation was the hostile environment. As a result of his interference, I was turning to criminals for help. I wasn't playing fair, a scruple to which I had always held myself.

Neal gestured with his other arm at the table, including Mozzie in the sweeping, all-encompassing motion. "Then come to the professionals."

Mozzie grumbled something about how that was an _alleged_ professional, thank you very much, and he wasn't some sort of consulting criminal-for-hire so I'd better not go getting ideas.

I shifted uncomfortably on my legs and thought about kicking off my shoes. "Why risk everything you have here?" I wondered aloud. The Sauvignon caught my eye again, but this time was an example rather than a temptation. Prison was hell for Neal, who thrived through socialization and entertainment. Now he had free autonomy, the right to see whoever he wanted, whenever he wanted (within reason), a lavish place to live, rich-tasting wines on his counter, and a job that wasn't half-bad, once he got past the mild culture shock that came from working a new angle on the same crimes. Why the _hell_ would he want to risk going back to hell after having this comparative heaven?

Neal just canted his head and turned the question back around on me. "Why would you risk everything to help me?" He plaintively replied, clearly expecting an answer.

The lying about his sources and the lying about his means, the lying about the legitimacy of his actions and lying about his actions. Fibbing about his whereabouts, omitting key details in his behavior, inventing stories and half-truths to tell in order to keep him safe and overlooked by those that would threaten him. The subtle manipulation, the looking ahead, to make allies for him in case they were needed. The _huge_ personal risk I took when I aligned myself with him against Fowler the first time, not to mention the uncertain chance of agreeing to his deal in the first place. Derek and Diana were some of the closest people in the world to me, but now I sometimes lied by omission to them without even _thinking_ about it, because I would rather be with Neal in a personal capacity than have peace of mind.

 _Huh._ I suppose that while Neal's actions on my behalf tended to be big and noticeable, mine were more frequent, and added up faster than I would have thought - like cash and change.

"I'm not going to like this argument," I grumbled, already seeing no way to justify hypocritically ordering him to look out for himself first when I didn't follow my own advice.

He nodded and squeezed me lightly with his arm. "Because you're not going to win it." I rolled my eyes. I hate losing arguments, always have. "Is there anything you can think of that could point to Fowler?"

Well, there were plenty of things that _could_ point to Clark if the angle was played right, but very little in comparison that could make Fowler look bad. The only thing that could be traced back in his direction was what he'd said to me at the disaster dinner. "Just the-" _Oh!_ "The file," I exclaimed louder than I meant too, glancing over at Mozzie. He was still part of the conversation and deserved to be treated as such. "I never looked into the file. I got too distracted by the judge and the soulmark thing."

I was sure I paled a little just at the mention of the soulmark thing. Jeez, it was enough to make me sick.

And luckily for me, the file was in my car, which meant it was well within fast reach.

Mozzie and Neal both looked at each other over the table again. Man, that could get irritating fast. "Forget comparing it to anything else," Mozzie commanded, and normally I wouldn't have taken to that at all, but the way he said it sounded urgent, and the time sensitivity made me a bit more inclined not to argue. "Playing fair isn't how you're going to get out of this."

I looked down, a little ashamed. Another of my former values that I was not only calling a _former_ value, but that I was knowingly throwing under the bus. _Trust me, Moz, I understand that I can't play fair. I just don't think you understand what that means to me personally._

"You should read it immediately for whatever it is you want to find," he finished, oblivious to the message I sent in my thoughts. He grasped the edge of the chessboard and slid it away slowly, not knocking any of the little black or white pieces out of place. The moving of the chessboard signified his attention being put onto the issue at hand.

* * *

After a period of contemplation and internal conflict on the penthouse sofa, I did a sit-up and turned my legs over the edge to get up. Neal and Mozzie were both at the table. Mozzie had only come back from his vaguely-explained "walk" a few moments prior, and he'd returned with a bag over his shoulders. Saying he'd gone to clear his head had clearly been leaving some things out.

I just wanted to get everything out before I had to think too much about it, so I tried not to think about how I was about to spill the most traumatizing event of my life to these two men I wasn't even sure I could completely trust. They were the best comrades I had, and I needed to come clean to explain the full extent of the situation they were becoming ensnared in. They deserved to know the full story.

"Clark signed off on an order to extradite a blue-collar serial killer from one state to another." I paced up the table and stood there, pushing myself up onto my toes and leading in bluntly. "Transport is always the least secure point of holding prisoners, and during the extradition, this psycho attacked his guards and escaped."

Both were bemused by the sudden opening to a seemingly unrelated case, but Neal heard that Clark was involved and he went along with it. "Wasn't he in handcuffs?"

"So was Hannibal Lecter," I deadpanned. They were nice, but they weren't infallible. Hadn't Neal ever seen _Silence of the Lambs?_ Handcuffs had not stopped him from making a snack out of his guards. Thankfully, my particular psychotic had not, as far as I knew, verged into the territory of cannibalism. "Look, Neal, I appreciate that you're not the violent type, but some people really, _really_ are. Don't question limitations from cuffs and chains."

Holding out his arms, Mozzie asked impatiently, "Why is the extradition important?"

I looked right at him and said, fighting back the nervousness that made me want to turn around and leave, "I'm the agent who arrested the killer in the first place… and then he escaped." _Killers want revenge._ Both shared a look. Mozzie didn't seem to get it. I looked to Neal for help, but he was missing something, too. I sighed. I was going to have to go in detail. "Do either of you know why I transferred down to the WCCD?" I asked them, hoping they at least had an idea so this could become a shorter discussion.

"No," Neal answered against my wishes. "You never said," he mildly reminded me, as if he wasn't fully capable of being a nosy bastard and figuring it out for himself.

 _And on that note, why the hell hadn't Mozzie?_ I turned an accusatory look on the older male, for once irritated that he hadn't violated my privacy, and stared at him, expecting a decent explanation. "I wanted to look into you but Neal drew a line," he said, still miffed about it.

I closed my fist and rubbed my cheek. So I had to go almost from scratch. _What's the quickest way to explain?_ "I worked serial crime for a very long time," I said, since they already knew that part. "But this particular psycho was really dangerous. It took months of tracking to get him." Despite that Mozzie didn't like the words "feds" and "tracking" when used together, the fact that I was talking about a killer earned a stay in his otherwise-inevitable annoyance. "He was placed in a super-max facility, and there was no chance in hell of him getting out. It looked like he was going to be given the death sentence, but then the extradition was approved, thanks to Clark. He escaped, and a few weeks later, he… found me again."

It left a bitter taste in my mouth. Not only was the control ripped from me in my memory, but it was taken away from me when I retold the story, too. He had found me, not the other way around. I had been the targeted, the victimized, the one who was hunted without even knowing until it was too late to take cover.

Quickly, Neal's eyes moved down to my stomach. He looked through my shirt like he could see where the scars were. "The scars on your stomach…" he said slowly, coming to a conclusion that looked like it sickened him. Dread filled his eyes along with anxiety and hurt, and, frowning uneasily, he looked up to my face again. "Ruiz said a psychologist put you out of your job."

I wasn't imagining the hope that I heard then, as he prayed that I hadn't actually been demoted because I'd been attacked. Neal didn't want to think about what might have happened, what _had_ happened, much less of the horrific marks left on my body being caused by anything having to do with Fowler.

I couldn't crush that hope completely. "He's… not wrong," I told Neal honestly, putting a hand down on the table and leaning against it. "I was attacked at home while Katie was working." I glanced at Mozzie, but my eyes drew my attention back to Neal, who was looking up at me in horror and sympathy with widened blue orbs that seemed unable to look away. "I healed up alright, not really any medical complications. The killer had a surgical background, so he knew how not to kill me.

"Problem was," I licked my lips as I forced myself to proceed. "The mental ramifications made a psychological evaluation mandatory, and my therapist advised that my trauma could cloud my judgment." I still felt insulted by that. If anyone's judgment was clouded, it was Crane's, who thought that my moodiness was caused by my painkillers. He _did_ realize I'd been all but flayed, right? I was moody because I'd been tortured, not because I was able to feel a little bit of relief from the wounds which had still been healing at the time. "So Ruiz got my job, and I was transferred to a less high-stakes division."

 _"_ _Sorry, you must be a level four friend to unlock my career backstory,"_ I'd told Neal while we overlooked the river Paul Ignacio was fished out of. _Guess you've reached level four friend status,_ I thought at him a little nervously. Who knew that level four friend status entailed committing crime with each other as we discovered that corrupt FBI agents were involved in setting free should've-been death row killers for the purpose of maiming me?

They were both looking at me like I was a martyr or something. Mozzie was sympathetic, but there was also some pity there, and that was the last thing I wanted him to feel for me. I didn't need pity. It wasn't going to change what had happened or what I felt about it now. I couldn't even look at Neal anymore, and I turned my eyes down to the table while I finished in a low voice.

"I wanted to compare this to the other files Fowler was working on at the time, but… at dinner the other night, he said something about this case. It was about the attack on me. And I know because I've read it all a dozen times that it wasn't anything officially recorded." It was concerning how much time I'd spent reviewing everything, not just on catching the killer, but on what had been done to me. The medical bills, the overviews, summaries, reports, statements. It was all a long nightmare I'd been unable to stay away from. I wanted _closure_ that seemed impossible to get. "He had to be in on it somehow. And… having his pocket judge approve the extradition?" That seemed a touch obvious.

Mozzie, intelligent despite the way he sometimes seemed to believe in the most insane conspiracies, read into my tone and could tell what I was holding off on saying. "You think Fowler had Clark sign off on the extradition so that your whacko had the chance to escape." He and Neal both looked revolted by the idea, which was pleasantly reassuring. It was nice to get the reminder that they were both anti-homicide. "Why? You didn't even _know_ Neal then," he pointed out.

The odds that Fowler had come after Neal and me for separate reasons that just happened to converge when we met each other were ridiculously against the odds of probability, so I honestly didn't know what I could have done to get that attention from him. I certainly hadn't hurt anyone enough to deserve being tortured.

"No," I sighed. "Look, there are a lot of reasons why he could have orchestrated it, and I don't know why." I pulled my hands through my hair, the ends a little messy and tangled from lying on the couch. Cupping the back of my neck, I let my shoulders fall with emotional defeat. "Right now, I don't think it's as important as proving it to someone else, except I'm not sure paper evidence exists."

Neal held out his hand. I set my palm in his and let him squeeze my fingers, promising himself that nothing was happening to me while I was in his penthouse. I'd been hurt long before he was even in the picture. "You and Katie have been on his radar for a long time," he sullenly understood.

"We must've been," I agreed with a sinking heart, moving closer to Neal and dragging light fingers through the hair at the back of his neck. He felt safe, like a heavy blanket I could wrap around me and hide underneath. "You know I can't-" I stopped and took a deep, steadying breath. "I can't prove he was involved, right?"

"I know." Neal leaned his head back, pushing his neck against my hand, eyes closing. "Just like we can't prove he has Kate." But we believed it, and that was the point.

"Fowler's a snake," Mozzie vehemently accused. He meant it as more than just name-calling; he was using it as a metaphor, and a crudely good one. "Dangerous and slippery. That's why you've got to stay on the board but off the grid, like he is. You won't win by taking the high road," he warned, preparing me to stop holding myself up in that lighting.

"He's manipulating my sister," I reminded him in a growl, pissed just at the recollection. I twisted my hand out of Neal's. "I'm done playing fair. What've you got?"

He might as well have preened and said with a flourish that he was glad I asked. Sweeping his arm over the table, he shoved everything else out of the way to clear the left side. He dropped an old, vintage-styled backpack on top of the table with a thump and unbuckled the flap.

"Fowler is sending his private courier to pick up the tape at eight AM," he narrated, taking out a kid's toy truck and wheeling the stiff little wheels squeakily over the table to rest in the center between himself and Neal.

I pulled up a chair and sat down to watch the demonstration, straddling the seat backwards and leaning onto my arms at the edge of the table. Neal looked oddly at the toy meant to represent the van. "You've got the approach?" He asked, wisely choosing not to comment on the prop.

"Don't I always?" Mozzie asked him, annoyed that it even had to be asked. "The courier truck will pull up to the front entrance and check in." He pushed the toy a few inches to symbolize driving. "When the driver steps out of the truck, I stall him."

"How are you gonna do that?" Neal unconsciously shifted to hold himself the same way I was, crossing his arms at the edge and leaning down onto his forearms, legs shifting apart as if he was sitting the other way on his chair.

Mozzie rolled his eyes. "With my obvious charm, of course," he sarcastically replied. Neal's question, which seemed perfectly legitimate to me, was evidently too dumb to be worthy of an actual, decent answer.

Neal blinked once and then replied worriedly, "Do we have backup?"

"Ha, ha," the shorter man laughed insincerely, glaring at me while I giggled. Eyes locked on me to convey his disappointment with my traitorous humor, he reached blindly back into his bag and took out a huge mass of folded dark grey fabric, shaking it out. A button on the front gave away that it was clothing. "There's a security camera blind spot over in the parking lot where the courier van will have to pull up, so while I stall-"

"I come out of the blind spot, dressed as the courier," Neal put together reasonably, taking the shirt from Mozzie and shaking it out over the floor, snapping it out to look. It was made for someone stockier than the artist.

"Exactly." Mozzie looked proud of himself.

"I don't think that's gonna fit him," I pointed out. It was certainly big enough, but it would look strange, wouldn't it?

Mozzie gave me another dirty look. I wasn't very good at this whole 'con planning' thing, if his expressions were anything to go by. "It's oddly difficult to find a tailor in the dead of night," he told me slowly. I nodded slowly. _Yeah, whatever._ "I did the best I could."

I looked back at Neal, who was holding up the shirt over his torso with the arms stretched out along his own. I pulled at the side and pressed it against his waist, seeing how much slack there was. Maybe it wouldn't be five-star, but I could make it look more buyable with some safety pins, especially if the accompanying pants were tall enough to tuck the shirt in. The boys would just have to live with subpar clothing alteration. A little two-star treatment wasn't going to kill them.

"It's a park ranger uniform," I grumbled when I looked back up on Neal's body to compare the width to his chest and saw the residue where an iron-on nametag had been ripped off. The dull look made more sense.

The returned stare that I was given made me feel like a child. "I'm sorry, your highness," Mozzie melodramatically bowed his head in deference while bitingly adding, "I didn't realize you had such high standards for saving your career."

Shutting up and putting my hands up defensively, I leaned back in my chair. There was no winning here. Mozzie was touchier than usual and I decided it was probably because actively planning a con in front of a fed went against everything he knew about cons, and he was pushing himself way out of his comfort zone. Disgruntled, Mozzie passed a fabric sticker from the bottom of his bag out to Neal.

Neal turned it around to look at it. "With an iron-on," he said, seeing the name of the hired courier company.

"I couldn't find a thimble." Neal started to smirk at the iron-on patch. "You go into the office as the courier and pick up the tape." Mozzie had one more thing in that bag of his before it slouched down and almost fell off of the table with nothing to weigh it down. A thick rectangular magnet joined the truck in the center of the table. "Then, you use this."

_Ooh, what are you going to do, decorate her office?_

"What's the refrigerator magnet supposed to be?" My conman asked, likely wondering something around the same lines.

"A refrigerator magnet." Anticlimactically, Mozzie picked it up again and rubbed one side over his palm demonstratively. "But it's _actually_ a high-grade neodymium magnet."

 _Oh!_ "The magnetic field will completely erase the tape." _Clever._

"Yes, thoroughly." As I recognized the stroke of genius behind the magnetic tampering, Mozzie sat straighter and praised himself. I was going to regret acting so enthusiastic about that part. He pointed at Neal. "Then _you_ change your clothes, hand over the newly-blanked tape to the _actual_ courier."

"No one knows I was there," Neal processed.

"And everyone stays out of jail," Mozzie concluded, satisfied.

Slowly nodding along to express his approval, Neal turned his head to look at me thoughtfully. "What do you think, Kenna?" He inquired, trying to be considerate and keep me involved.

I couldn't be totally thrilled about him pretending to be a courier, but as far as crimes went, this one was pretty crafty and didn't leave behind much evidence to speak of. Quick, clean, in-and-out. "There's no theft," I acknowledged. That was a definite plus. "And magnetic tampering is very hard to prove, especially because it would involve Fowler admitting that he obtained it unethically." I couldn't see a problem with it, so long as the distraction actually held out long enough. That would fall to Mozzie, and at worst case, I could intervene. I was very good at baiting and provoking arguments. Everything settled into place, leaving just one thing unaccounted for. "What do I do?"

Mozzie raised his eyebrows at me and looked shocked I even had to ask. "Um, _you_ stay out of the way," he ordered.

I leaned back and narrowed my eyes. _He_ was trying to command me to stay out of a con they were running for my sake? What, did he think I'd be totally cool with remaining on the sidelines and being the helpless damsel while they exposed themselves to some form of trouble or retribution?

"Clark knows what you look like. Fowler's probably told the courier to watch out for you." Mozzie waved away my indignant stare. Neal looked away from me, not wanting to argue but also agreeing with his friend. "It's best that you're just not involved at all, lest a siren be raised." Mozzie picked up the toy car and pushed it into his pocket, finalizing his own plan in spite of my objection.

Not that he was _wrong._ If Fowler was overly paranoid, he might have told the courier to call him as soon as he saw me. Humans weren't always predictable, and if Clark went out of her way and noticed that I was hanging around, she might abort her plan and ruin the entire con. I didn't like it, but I didn't have anything better to offer, either. Being benched felt a little insulting, and it made me feel as though I was letting my friends do all of the work for me, but if I involved myself, then I might actually put them in more danger.

"I can't believe it, but I'm actually up for this." North Korea going democratic would have been a shocker, but I couldn't even comprehend how it was my own voice condoning the illegal scheme. So much had changed and extenuating circumstances counted for a lot of my relaxing rules… how much would have happened regardless of whether or not I'd taken Neal on as my CI? "I can meet you in front of the judge's before the van gets there, but if I avoid the bureau until then, people are going to get suspicious. Fowler will take the opportunity to make it seem like I'm evading."

"So you go into the office," Neal stated obviously. "Act like you don't know what's going on." I pursed my lips and started to look after him, far from astounded by his reasoning. Did he think my first impulse would be to moan and complain about the upcoming inquiry where everyone would hear?

Mozzie took up the iron-on from the table, picking it up after sliding it to the edge. He was probably going to get to work on making the outfit work. We were pressed for time. It was mere hours until we had to set this quickly-devised course of action into progress.

"Better yet, act like you know exactly what's going on, but don't know how to stop it," he advised, essentially telling me to manipulate my coworkers. Neal bit his lip. I scraped my teeth over my tongue, reluctant to be so falsely vulnerable – especially to Derek and Diana, who I knew actually cared about me. "Be the victim, but not the guilty party."

 _Play the victim._ That sentiment echoed meaningfully. I stared at my arms, a nauseated feeling in my stomach. I'd been the victim for longer than I had known. Not only was I victimized as I was attacked, but I'd been victimized when Køhler was extradited and every second since that Fowler had been looking into me, working to knock me down for the count from behind the scenes, even long before I met Neal, way before I had any idea about the music box. I didn't like to call myself a victim, but if I said that I wasn't one, it would have been a lie.

Under my breath, I muttered, "That's the role I've been playing for a lot longer than I thought."

* * *

I emerged from my office in search of coffee before I completely became a zombie. Not sleeping all night didn't give me the right energy to take on such a high-profile case, or even to run a con (and even saying that made me feel all weird), but I didn't have a choice. I had only a few hours before I was going to be doing my best to keep my friends out of trouble while they risked being arrested to save me from damning evidence. _Everything looks bad when you take it out of context._ I had a more than fair background with the bureau, but if Fowler brought them the tape before I came forward about a sting operation… it wouldn't look good, and there wasn't time to put all the paperwork forward through the legal channels for it to be cleared. If I were constrained to legal means, my hands would be tied behind my back and double-knotted with the thickest rope in the world.

 _What the hell am I going to do?_ I thought, miserably stirring my coffee with a plastic spoon and mixing in granulated sugar. It was bad enough when I was dealing with nightmares and bruised pride, the insult of being demoted coupled with the injury of being tortured on my living room floor. I didn't know when I was lucky. If I hadn't been demoted, I wouldn't have gotten Neal. I don't have nightmares as much as usual when sleeping with someone else nearby, and on the occasions that I do, I wake him up with terrified pants or half-conscious cries, and he's never been anything less than understanding. Now what do I have? My job in jeopardy, my life being manipulated on strings, my sister the innocent victim of a nuts agent who wants to tear me and my own mate down to the ground for a _stupid_ music box.

"I survived," I reminded myself, squeezing my eyes shut until I saw shapes behind my eyelids, and then I blinked my eyes open to look at slowly-swirling coffee. "I survived then and I'm alive now, and I have people to fight for." As long as I had my people to protect – my sister to defend and my mate to keep free, and my brother to shield, and my few other friends to keep out of the war ground – then I would have all the motivation I needed to keep going.

"Yes." I almost screamed, but my voice caught in my throat. I jerked violently around, almost knocking my coffee cup off of the table when I turned to see Derek standing in the doorway of the kitchenette. I calmed down quickly, but smarted from being caught by surprise. "Yes, you do."

He was agreeing with me, must've heard me bracing myself against what he couldn't possibly know I was planning, or the extent of the trouble that I was in. I ached to tell him, but equally, I wanted to keep him out of it. The more he knew, the more of a target he would be for the same person who took Kate Moreau. He kidnapped her because he thought she knew something and could be used against Neal. I can't let someone I love be placed in a similar position for those reasons.

Again, I wished I'd taken at least a catnap on Neal's couch.

"Derek?" With one hand pressing the top onto the cardboard cup, I rubbed the heel of my other palm against my eyes in turn. When I looked at him again and my eyes focused on him, he was still just as real as before. "It's like four in the morning, bro. What are you doing?"

"Just catching up on some paperwork." I snorted. Derek stuck out his tongue at me and moved to the side when I picked up my drink and moved to pass him and walk back out of the kitchenette. Derek coming in before six or staying after ten to work on paperwork was unheard of. If it was that pressing, he'd take it home and play a sports or home renovation channel in the background. I got the impression he was rolling his eyes before he tried to keep up with the lie. "I'm a little behind with the pencil-pushing things."

"You heard about the OPR investigation." I stated quietly, stopping in my tracks between two of the agents' empty desks, turning to look at my brother in all but blood with a heavy heart and crushing conscience. I was still keeping it from him, and it felt so wrong, like bugs crawling under my skin. I shuddered. Of course he wouldn't say outright that that's what he was here for. He may like to pick me up and carry me over his shoulder at home, but at work, he has the utmost respect for me as an agent. Hearing that I was under suspicion must've rubbed him in all the wrong ways.

He bowed his head. "Things get around fast," he admitted.

I looked at him for a long minute and then sighed, shaking my head. I didn't want him involved, but there was no way he was going to leave. Even with nothing that the police could do, Derek would never pack up and go home with a "good luck" and a pat on the back. He didn't have to know what I was planning with the conmen, but he was involved. He and Diana both were, and it was only a matter of time before things escalated even further. Pushing them away wouldn't help me to keep a hold on it; in fact, it would do the opposite. I had to be touched that he cared enough to risk looking like he had bad judgment to try to deter an OPR agent's approach against me, even without the foreknowledge that what Fowler would _really_ have was a recording featuring static and crackling audio.

After starting to reach out and then hesitating to touch his shoulder (was I betraying my team by breaking the law?), I landed my palm on his upper arm and stood up on my toes to kiss his cheek. This one had a heart of gold, and even if mine was less morally-straight than I had thought, I couldn't drag him down with me. My emotional needs were used to being suppressed; I could take on my stress on my own. I had to.

"I'll put on some extra coffee. Thanks, Derek." _Wow._ That was weak, but gratitude was all I could manage to offer. "I just don't get how this happened." I was being truthful and dishonest at the same time; I knew exactly how it had happened, but was at a loss for when things had gotten so far behind my back. I'd been so caught up in the excitement of work and the thrill of an illicit affair that Fowler had gotten his claws in deep around me before I had noticed, and now it was just a continual game of dodge.

When I moved to step away, his hand trailed along my back, refusing to just let go as simply as he should have. "You… might want to make an entire new pot." Eyes shifty, he avoided looking right at me and instead sought out the elevators through the doors at the entry to the bullpen meaningfully.

I turned around to look at what he was pointing out. "What…?" One of the lights on the elevators turned yellow, and the doors started to slide open.

I couldn't believe what I was seeing! Three-fifty in the morning, and a stream of over a dozen agents were filing out of the elevator, some already carrying coffee or snacks. Pleasant chatter between a few of them died down as – as Diana Berrigan held open the door to the White-Collar Crime Division, allowing the others to enter with welcome into the bright artificial lighting and plain building walls, walking with purpose, some of them, the younger ones, alight with fire and righteous indignation and others, more of the older, more experienced ones, grim but mulishly stubborn.

Diana, Derek – the usual two that always had my back. Then there was Cruz, a Virginian transfer from Quantico who had joined the division fairly recently. Spencer, a mid-thirties man who kept mostly to himself but had a predilection for math and was the go-to for accounting and laundering records. I recognized Arthur Landry and Clinton Jones, agents from DC who had brought us the hedge fund scam case. Madison Cookler was behind them, and although we had never officially met, I had saved her life when Avery caught on to that she was a mole in his operation. Hughes followed after, exchanging low words with none other than Eric Ruiz, the head of organized crime who constantly wanted me either bent over a desk or five miles away from him, probably warning him not to start a scene. Captain Sheppard from the NYPD was taking a proffered protein bar from Special Agent First, a coordinator also responsible for manufacturing the false documents of my team's undercover aliases. A couple of other agents in organized crime who, after a second, I remembered to have been my drivers before the explosion in the car that Ghovat planted. A fairly new agent, whom I'd personally driven to the hospital when she was injured by a stray bullet in pursuit of an armed suspect a few months before my first meeting with Neal…

I didn't even realize what I was doing until I had already covered my mouth with my hands and started blinking, trying to push back the tears that wanted to stream down my face. How else was I supposed to feel, confronted by all of these people who wanted to help me against what was supposedly irrefutable evidence? You didn't just go up against OPR, but that's what they were all willing to do – stand up to Fowler on my behalf.

"Oh my God," I breathed, more of a squeak because my voice was high and throat was tight and tense.

Derek chuckled and rubbed my back a couple of times.

Diana mock saluted me as she let go of the heavy, metal-framed door, allowing it to close on its own behind her. The agents who worked in the white-collar division grabbed their own desks; others either picked out empty seats or stood around for instruction from someone more familiar with the unit. "We've got your back, Boss," she called up the room.

"So does Agent Burke." Hughes held up a phone high enough for me to see from across the bullpen. I could hardly believe the scene unfolding in front of me and was starting to get choked up.

 _So much for my agency turning on me!_ I'd never been so incredibly thankful or stunned by my bureau before, never felt as strongly about the misfit mishmash of different units and divisions as I did right then, at that exact moment.

I swallowed. "What are you doing here, Ruiz?" I asked, but I asked it lightly, not demanding and not looking to start a fight. I was desperate; I could overlook the disparaging and downright vulgar snaps he'd made at me months ago if he was here to be productive, and I doubted Hughes would have allowed him in if Ruiz was feeling particularly hostile.

True to form, he made an aggravated face at hearing my voice and turned his nose up. "You're a pain in my ass," he made sure to re-establish. Derek huffed and I heard the exasperation in his breathing. "But even _I_ don't think you'd go corrupt," he grudgingly added when a couple of others glared at him for his oh-so-helpful contribution, and I bit down hard on my lower lip to stop from grinning and even though my teeth were pulling at my flesh, I didn't manage to keep my smile in check.

* * *

I could not recall a time in my life when the conference room had been busier than it currently was – not even when I'd had the review boards to meet with after Køhler attacked me and screwed up my career. All fourteen seats were filled up, and Derek and I were still standing!

I still could not believe my luck. I wanted to take a picture. I wanted the photographic evidence to show to Neal and Mozzie and frame it as a precious memory – but the cons would never possibly understand how much this scene meant to me, and it was probably not a moment that I should freeze in time and save forever anyway. This may be the most danger my job had ever been in, but it was looking to be the highlight of my career at the same time.

The balloon swelling in my chest and the water that wanted to leak through my eyes were both subdued with figurative chains. This was still work. All of these agents wanted to be put to work however I needed them, so I gave them orders. Well, more accurately, I briefed them on the situation.

Not the full situation, of course. There was only so much I could tell them, and accusing an OPR agent of corruption was probably more than any of them would want to take on, with the exception of my _take-the-bull-by-the-horns-and-rip-the-horns-off_ partners, but I assigned them as well as everyone else to the mortgage fraud case, including looking into Clark and the Sullivan foreclosure.

"All nine of the suspicious foreclosures have the exact same criteria," I lectured at the front of the room. Typically I'd have been carrying a file to at least fact-check as I gave the speech, but I knew this inside and out by now after the long night with Neal and Moz, and I didn't need the papers any more than I needed another headache. "The owner of the property has recently passed on after drifting out of contact with the relatives using the house. They're all in the same socioeconomic demographic; middle-class families in suburban areas with legitimate, yet not prestigious, jobs."

"What about the banks and loan offers?" Derek asked, looking through the Sullivan file again with a new perspective and closer eyes. Knowing that it was connected to other illegitimate foreclosures made it much more interesting.

"No, those are different in each case," I went ahead and told him before he wasted time looking. That had been one of the first lines Neal and I had thought to pursue on our own. "There's only been one overlap, but it was the same district." Which meant it wasn't actually all too strange. "I think these people are doing their jobs and just don't realize that they're being given false information," I said hopefully at the front of the room. Maybe it was naïve, but I hoped that Fowler didn't have so many dirty civil servants that there was an entire ring profiting from this. "Judge Clark sees these cases first as estate litigations, and that puts her in a prime position to look into the families. If they're not talking, she can forge the mortgage contracts. She's very careful to ensure that even if the targets _don't_ believe the mortgage is real, they don't have enough money to take it to court with the banks."

Ruiz pressed the tip of an ink pen into the pad of his middle finger with his dominant right hand, trying to balance it with as little help from his hand as possible. "Either the family has to pay up and give up the home or they lose everything all at once." The organized crime agent gave up on balancing the pen and let it fall off of his finger, catching it between two others smoothly. "That's playing real dirty," he said, repulsed.

"For once, I think we might agree on something," I stated with very little shock. Ruiz wouldn't have made it into the bureau if he didn't at least have some sense of justice, and just because he was sexist didn't mean that he thought children needed to be kicked out of their homes and forced to live on the streets. He's a piece of work, yes, but not a monster.

Diana had her phone out. I usually let my agents use their electronics during briefings because of the resources they can get from the devices. They just get in trouble if I can tell that they aren't paying attention. Diana was. "It looks like the mean prices of the loans are three hundred fifty thousand, with some obvious range by appraisers, insurance, and credit rates."

Lauren Cruz was fresh blood to the FBI. She started working less than two years ago after acing her doctoral program at an Ivy League college and then graduating in the top ranks of her class at the Academy. Also with classes in Hebrew and a background that involved criminology, advanced math, and foreign politics, she was an ideal candidate for the FBI, especially a white-collar division.

"Where's all the money going?" She asked, lifting her head from the photocopied folder in her lap and twisting straightened dark brown hair around her fingers.

I cocked my head towards her. Now that was a good question to ask. "David Sullivan's foreclosure hasn't been completed yet," I told her. "Get a couple of agents following the money to see who gets it, where, and when."

"Hey!" Very suddenly, Jones leaned back from his laptop out on top of the table, pushing his chair back. His hands went up quickly.

"We're down," First told me, much calmer than Jones was. Jones looked ready to hit his keyboard, but Cookler put a hand on his shoulder and the guy sighed, calming down and instead smacking the side of his hand lightly on the edge of the desk.

"What do you mean? What happened?" A little under half of the agents with me had their computers out, and only two of them weren't looking incredibly frustrated, no matter how calm they seemed to handle it. I assumed those two were on a different focus than the others.

Spencer turned his laptop around so I could look down at the screen. The webpage had kicked the accountant off and demanded that any further inquiries be shut down or sent through the appropriate channels, but to not try to continue accessing from an unapproved server.

"Someone just sealed the judge's files," the man told me when I huffed and bit my lip, looking down at the table.

 _Fowler,_ I thought to myself, aggravated that he was still covering his tracks. He reduced me to hiding in a conference room with agents who weren't even supposed to be here, working desperately on any lead I could get my hands on, and he still wasn't done? _Doesn't he know that in chess, you wait until someone else makes their move before you go again?_

Derek looked at Spencer's screen, too. Then he looked at me, the concern shadowed on his face. He wouldn't say it, but I knew what he was thinking – if they couldn't get the judge, how slim were the odds that they could clear my name?

"What next?" He asked, trying and failing not to sound worried.

I looked off to the side. There wasn't all that much that was left to do – the legal was being shut down, the illegal was being handled, and all that remained was the grey area, where it wasn't wrong but it wasn't exactly admissible in court, either. _What the hell._ I needed _something._ All I needed was _one_ lead that would get me the evidence I had to have, and then the rest of the plot would come crumbling down around Clark's ears.

"I go back to my original source," I murmured, frowning at the window as the grey sunlight dawned through the blinds. What time did retired cops still in their thirties get up?

* * *

It turned out that they woke up too early for someone who called themselves retired. I didn't even have to start using my fists on the door before I was answered, standing right outside his front door on the porch. He lived in Brooklyn, in a baby blue-painted two-story condo, which wasn't too far of a drive to manage, especially not when I cheated and put on my sirens. Well, it _was_ urgent police business. Sort of.

It should be noted that in spite of the immediacy of my situation and the very time-sensitive operation that I was _supposed_ to be at very soon, I had planned a nice "hello" and even an "I'm sorry to come straight to your house like this." It wasn't truly my fault that those pleasantries were skipped – I wasn't even given a chance to say them.

Herrera opened the door slowly, just ajar a crack to look out and see who it was. Upon seeing my face, he sighed loudly, not at all concerned with seeming annoyed, but let the door glide open further. He stood in the foyer in loose-fitting exercise pants and a grey wife beater top. "What do you want, Anderson?" He asked grouchily.

Well, if we weren't going to waste any time… "I'm close to Clark," I forewent filtering myself. " _Really_ close." Herrera's eyebrows went up in a measured and guarded reaction. I pushed my hands into my pockets. "But now I'm about to lose my job," I admitted, neglecting to add that I was also risking a jail sentence.

The former detective wasn't even a little bit surprised. He exhaled through his nose in a sigh, turning his head down to his toes and rocking onto his heels.

"This is why you resigned, isn't it?" I peered at him curiously. I didn't need to see his eyes to read his reaction – disappointment, empathy, frustration, and, perhaps the strongest, the fulfilled expectation. Maybe Clark didn't have him on tape seemingly accepting a bribe, but she must've gotten something else, or twisted things to look bad, and quitting while he was ahead was the only way to protect himself. "You tried to warn me before I made the same mistakes," I murmured. I hadn't listened.

He looked up, shaking his head. "I don't know what you're talking about. I didn't do anything," he declared. I realized very swiftly that whatever dirt they had on him, they were still using it as leverage. If he came out of the woodwork, they were going to either scare him back in or nail him to a criminal file.

"I'm not resigning," I stated boldly, my stubbornness showing through. I dug my heels in physically as well as figuratively. Herrera had done the best thing for himself, but I had more than just myself to protect. Giving up on myself meant not just losing my job and my standing, but Neal losing his freedom and safety, and Katie losing her protection from the corrupt bastards in the system using us to get to the music box. "If I'm losing my job, I'm going down fighting, and I'm taking the judge down with me."

Puffing like he wished he had a cigarette, the man turned his head the other direction to look over my other shoulder and see down the street. He stepped barefoot out onto the porch and gently tugged the door until it clicked almost silently, then lifted his hands to his face, rubbed his chin tiredly, and clasped his hands in front of his stomach.

"Look. Off the record, whoever's giving this judge her cover, they won't stop at you." He stared at me intently, forcing me to be aware of what kind of storm I was bringing if I didn't voluntarily go under. "You understand that, right?"

I appreciated the concern, no matter what the basis was, for the family he thought was still safe and ignorant to the turmoil and the waves trying to drag me underwater. "I know," I nodded emphatically, so strongly that my neck started hurting. "I know who it is. It's an OPR agent in the bureau."

Though not surprised, Herrera looked like he had expected something else. Or maybe he just didn't expect me to have gotten so close that I knew which person in specific was behind the corrupt judge and the fictitious evidence and the advances on the people who were just trying to do their jobs with honor.

"Then you understand he's going to come after your friends and family," he firmly cautioned.

"He's already doing that!" I exclaimed, hushing myself at the last minute and throwing my arms out wide. "You remember Neal?" He nodded briefly, thinking back to Starbucks. The designer suit, the fancy cufflinks. "This agent already tried to frame him for a heist." I accused flatly. "He has a free pass into my house because he faked a _soulmark_ to get close to my sister."

Finally, there was a real, agitated emotion – _anger._ Herrera was apparently one of the many people who believed that soulmates were just too important, too beloved, to screw around with and mislead by, which would work for me. The complete invasion of my sister's privacy and the manipulation of her feelings was what wound me up, not the faking of the mark in principle. It was the undisciplined cruelty and lack of regard for Kate's personal soulmark that drove me up the wall.

"This is _going_ to _stop_ ," I promised in a growl. "I don't know if I can get him out today, but I'm not giving up on taking out Clark." Nor would I take my sights off of Fowler, but the most important things came first. You don't attack the queen without first limiting her defenses. "I just need to find the money from the Sullivan loan."

Looking away from me, Herrera pinched his bottom lip between his thumb and his forefinger, pulling until the flesh slid out of his grip. It took time for him to work up the courage to confide. I wasn't completely sure he didn't still think I might be someone working _for_ Clark to figure out everything he knew. It was the kind of paranoia that I might end up having after this experience.

He must have decided that the risk of letting such a monster run rampant was greater than what repercussions may come if I was, in fact, on Fowler's side. "I got shut down when I…" his voice faded and he cleared his throat, coughing harshly. "I requested a search warrant for the judge's chambers and alleged evidence started coming up against me." He nodded with a sort of finality. "Start there."

"Really?" I gaped. It was that obvious? I'd have thought they'd be more discreet, more careful – but that was the trick, wasn't it? What's more obvious than her workplace? What's illegal to break in and rummage through? What _requires_ a warrant to look inside, where anyone keeping an eye on it will know exactly who wants to do what to look for which items?

I knew that Mozzie wouldn't want the plan to change, but I was already altering it in my head, vibrating in enthusiasm as I came up with my own new ideas. He wasn't the only one allowed to be clever. With this hint, we could turn the tables.

"I think I know exactly how to get to it," I said, affording him the plausible deniability of leaving it at that. It was the least I could do. I'd have shaken his hand, but he was antsy to get back inside and away from the agent that kept asking for trouble. "I really owe you, detective," I swore, backing up and placing a hand on the rail to support my trip down off the porch steps. "I have to go, but I owe you."

* * *

**I'm starting to realize just how often I write to you about bullies and being picked on and knocked down. It happens a lot. I wish it didn't but it does and that really just makes me angry.**

**But that's the thing, isn't it? It makes me angry. It makes other people feel sad or embarrassed or ashamed. I will get up and knock someone out if I need to protect myself. A good portion of the people around me wouldn't. It makes me sad. No one should feel like they have to take this lying down. Someone has to stand up for them if they won't do it themselves. The problem is that it doesn't seem like anyone is willing to take on that responsibility. Maybe they're lazy, maybe they're not brave enough… I don't know, but either way, I don't like it. It makes me feel angry.**

**I think about justice a lot. Fairness, too. How is it fair for a girl to be shunned by her classmates because her boyfriend broke up with her? I asked a girl on the soccer team when I found her crying in the bathroom. She wouldn't have sex with him because she didn't want to give him her virginity, so her boyfriend broke her heart, called her a cunt for leading him on, and then told everyone who would listen that she begged him to do her in a movie theater. Pathetic. Now she's being ostracized and taunted for sexual activity she refused to have, and if she refutes it, then she's a lying bitch.**

**How is it fair for a boy to be publicly humiliated because he likes to draw? I heard that the teachers found one of the fifteen-year-old boys assaulted and stripped naked in the schoolyard, bound up to a pole where anyone – and most everyone – saw. They wrote slurs on his chest in chalk and mocked his body. They took photographs, and a week later, the teachers are still having to rip them off of bulletins, because 'the artsy faggot was just modeling for us. We're just helping other kids learn what a homo looks like.'**

**They made the mistake of saying that when I was near. I turned around and walked right up to the teacher and student. I took the photo myself, ripped it down the middle, and told him that being so determined to reprint and repost pictures of another guy's junk seemed pretty fucking gay to me.**

**Are these just social justices? Or should they be legally punishable? I'm worried that no one will ever take these things seriously. If I'm the only person putting my food down and retaliating, then ninety percent of this school will go out into the real world and let these things happen on larger scales. Someone's gotta make sure that doesn't happen.**

**No one, regardless of age or sex or gender or race or orientation or interest, is entitled to another person's body. No one has the right to torment another human being for defending themselves or their right to say no. No one should ever be shamed and humiliated for the laughter of others, no one should ever have their bodily rights or their privacy violated for some pathetic bastards' amusement. A woman can say no and not be a cunt. A man can like art and not be gay. A woman can say yes and not be a slut. A man can hate art and not be uneducated.**

**I want to petition that everyone can be whoever they fucking want to be and everyone can be beautiful and free and precious and the only issue comes when they hurt others to get what they want. But no one would ever agree with me, because defying stereotypes is something to be ashamed of.**

**So in the meantime, it's me and a small little percentage of the world up against the vast cultural ignorance of what should be and what isn't.**

**Love (and be fair),**

**Zarra L**


	20. I'm Gonna Run This Town

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> McKenna has a new plan of attack to beat both Clark and Fowler - with Neal's and Mozzie's help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Lucy Hale's "Run This Town."
> 
> Advance warning: Zarra's letter at the end of this chapter touches on reproductive coercion and victim blaming, as well as briefly mentions nonconsensual drug use and attempted rape. Please read with caution, or skip the bold-fonted section at the end if these topics could be distressing.

**_Chapter Twenty – I'm Gonna Run This Town_ **

I was going to forever maintain that what I did hadn't been misleading, it had just been a bit of a misconception between me and the techie who hadn't been in the bureau very long. Regardless of how I acquired it, I got my hands on an inconspicuous hearing device and the corresponding equipment and carried them out to my car while bundled up in my jacket.

Traffic could have been better, but I also knew that it could have been a lot worse for early morning Manhattan roads. Overall I considered myself lucky that I still had time to spare when I found parallel parking by a meter, shoving a few coins in with one hand tightly clenching the bug, worried that if I opened my palm, someone might see and know what I was up to – it didn't matter to my nerves how ridiculous of a fear that was.

Neal and Mozzie were already by the courthouse in the place we'd agreed to meet. There was a parking garage attached to the side and the pillars holding up the second story were large and round and close to the circular drive around the front of the building. The courier's van was going to take the route up to the front steps, blocking the security camera for a moment. Mozzie was going to come out of hiding as the distraction, Neal was going to slip past in his altered park ranger uniform, and… I was going to stay out of sight, but within hearing and watching range, by the pillar in the shadows, prepared to come out and do damage control if Mozzie's distraction worked _too_ well and distracted some other people, too. Like the police. Which seemed unlikely, but he was paranoid and to be honest, so was I.

"Neal!" I jogged up to them while resisting the urge to sprint. I was in a hurry, just like everyone else in the city. I wasn't on some covert mission to break the law, so why act out of place? "Neal," I said again, getting their attention.

Mozzie looked distinctly unpleased with my timing. "Was starting to wonder if you'd chicken out, Suit," he told me, ruffled. He could have been a lot meaner about it. Moz was just happy I'd actually showed up.

"Take this." Arguing with Mozzie was pointless even in the most convenient of times, so I reached for Neal's hand and pulled his wrist up. Slipping the bug from my palm into my fingers, I pressed it into his open hand and curled his fingers into a fist. "It's another bug," I confirmed his suspicions as he opened his palm to look. "Fowler sealed her files. Herrera said he was iced down when he tried getting into her chambers. Forget not touching anything. Touch _everything._ Make it look like someone tried robbing her."

Mozzie put his foot down. Literally. Twice. As hard as he could against the concrete. "Whoa, this is _not_ part of the plan!" Not listening, Neal held up the bug and turned it over thoughtfully. Disbelieving his friend's contemplation, Mozzie tugged on the extra fabric gathered up by Neal's side. "They're going to assume _you_ did it!" He added at me, meant to both put me in check and remind Neal that it just made me look worse.

I shook my head. I knew the initial blame would be on me, but I would tell my colleagues I went to speak to Herrera, and since it wasn't a lie, I doubted he wouldn't corroborate my alibi. I also knew that for Clark to have gotten sly with me, she had used her own resources, not any official ones, which meant the odds of Neal being caught – let alone while he was in costume – were much lower than they had been on me being recorded.

"The only camera in the judge's office is her own camcorder, which isn't set up because the tape is being sent to Fowler. They won't have any way of knowing who's done it," I promised. Mozzie needed to figure out sooner or later that I wasn't going to be jeopardizing Neal for kicks. I turned back to him and caught his wrist, lowering his hand and making him look at me instead of the neat little tool. Neal's expression was that of a kid who wanted the toy he'd been playing with in the store. "Don't _actually_ take anything," I ordered. I wouldn't have put it past Fowler to do a sudden and unprecedented search if Clark told him things had actually been moved. "But make it look like someone is trying to find something. Something's definitely in there, but if we freak her out, she'll try to move it. And she must have an accomplice to handle the laundering, so while she's talking to the accomplice, _we_ can hear what she's doing with it."

Mildly impressed, Neal seemed to agree. "It could work," he told Mozzie optimistically, licking his lips and grinning at me.

Mozzie glared at both of us. I got the impression we were acting like unruly children. "It could _backfire,"_ he argued.

"So could faking the signatures," Neal responded ostensibly. I grimaced. _Yes, because I needed to be reminded of the real concern here._ "Moz, this is exactly what we need," he persuaded. "If we find a way to prove she's taking the money, we've got her!"

Mozzie sighed deeply. There was more that he wanted to say, but the unmarked white van taking a turn off of the street and onto the paved road to the courthouse had a purpose to serve. I checked my watch. _Yep, that's it._

"Here comes the van," he grudgingly gave in, out of time to talk us out of it.

Neal walked around me and picked up his arm to push his elbow down on my shoulder. I stepped out of the way so his limb fell down to his side, crossing my arms and telling him silently to behave. "Ready for your first unsanctioned con?" My mate asked excitedly.

In reply, I groaned and tipped my head back to stare unhappily at the ceiling of the parking garage. I hated that Fowler had pushed me to this kind of dishonesty and manipulation, but he had left me with no other choice but to sit back and let him hurt me and my family. I valued my pride and honor, but I valued my loved ones much more. It was a necessary cost.

"Don't remind me," I grumbled while we waited for the courier to park his vehicle.

The van pulled into place just where we thought it would, give or take maybe a couple of inches. Being a service van, it had the right to legally set itself where it was in front of the front steps and the wheelchair-accessibility ramp. The van turned off after it was put in park, the engine noise coming to a rumbling stop. Neal gave my arm a tap. When I looked at him, he covered his lips with a finger, winked, and motioned for Mozzie to go down to intercept the courier.

Mozzie rolled his shoulders back and unzipped his green canvas jacket, snapping the sides to the side and twisting the cuffs. He went from looking like an annoyed, sneaky, and introverted pedestrian to looking like an intensely irritated and bold pedestrian who was ready to walk in front of a bus and demand that it stop, then get offended when it didn't.

Mozzie set off with a purposeful stalk. I stepped closer to the pillar Mozzie had been leaning against and used it as a shield. The shadow of the overhanging second floor was being cast at an angle from the rising sunlight and I stayed on one side of it to avoid being noticed. The courier, a tall and stout man in a dark blue cap with thick black hair sticking out from underneath, opened the door and slipped out onto the pavement. His clothes were loose and casual except for the grey jacket, which looked like part of a uniform he'd given up on the rest of.

Neal silently touched my arm, tapping once and walking inside the line of shadow until he was close to the wall of the corner of the building. Further away from me, he stepped out of the sidelines and walked purposefully towards the door, head down. I alternated between watching he and Mozzie both, amazed by their bodies. Not in the way it sounded – they changed their body language seamlessly, like they had changed their personalities with as much ease as they had changed their costumes.

Neal was the most obvious to notice, possibly because I had more experience with him. He had a way of walking. Katie had called it swagger once when she saw us walking next to each other and finally identified that there was a difference. I wasn't sure that was the right word for it. Neal had an overconfidence. It was more than a spring; it was a _swing,_ smooth, gracious, and stylish. It begged attention and spoke to his confidence, the attractiveness he knew he had, in a completely unfair way. He held his head up high, proud, flaunting his pride and smirking face and pleased to know that he had done things other people wouldn't catch on to. Neal saw the entire world as a sandbox he wanted to conquer.

And Neal Caffrey melted into someone else entirely, walking sullenly, planting his feet on the ground quickly and flatly with each step, head down unobtrusively, not asking for the attention that he all but demanded almost every other time.

Mozzie was conspicuous when he was trying to be inconspicuous, for some reason or another. Because of that, I wasn't comfortable saying that I knew which form of his body language was the most truthful, yet even what I saw underneath the parking garage and out by the courier's van were dramatically different. Mozzie went from trying to be isolated and left alone to inviting trouble, being loud, fast, and fixed in a beeline rather than willing to swerve around skittishly. Unzipping his jacket was symbolic. It had been wrapped fully around him; now that protective layer was opened to his sides. His demeanor had done a shift – not a one-eighty, but at least a hundred-ten, which was more than most people could ever really manage to get to. As someone trained to look for behavioral specifics, it was fascinating to watch them in their con.

Neal disappeared inside, thinning himself out and slipping inside the front door sideways. Mozzie went right up to the courier's back from behind as the man intended to open up the passenger side door to get something. Maybe his forms to pick up the package he'd been assigned to retrieve.

Mozzie gave the man a hard shove in the arm. The courier turned around and peered at Mozzie disinterestedly.

"You're Ray, right?" He asked aggressively, raising his shoulders angrily and clenching his fists to fight. When he had turned to look at the conman, he'd made the nametag on the jacket visible.

Ray looked Mozzie over and wasn't awed by what he saw. "Yeah," he said, putting his hands on his hips and turning his feet to speak directly to his little hostile visitor. "I'm Ray."

"I thought it was you," Mozzie sneered. He was loud to make a scene, not so I could be the audience, but I still appreciated that I got to know what was going on. "I figured you'd have the face of a mouth-breather!"

Ray rolled his eyes. I could practically read the _not this again_ on his face. "Do we have a problem here?" He asked impatiently, following his employer's policies of being polite even though Mozzie had no such obligation.

"You're damn right we do, Tiny!" Mozzie snapped back at him, moving closer. Ray stepped back. Mozzie chased him around for several paces as he went on, acting incensed. "You were supposed to deliver a very sensitive package to me at my house. Instead, you gave it to my _mother!_ " I huffed and bit back the impulsive response that he should be an adult and ask for it from his parent, not bring his troubles to the civil servants. Being a civil servant had made me very unhappy with the general public and their more ridiculous complaints. "You know what kind of trouble I'm in because of you, if she sees what's in that package?" Increasingly worked up, Moz _shook_ with palpable bitchiness.

The dark-haired man put up a hand to stop Mozzie from following him any further. His body language was rude, but he sighed and tried to placate the stranger and smooth things over. "What was in the package?" He asked in an attempt to clarify which delivery it was they were talking about.

Mozzie went over the edge, flying into ballistic mode full speed ahead. Eyes bugging comically, insulted that the courier had even _dared_ to ask, he waved his arms furiously and shouted, _"That's none of your business!"_ A couple on the sidewalk started to stare. Ray laughed nervously and waved at them over Mozzie's head. They looked unconvinced that everything was fine.

I giggled into my hand. It was unsurprising that Mozzie was so good at playing a deranged aggressor, yet startling to see how well he slipped into character. And all it took was a little nudge. It was interesting how much their temperament could be compared to their default ruses. Mozzie, the cynical ball of passive-aggressiveness and distrust, seemed to go for confrontational, while the confident and somewhat vain Neal leaned towards smooth-talking and peacemaking.

"Whoa, okay," Ray growled, getting pissed about being embarrassed in public. "Look, just take a pill!" He pointed at his own cheeks indicatively. "Your face is getting all… red…"

Mozzie appeared not to hear him. His face was indeed pink with staged anger and the intensity with which he'd been yelling at the top of his lungs. Still grinning as I leaned against the pillar, I watched intently while he put on heavy airs of misery. The last time I'd seen someone acting as anxious and fidgety, I'd been in a therapist's waiting room.

He wrung the end of his jacket between his hands, wrinkling it up and not seeming to care. "She's going to take _everything_ from me, man!" He panicked, squeezing his coat. Ray smiled stressfully at another passing pedestrian. "The free dinners – the free laundry – the free basement! Is that what you want?!" He got angry again.

"No?" Ray dryly guessed that was the answer Mozzie wanted to hear.

It wasn't convincing enough for Moz, who raised his voice to another indignant and shameless pitch. "You want me penniless, in the street – without a shirt?" I covered my mouth. Was he gonna – he was. Without giving the courier any time to formulate a response, Mozzie shrieked and started pulling open the buttons on his shirt. _"You want me shirtless?!"_

I laughed loudly and ducked further back into the shadows, sliding further along the cylindrical pillar. Ray threw his arms up to shield his eyes and replied in similar volume, "No! Oh, God, no!"

Neal could take as long as he liked if this was the show that I got to keep watching. I bit into the side of my wrist and pushed my elbow hard into the pillar, but still couldn't quite keep a lid on my sense of humor.

"You've got the wrong guy here!" Ray cried, finally breaking. He did not want to spend a second longer with my insane friend than he had to. The man hesitated to lower his arms for fear that Mozzie hadn't aborted his action to strip.

"Oh, I do, do I? You're going to tell me that _you_ are _not_ Ray Collins?!" Mozzie challenged, moving closer and getting up in the man's face.

Instantly, Ray no longer looked alarmed. Instead, he looked like someone who had seen combat and was pissed at being forced into more. I giggled. Completely flat, and not in the least intimidated by the weirdo half his size, the deliverer stepped almost into Mozzie, forcing the littler one to back away nervously.

 _"_ _No,"_ he met the challenge tonelessly. "See…" Raising a hand and sticking his finger to the nametag embroidered on his grey jacket, he said with quiet, simmering irritation, "I'm Ray _Hoffmeister."_

It was Mozzie's turn to switch his attitude around. Upon realizing that he truly was harassing the wrong person, his character shrank back. Mortified, he started to button up the upper half of his shirt again. "Oh… Oh, man." Shuffling his feet, he looked up at Ray and tried to shakily recover. "I'm so sorry. Wrong Ray." Shirt buttoned, he rubbed his hands together and shrugged. _What can you do?_ As if he hadn't completely lost it. "Heh, I'm sure this happens to you all the time."

Taking a slow breath, Ray shook his head gradually. "Actually, _no."_

One day I was probably going to feel guilty about putting the completely innocent courier through that terrifying ordeal, but for the next few weeks at least, it was going to be fodder for my own entertainment and the source of an interesting story for Katie. And, of course, I was never going to let Mozzie forget that he went entirely nuts on someone instead of just being an annoyingly persistent salesman or whatever.

"Oh…" Faltering, Mozzie started to back away, twisting up madly again, pointing threateningly at Ray. "Well, if you see Collins, you tell him I'm coming after him, okay?!" He shook his fist and looked over his shoulder, backing away around the van in his haste to run before he was punched for his troubles.

"Yeah…" Ray trailed off puffed derisively. "Sure," he sarcastically agreed, opening up the van's passenger door and taking out a clipboard.

While Mozzie made his escape by waiting until Ray had gone inside to come back to our hiding spot, I kept my eyes glued to the door, waiting for Neal and entertaining myself by considering how I would have distracted the courier if it wasn't so important that I stay out of eyesight of the marks.

* * *

I rubbed my hands nervously. It had been too long. I checked my watch again. "Something's wrong," I decided, standing up from the bench that Mozzie and I were waiting for Neal on. The courier had left almost five minutes ago, and Neal wasn't out yet.

God, what had I been _thinking?!_ I should _never_ have gone to them for help, I should have known Neal would be willing to do something dumb, and it wasn't completely his fault because I had helped come up with and execute the plan. I had added to the plan! I had told Neal to break into a judge's office and plant a listening device! Feeling sick, I covered my stomach with one hand and my face with the other and started to pace.

"Would you sit down?" Mozzie hissed, glowering at me and looking around furtively. "The only thing weird is that you look like you're about to hurl."

"This was a terrible idea!" I turned on him, standing in front of him while he sighed loudly and turned his head away, not wanting to listen. "I should've just gotten a lawyer and overshot Fowler. If I got to Bancroft about the sting, there's a chance it would've worked-"

"And there's also a chance you wouldn't be sleeping in anything but orange tonight," he deadpanned, looking up at me over the rim of his reddish-brown glasses frame.

"You're his friend! How can you be okay with this?"

"Once you start something, your odds of getting caught at least double when you start to second-guess yourself and go back on your plan," Mozzie explained calmly, checking his own watch with far less urgency. "And in case you're forgetting, _I_ wasn't the one all gung-ho about breaking into a judge's chambers to begin with. That was _all_ Neal."

I was determined to twist it around to me. Neal was impulsive and reckless and his rap sheet proved that he had poor judgment. I was his handler and his friend. It was my responsibility to him to try to keep him from hurting himself, and that included committing more crimes, especially anything of this caliber! Mozzie wasn't too far off when he said I looked nauseous, because I was wishing I hadn't had quite so much coffee.

"Then I should have stopped him," I muttered.

Mozzie sighed, but if I was so stubborn about finding myself at fault, then he wasn't going to keep arguing with me that it wasn't. He glanced around my side while I leaned onto my hip and bounced my opposite leg, antsy.

Another two minutes passed and I regretted the plan more and more the longer it took. I didn't know how much was me being frightened and how much was me coming to my senses, but I wasn't sure I wanted to know. When Mozzie finally outwardly noticed something and his shoulders relaxed a touch, I looked over my shoulder. Neal was jogging across the street towards us during a lull in traffic. The moment he was on the sidewalk, I was on him, hugging him with my forearms up his back, hands close to his shoulders, holding on tight.

Neal chuckled and rubbed my upper back, quickly squeezing me. "Hello to you, too," he greeted. "Court's adjourned. Clark should be getting back any minute now." I didn't want to step away, but I realized that I had to. Mozzie joined us at the edge of the street while I pulled my upper body away to lean back and look up at him, hair blowing handsomely in the breeze while amused sapphires looked warmly down to me.

Reluctantly, I slipped my hands off of his back, stepping away and swallowing. That had been nerve-wracking. It was an amazing feat on my part that I didn't tell him to _never ever ever_ do anything like that again. I just motioned for Mozzie to say something.

"Did you find anything in her chambers?" The second conman asked Neal, hoping that this exercise hadn't been a practice of futility.

"No," he admitted, but held up both of his hands to forestall any grievances. "But I made it look like someone tried to. It'll take a while to clean that up."

I imagined the organized but very office I had been in just the day before and smiled, half in vengeance and half just somewhat shocked that it had gone alright and none of us were in any trouble. If he had really rummaged through everything and made it look like someone had done a frantic search, then Clark was going to spend at least an hour picking things up and reorganizing them. That was being optimistic. It was the least she deserved.

 _"_ _Yes,"_ I whispered emphatically into my hands, held in front of my mouth, calming myself down. Now that it was over, it was like we'd just performed a magic trick. I felt impressive and kind of wished that I could boast to someone about it, except that would defeat the purpose of being sneaky. I was proud of myself for taking part in a con… what had happened to me since I met these two?

The fact was that they had been such a bad influence on me and my perspective that I wasn't sure if my willingness to commit crime had changed or if it was just that I found it to be the lesser of two evils, especially in the face of Fowler coming closer to my sister by the day. Soul-searching was not a good look on me, so I preferred to avoid it. At least I could take solace in that I wasn't interested in thieving the Louvre.

I motioned to the bags Mozzie and I had brought with us, where they were sitting a couple of feet away on the bench we had only just abandoned. "Let's get this set up, then," I said, eager to reap the benefits of the loss of part of my federal integrity before I started feeling worse about it. Possessively, I took Neal's wrist in hand and lead. Clark was _not_ going to touch him, legally or literally.

* * *

I wanted to stick to stealth, but Mozzie used some good-old _Doctor Who_ logic on me that when you put something in plain sight, people don't really notice. I wanted to hide in my car or something while we used the "borrowed" equipment to listen in on the judge's chambers so that no one would be able to see us playing with headphones, a receiver, a recorder, and all the extra. It didn't help that Neal had brought binoculars. However, Mozzie and Neal both assured me that if we went to the effort of hiding in a dark car right near the judge's building and not moving, then we would attract more attention than if we just sat on a stone bench on the next block, and I had to reluctantly admit that he was right. I had trained myself to be hypervigilant to people on benches for long periods of time with electronic equipment, but the majority of the population wouldn't think twice, and even fewer would think three times.

Mozzie and I both had headphones. I offered to let Neal listen, but he waved me off and said Mozzie and I both had more experience with using bugs than he did. He wasn't wrong, and he seemed pretty intent to use his high-tech binoculars in the meantime. Mozzie had the cords piled between us, Neal on my other side, and he had a closed computer in his lap while I held the recording equipment on my knees.

We had to wait longer than I'd have liked. For every minute we were out with our intentions readable, I felt more and more exposed. It was only when Neal elbowed me and told me that I was going to draw attention with my anxiety that I forced myself to relax, sitting back against the bench and looking between both conmen on either side of me who seemed completely relaxed.

Clark came in for a couple of seconds, yelled something impolite, and then left. Mozzie and I were both startled by the volume and Neal seemed disgruntled by how anticlimactic it had been. A minute later, the door to the office reopened and the judge's chambers were entered. There were two voices this time.

"She doesn't seem happy," Mozzie commented without taking off his headphones.

Neal held the binoculars up to his eyes. It was lucky that there wasn't much foot traffic, because that was conspicuous enough to notice, even more so than a couple as strange as Moz and I using federal property on a street curb. "What are they saying?" He asked, watching through the open window in magnified vision.

I bit my tongue carefully between my teeth and started to talk, repeating the words as I heard them. There were one or two seconds behind Clark's voice – not the best quality, but distinguishably hers (I hadn't exactly been picky about taking a bug set) – and mine.

"Someone's been here."

Mozzie started to do the same thing, but he spoke after Clark's receptionist-slash-assistant. "What did they take?"

"I don't know." Neal took the binoculars away from his eyes, squinted up to the side of the justice building, and then held up his spy toy that he had probably gotten from Mozzie. It seemed like something the oddball would carry around. "It doesn't seem like they took anything," I recited. "The safe hasn't been touched."

Mozzie turned to glare at Neal, leaning back to disapprove over the back of the bench. "There's a safe in there and you didn't even try to-"

"I didn't have time," Neal said defensively, flicking his wrist at the headphones. "Stay focused."

I ignored them. Mozzie really did not need to sound so upset that Neal hadn't taken a detour to do some safecracking. "We're compromised," I repeated after the judge. "I need to move everything." I listened hungrily for more. What was _everything?_ What was she hiding in her office?

"Today."

"Today's no good. Tomorrow's clear." The machine clicked a few times with static, overlaying the voices. I looked down at it and scowled. That was not what I had brought it along with us to do.

"Tomorrow…" Mozzie confirmed as the assistant. "… Cartoon."

Sighing deeply, Neal and I both turned to our right to stare at Mozzie, unimpressed with his interpretation. _"At noon,"_ I stressed at him exasperatedly. _Why_ would they have said 'cartoon?' That didn't even fit the context. Was he trying to be difficult?

Mozzie threw his hands up and gestured at the stuff on my lap like it was the machine's fault that he wasn't doing a very good job at filling in details. "Sometimes it clicks," he argued. "I don't know why, it's your toy-"

 _"_ _Context,"_ I emphasized meaningfully. "She's not going to be thinking about Cartoon Network while trying to save her reputation!" Shaking my head, I pinched my nose and turned my attention back to the headset, pretending that I couldn't feel Neal's shoulders quivering while he tried not to laugh. I focused in on the audio again. The street was loud but the headset was a pretty good quality, even if the equipment I was using it with left some to be desired. "Get me a deposit box at Certified National immediately."

"And…" Mozzie held onto the note of the word until the door to the chambers went slamming shut, leaving the bug to pick up on nothing but silence. Neal took the binoculars away from his face, confirming that there was no longer anyone to spy on. "They've gone," he concluded.

 _Certified National, tomorrow at noon._ I felt giddy. Was this how Neal always felt when he pulled a scam and it went over? I never would have been able to get the time and place to catch Clark with damning evidence if it wasn't for breaking the rules. It was like staying out past curfew and sneaking in without being caught, but it was more rewarding. Here I won something other than an ego.

Then I just had to go and remember that there was damning evidence against me still in question, and I had to attend to that responsibility and hope that the plan to wipe the video had actually worked. It wasn't going to take the courier that long to reach Fowler and I could be sure that he would go running straight to Hughes, and that was assuming that he wouldn't skip up the ladder and bring Bancroft into the mess.

"I have my meeting in less than an hour," I said, nerves returning in the forms of tiny little butterflies crawling in my abdomen. I took my headset off of my ears and shook out my hair a bit. "I need to pack up and get out." The bug would stay where it was and I'd get to retrieve it myself after Clark was caught red-handed, giving me the grounds for a warrant. All I'd have to do was slip inside and pick it up. The rest of the device, however, would have to come with me. I opened the case I'd brought it in that I'd pushed under the bench and started preparing it to travel. It was a fast process and I'd done it a hundred times before.

Mozzie handed me the headset and sat taller. Not that that actually made him tall, but he tried. The computer on his lap was opened up and pushed back to sit on his knees, wrists on the front edge and fingers over the keys preventing it from teetering over. "You left a little too soon this morning," he told me, getting excited. I refrained from reminding him that he was the one who had told me to leave. "I have something that's going to make your day."

Arguable statement, considering the pure _love_ that I had felt, directed at no one in particular but produced by the loyalty of my friends and the repayment that I got from the people in the bureau who knew I was a dignified agent. "More than having well over a dozen agents flood into the office off-the-clock for the sole purpose of clearing my name?" I asked proudly.

Neal set his hand on my left thigh and rubbed my leg. "Aw, see that?" He cooed teasingly. "You're loved and important." He sounded like he was joking, so I just smacked at his arm lightly.

Mozzie held the laptop screen to face him and kept his hand over it to discourage me from trying to see it myself. "Turns out, I didn't have to go all the way back to the diamond heist," he said smugly. I perked up immediately. The only reason he'd been looking back to the _Le Joyau_ theft was because of Fowler and his faked soulmate mark. If it was about that, then… had Mozzie found something? "Fowler made a stop at the mall, where he met your sister a couple days ago." He turned the computer towards me. The sunlight glared onto the screen but I could still see a security shot of Fowler entering the mall nearest to my house. "He wasn't wearing his jacket."

"Of course," I said, nodding attentively. I'd give all of my concentration to the one thing if it gave me any ammunition against Fowler, whom had been coming after myself and my two favorite people for too long. "She talked to him because she saw the fake soulmark," I offered to explain my reaction like it was obvious.

"Exactly," Mozzie confidently agreed. He hit a few keys and used a control command that brought up a video downloaded onto the hard drive. "But, three days before that, he went to a body art shop in Rochester and paid with cash. He was caught on a traffic cam while he was going in, and as you can _clearly_ see here, he opens the door with his left hand."

Neal and I both leant over to see. The reflection was a real pain in the ass. The video was able to play, but it was frozen on a still frame of Fowler with his head turned to look into the small parlor he was entering, the storefront at an angle to the camera. Fowler turned his hand at just the right angle to see part of his wrist. It wasn't the entire area where the soulmark covered, but it was partial, and that was enough. If it wasn't there then, then it certainly couldn't be presently.

"There's no design," Neal murmured, touching my side, his eyes lightening as he understood what that meant.

"That's it!" I bounced on my seat, pushing the case with the bug kit down onto the concrete in front of the bench. "He went into the shop to get the fake soulmark!" Kate didn't go to any trouble trying to hide hers. It would have been an easy job for Fowler or someone else to get a photograph. "Ah, thank you, thank you, _thank you!"_

I hugged Mozzie tightly, throwing my arms around him sideways and squeezing tightly, ducking my head to his shoulder. Mozzie made an uncomfortable sound that was a mix between a squeak, a cough, and a passive, reflexive 'ouch.' He wasn't very receptive to being embraced. I let him go as soon as I felt like I could breathe again. I had _proof._ Fowler was _never_ going to win Kate now that I could prove this to her. Photos could be tampered with, but I knew the truth. If I could just figure out what Fowler had used to keep the color so lasting, then I could figure out what compound would undo it.

"Now, here comes the tough part," Mozzie said with less vigor, scooting further away on the bench lest I try to hug him again. "That shop also does tattoos." The storefront window boasted _body art & modification: tattoos, piercings, and more!_ in bright colors and large font to catch the eye. "If he got it done in a tattoo, then we can't do anything to rub it off."

I was already shaking my head. I had looked into getting my own tattoo several times and knew people that had them. I didn't have personal experience, but I understood how the process worked. There was no possible way that the design on Fowler was a tattoo.

"Except it's not," I swore and pointed at the computer image. "This was only days ago. If it were a tattoo, his skin would still be irritated from the dyes, but it wasn't." His arm had been unblemished but for freckles. The soulmark looked normal and at home on his skin. If it had been inked in, then it would have been raised, red, and sore.

"Then what else could it be made of?" Neal mused. It would have been helpful if the store also boasted in writing about what their _and more!_ included. "The color didn't fade at all, did it?"

 _When, when I attacked him in the kitchen?_ "No… and it didn't bleed, either." Nothing had come off onto the towel, and I had thoroughly checked for any sign that might give him away.

Mozzie put his head into the matter, too. I was lucky to have them both on my side. If Neal and Mozzie were the bad guys… well, I think my best bet short of homicide would have just been to give up, resign, and move to Argentina.

"Then maybe you're not looking for something he's put on his skin. Maybe it was something that stained." _Staining._ Staining struck a chord. My jaw fell open and I started to smack my knee enthusiastically. "Some kinds of paint, or-"

"Can you skip forward on the tape to find when he left?" I demanded.

Seeming a little annoyed at being interrupted, Mozzie did as he was asked and flipped through the individual frames. He put it on fast-forward and the screenshots played through. It was like watching a movie put together from cuts. The red timestamp changed. The three of us stayed huddled on the bench, Moz and Neal bemused and me with anticipation, while the video passed through over an hour's worth of footage in just over a minute before Fowler started to come out.

"There!" He opened the door with his right hand as he was leaving, but his jacket sleeve on his lowered left arm was hiked up and gathered above the bend of his elbow, keeping the fabric off of the now-present mark and helpfully baring it right at the traffic camera. "See how dark the colors are?" The contrast wasn't the best, but even I knew that the colors weren't the right ratio to what I'd seen in person. "That's what made the mark. Then he washed it off a couple of hours later after it had time to set and stain."

I shook my head incredulously. Had it really been that easy the whole time? I could have hit myself. I used that kind of body art all of the time when I was a teenager. I loved it. I loved that I could look like I had tattoos without making the actual commitment or going through the painful, discomforting process of actually having a tattoo done. Then I grew up and started fending for myself and I lost a lot of my interest in the extraneous rebellious stuff.

"If you know what it is," Neal asked, touching his hand to my back and getting me to look at him. My face had to be brighter than it had been in days, ever since he gave me that bouquet of colored roses. My grin must've been contagious because Neal started to smile admiringly at me. "Then does that mean you know how to take it off?"

"I know _exactly_ how to prove it's fake," I confirmed ecstatically, and then looked back to Mozzie, rocking a little, unable to contain myself. I grinned at the conspiracy theorist with the computer and added to him triumphantly, "And I know exactly how to screw over Fowler, too."

* * *

I let myself into Hughes' office. He was already waiting for me, the chair across from his desk pulled out. I couldn't help but notice that there were only the two chairs. Hughes wasn't going out of his way to make Fowler feel particularly welcomed. I sat down while looking to the left out of the corner of my eye, where a small-screened television was set on a black steel cart with a tape player underneath on the lower shelf.

I turned away and refused to stare at it. Fowler was trying to get into my head and freak me out, shake me. The more I let him get into my psyche, the less of a chance I stood against him. A large part of me had never been more afraid of a simple dumb meeting before. Even though I had gone in person to see the con through, I was still frightened. What if it hadn't worked? What if the package had been made tamperproof somehow? What if the magnet had been demagnetized on accident? My boys were cunning, I knew that, but just knowing I was in good hands didn't mean that I could calm the lingering nerves.

I looked at my watch. It was already a minute past the time we were supposed to meet, and Fowler wasn't yet in the office. Hughes cleared his throat and sat forward in his chair. His desk had been cleared for the occasion, giving me all of his focus. I didn't feel like I was under scrutiny from Hughes. He didn't think I was dirty and I knew that I had an ally. I would keep my mouth shut about his unauthorized warnings, but I knew that if he could do something to put Fowler off track, he would.

My boss folded his hands and laid his forearms on his table. "Fowler has requested a tap on your phone as part of the investigation," he said unexpectedly, looking pointedly away from my face and staring at the photograph on his desk of his family.

I lifted my head in surprise. The entire point of tapping someone's phone was to catch incriminating conversation or get clues while the subject was unaware they were being recorded. Under no circumstances was I supposed to know that my phone line was no longer secured. We were all very careful what we said over the phones. There were too many ways to intercept the signal, even when we didn't have reason to think anyone would. Most of the time, the secrecy was in regards to Neal's and my non-platonic side of our relationship.

Hughes refused to look at me. I pursed my lips and nodded slowly. He would deny having told me, but I wasn't naïve enough to guess that he truly believed I had just sat in my office and twiddled my thumbs on a mortgage fraud case after being told my freedom was jeopardized. If I knew him at all – and I liked to think I did – the reason he told me about the tap was to stop me from hanging myself while discussing something with Neal. Turning a mostly-blind eye to that I'd go to my consultant for help wasn't a risk he'd take for just any agent, and I came very close to asking if he knew Fowler was corrupt. I bet he at least suspected, or he wouldn't have aligned himself so closely with illegal activity.

Instead of confirming or denying that I had done anything that might have given him reason to need to claim plausible deniability, I just nodded slowly and rubbed my hands over my thighs. "I thought he might," I said quietly.

Twenty seconds later, the door was shoved open without the courtesy of knocking. If Fowler had been Neal, Hughes would've had him lit on fire with the force of his glare. The agent appeared out of breath and held up a yellow mailing envelope, locking eyes with me and grinning with malice. Looking as dispassionate as possible to get under his skin, I waved halfheartedly and looked at my fingernails.

"Garrett," Hughes stated flatly, unimpressed. He couldn't press charges or accuse Fowler of anything just based on that he was making an unpleasant face at me. "So, exactly what evidence do you want to show me?"

Fowler smirked and shoved his thumb between the edge of the flap and the adhesive strip. He ripped the envelope open and turned it over, shaking the little cassette tape out of the bubble-wrapped interior. I glanced at the tape, physically bit my tongue, and looked away again while Fowler passed behind me, waving the cassette victoriously.

"I think I'll let the evidence speak for itself," he boasted. The man should be ashamed. He reminded me of a ten-year-old showing off his Hot Wheels to the kids he was bullying simply because they didn't have Hot Wheels. I could not _wait_ to get his judge and put him back in his place.

It had been forever since VCR players were in style, but the sounds were familiar to my ears. The cassette slid in and the machine clicked rapidly as it read the tape. Fowler turned on the square power button and the TV made that line of white as the visual opened up into grey, black, and white static.

We all waited expectantly on the video. Fowler expected it to produce a video and/or an audio recording. I expected for it not to, but couldn't help the anticipation that it might. I couldn't say what Hughes was waiting on. The fifteen seconds it took to warm up and load were the longest fifteen seconds of my life since I'd heard the gunshot as Maria tried to murder Neal.

When the green digital numbers on the front of the VCR popped up and started counting upwards from zero and the screen continued to be covered in static, no hint of any content on the cassette, I let out a long breath and looked away from the TV.

Hughes raised his eyebrows at me for a second. Fowler, distracted, smacked the side of the TV. By the time Fowler turned a bewildered look onto Hughes, the pair of us had both started staring up at him with borderline disinterest. The ire was turned on me within seconds. Fowler balled his fists and raised his shoulders, prepared to Hulk out.

Unable to resist a prod, I wore my poker face with complete solemnity and said, "That is… very quiet evidence, Agent Fowler."

"They…" Fowler faltered for a second and kicked at the leg of the TV stand. "They must've sent the wrong tape," he growled, unable to come up with an explanation for why he suddenly looked like a dunce and I looked like an innocent victim of harassment.

Hughes played his own role perfectly. Raising a hand, he motioned for Fowler to shut up and then flicked towards the door. "Unless you can produce the right one within the next twenty seconds, stop wasting my time," he commanded stonily. In a much more hospitable voice, he added kindly, "You're free to go, Agent Anderson."

"Thank you, sir," I said, standing stiffly and shooting Fowler a sideways glance.

I winked.

Fowler left his useless tape abandoned inside the VCR player. I grinned as he threw his arms down like a brat and ran out, acting the part of a child who needed the time out corner. Grinning, I sauntered out of the office after him, feeling like my shoes had been replaced with newly-polished skates. The OPR agent stormed down the mezzanine. His comrades joined without being pointed at, and although they seemed unsure what to make of the dramatic twist of his mood, they followed Fowler.

Followed him all the way to the doors to the WCCD, in fact, where their leader stopped short in front of Neal. Puffing himself up meanly, Fowler attempted to double his size and glower at Neal. Unfortunately for the blond, the brunet had gotten a lot of experience with dealing with pains in the ass in the last several months, and he knew that Fowler wouldn't make a fool of himself by attacking.

"Did you have something to do with this, Caffrey?" Fowler blamed, pointing the finger very literally at Neal's breastbone.

He looked up at Fowler with comically widened eyes, all but confessing. "To do with what?" I snorted while I watched from a few feet behind, seeing if Neal could push Fowler into misconduct. It would be nice to be the one doing the humiliating for a change. Neal might as well have said that he'd intervened, and Fowler couldn't do a damn thing about it. "I wouldn't interfere with an OPR investigation," Neal lied, his face telling the story of someone who held the utmost respect for authorities. "That would be suicide."

I cleared my throat. "I _know_ you're not harassing my consultant, Fowler," I preemptively reminded him where we were by raising my voice. The OPR guests became the objects of many peoples' interest as more and more had their attentions brought to the scene unfolding at the entryway.

Fowler turned around on me, giving himself whiplash trying to find a place to go where there weren't people with something other than deference on their faces or in their demeanors. He sure looked undermined. _How does it feel?_ I taunted through my smirk. _It sucks to be taunted and embarrassed in public, doesn't it?_ He deserved it for what he put me through, forcing Neal and I both to endure the long-standing grudges and doubts of hiring a criminal being released all at once.

"Run along," I shooed condescendingly with my hands. "Don't you have Project Mentor to attend to?"

Fowler sent a nasty scowl towards Neal. "I could argue that you're not even supposed to know that Mentor exists," he countered, as if that held any meaning for me. Had he really thought that Neal would learn something that important and then just keep it from me? He was dumber than I thought if he had.

"Oh, you can pin that one on me," Neal offered in earnest. "You _like_ pinning things on me, right?" He added with a little more steel attitude, cocking his head and flashing his teeth between his lips. I wasn't the only one holding a grudge.

Turning maroon in the face, Fowler stepped forward like he was going to hit my consultant. Neal stood his ground, knowing that even if the man didn't get a hold of himself, the most that would happen was he'd get a bruise while I leapt on the bastard, dislocated his shoulder, and pressed charges for assault. Warring with responsibility, Fowler growled incoherently at Neal and barked rudely at his supporters to "come, now," like dogs.

As soon as Fowler and his agents had the elevator doors closed on them, I started jumping and clapped my hands excitedly, no longer able to stop myself from reacting. _Oh my God, I can't believe it worked!_ Just because we'd gone through with it didn't mean that I wasn't still scared of what was going on. I threw myself forwards to Neal and jumped into his arms. Neal laughed, his arms wrapping around my shoulders and swaying side-to-side. If we'd been at one of our homes, I'd have kissed him. As it was, I just held him so tightly I thought that someone's bones might have been about to break.

"That's one victory down," Neal said, grinning. There was obvious relief as clear as day in his bright eyes. I could've cupped his cheeks and kissed all over his face thankfully. Instead, I just pulled back from the hug, stared up at him adoringly, and jumped back to him, throwing my arms around his neck again, hiding my face against his shoulder. "Now, how are we going to get his judge?"

I couldn't let go of him. I just couldn't. Not yet. Not until I'd had another solid twenty seconds of gently holding him, where he was in my arms and nothing could separate us until I was damn well ready to get off.

"Well," I whispered in the privacy of our embrace, where the other agents nearby wouldn't be able to hear us talking about anything unscrupulous. "We didn't get the information legally, so we have to be sneaky… and I want to make Fowler flip on himself," because I really do have one hell of an ego sometimes and I _hated_ being slighted, "So we're going to take advantage of his leaning on me to turn him around on Clark."

I don't need a Mozzie to come up with good plans of my own. Although, in comparison to the courier scheme, my idea was pretty mild, and I had Fowler to thank for it – he'd given me the idea with the tap on my phone. He wanted to hear what I was saying so badly? He dreamed of framing Neal? Well, I could frame people, too, and I would make sure he regretted invading my privacy.

"How do we let Fowler know the judge is moving the money?" Neal whispered back, hands lowering to a friend-appropriate location above my hips. I let go of him and leaned back, hands sliding over his back to the curves of the tops of his shoulders.

"More than that, how do we convince him to prove she has the money?" I returned, and let go of his left shoulder to tap the side of my head proudly. "Well, we trick him, using the tap on my phone."

He grinned. "You know, you say I have the conniving mind, but as far as I'm seeing, you're pretty devious yourself," he poked and prodded, intentionally trying to tease me into shuddering at the thought of being more devious than a career criminal. He liked to poke fun at me when I made sneaky plans. This wasn't the first time he'd taken his fun, but it _was_ the first time that I had played along and been absolutely delighted to admit to it.

"Don't make me angry," I warned mischievously, fake growling and curling my fingers up like claws.

He chuckled and nodded to the doors, letting go with one hand and turning to pull me along by his side. I laughed and happily went along with him, his other arm still staying around me. "What do we do in the meantime?" He questioned.

He was probably asking if we had another Monopoly night in triumph over one of our victories, but I had other things to attend to, and a conman to show my appreciation for. "We get Odysseus," I said, prodding his shoulder. Neal pouted, but it didn't last long. He liked Mozzie too much to be upset. "And we all go out to lunch at whatever restaurant he likes," I promised, fully meaning it. I owed Mozzie my life in every form of the phrase except for the literal sense – actually, I owed him my life literally, too, but that was from an unrelated incident.

I decided a long time ago that maybe the guy wasn't so bad, but now I was having a hard time remembering that he wasn't actually my second consultant, considering how much help I was getting from him. He and Neal were thick as thieves – probably because they actually are thieves – and somehow I'd gotten close enough to both of them to earn their favor. I wasn't going to take it lightly.

* * *

During our lunch with Mozzie and a game of chess (which, it turns out, I should _never_ play Mozzie at if I value my ego), we ironed out my own idea of a con until it was smooth and pristine. I wouldn't be able to thank the boys enough for the help, and especially Neal, whose role in the setup would actually involve saying some pretty self-incriminating things. So would mine, but I was in jeopardy for as long as I had Fowler after me, and he wouldn't go away until I did something. This seemed like a clever way to get back at him, and it satisfied a couple birds with one arrow. Stone. Whatever.

And one of those birds just lined itself up with the others. Kate closed her cellular and held it tightly in her hand, fingers curled around the sides as she crossed her arms. "I've called in sick with my daycare," she informed me as a promise, having followed through with it after I had literally begged her to just give me a day of her time. "I hope you have a really, really good reason why I just lied to my staff and bailed on my kids."

I couldn't feel all too bad about her missing a day of work. It's not like there weren't other people there who would look after them. Kate had had to staff them; she had a special education kid she looked after, and while he was four years old and not very big, he was prone to self-inflicted aggression during overstimulation. It had actually been my idea to handle it with pillows and blankets; pillows for punching, pinching, and biting, and a blanket to cover up with to block out light and visual details. For that reason, among other more obvious ones, she had at least three people in a classroom at once, and just called in an extra person this morning to take her place.

I held up my own phone. "I want you to listen to Neal and I," I said very clearly, bracing myself mentally for another lashing of her selectively-barbed tongue. This would be not only hurtful, but doubly humiliating, what with Neal being able to hear it if she raised her voice. "Then I want you to come see what happens as a result of this phone call."

Her eyes narrowed. It wasn't ever a possibility that it would take her longer than a few minutes in for her to catch on. She was too quick, and knew me too well. Once I latched onto something, I didn't just let go; I obsessed over it, and Fowler had become my obsession. "If this is another thing about Garrett-" her voice didn't rise, but her tone did, testy and just bordering on agitation.

I cut her off quickly before anything got much worse. "Kate, I want you to give me your time today." I used the nickname she preferred instead of calling her Katie just to show how very serious I was. It made her close her mouth. If nothing else, she got that I wasn't screwing around. "I guarantee I can prove to you that I'm right about him." She rolled her eyes cynically. "And, in the parallel universe in which I can't, then I promise that I will shut my mouth, apologize for trying to rip his skin off with a towel, and pay for your entire wedding." Even while I made the vow, my stomach flipped unpleasantly. I'm all for Katie getting married, just _not_ with Fowler as the groom. The only way I could make that promise was because I knew I had him. Even if something went horribly wrong with the setup – which I was ninety-nine point eight-percent sure wouldn't happen – then I still knew I had him on faking the soulmark.

It worked. Kate calmed down, temper heeled before it started pulling on its leash. "…" Clearly in an intense moral conflict, she slowly shifted most of her weight to her right leg, tapping her left shoe on the tile floor of the kitchen. "The entire wedding?" She finally asked, hesitant to acquiesce to a plan that went against every romantic bone in her body. And this was my sister, so that was to say all of them.

"The whole damn thing," I swore, patient only because I knew that this was what would coax her to give in, more so than any obnoxious pleas or dramatic feats of dropping down onto my knees, and I really wanted to get this show on the road, if only so that I could sleep well through the whole night again, if only so I could shower without feeling like there were eyes on my body from a miniature hidden camera bug that may or may not exist.

"Can we get Burke Premiere Events in on it?" Kate questioned, seeking out any loopholes I was trying to make for myself, betting on me not being able to succeed.

"Absolutely," I agreed in an instant, because no matter who she was marrying, if she ever got married, Burke Premiere Events was going to be my go-to planning company in the future. Knowing El personally probably helped me feel more confident in the company.

"And hire Gordon Ramsey for catering?"

The sparkle in her eyes and the mischief on her face that I thought she might have picked up from me told me that she was pushing it deliberately. I also recognized that if I said 'no' then I would technically be making caveats to the promise that I had just made, and it would be harder for her to trust my word on it. Trust wasn't blind where I was involved, ever; Neal seemed to be the only real exception. Kate was okay with taking my word for things, but she was always very strong-willed, and if I wasn't her sister, she'd have actually hit me by now for the actions I've taken against the man who she believes is _the one._

"Um, yeah." An image came to mind of Ramsey shouting and cussing at Derek and being a complete gentleman to Katie and any children in the room, and a smile crossed my lips unbidden. "Sure."

Relinquishing control over to me, Kate uncrossed her arms and set her phone on the table. That was the indication that she wasn't going to call back and renounce her plans of taking a sick day. "Okay then," she agreed, and I used the fingerprint lock to open up my own phone, grinning widely at her.

That was really the domino that I thought was going to be the hardest to push over, and with that out of the way, all that remained was the lying and trickery, and those, despite being more deceitful, felt more fun. Honesty, to myself and to my sister, was harder than lying could ever be, and as I held a finger to my lips while the phone rang on speaker, dialing one of my most frequent contacts, it occurred to me that maybe that was why Neal had made it into his life. Lies are exhilarating. If you know how to control them, then you can have the ultimate control over yourself and your life. Your very character can become a façade and a lie, moldable to the situation and adaptable to whatever environment, no matter how hostile.

The only sign that the phone call was answered, at first, was that a dial tone was interrupted with silence halfway through the ring. I looked back to Katie and made the shushing motion again. It was absolutely _imperative_ that she not speak. Fowler would know that I wouldn't chance making any moves that could risk Kate's freedom, and so I wouldn't make an incriminating phone call with her in the vicinity. Her knowledge of what I said could be used against her in accusations of accessory and accomplice. If he heard her voice, he would know that something was up.

"Hey. It's about the payoff." Kate looked at my phone, eyes dropping down to the contact name in confusion while I talked to the speaker. "I need you to come over as soon as you can."

 _"_ _Should we be talking about this over the phone?_ " _Ah!_ There it was, the interference, right underneath Neal's voice. The static itself was hard to hear. That was the pro of it being a government device. When he _talked,_ though, the frequency brought out the quiet little clicking and taps in the background noise, making them just barely audible. _"Someone could be listening in."_ He recited lines from a nonliteral script.

"I'm calling from my cell phone, not my landline." My heartbeat sped up, thumping in my chest in anticipation. "We're safe." Hughes told me off-the-record my phone was tapped. It was perfectly reasonable for me to not be aware. The entire point of tapping someone's phone was so that they could be caught unknowingly. "Judge Clark says that if I don't pay her today, she'll send the _real_ tape to Fowler."

At that fabrication, Katie's eyes went wide and she looked up to me. The slight grin was inappropriate but I couldn't make it go away. She opened her mouth, her face looking horrified, and I quickly lunged across the small gap to her, covering her mouth with the palm of my hand and pressing firmly to keep her from talking. I knew it wouldn't make sense to her, but I didn't want to explain beforehand in case she threw a hissy fit. If she would just _listen,_ it would be explained to her in a second, and that was assuming she didn't catch on before that.

 _"_ _What are you going to do?_ "

Locking eyes with Kate, I went through the motions of the staged telephone call. "Get the money put together," I instructed, very slowly putting less pressure over her mouth, prepared to muffle her again if need be. "I don't have a choice. It's either this or lose my job. Either I give it to her by twelve today, or the deal is off. I'm just going to need your help putting it all together."

 _"_ _Well, after you cleared my name, I owe you._ " Several factors which were usually not good were coming together to make this work. Fowler's suspicion that Neal and I were more than friends was one of them; that would explain why Neal would seemingly risk being arrested again to help me avoid it. Only we knew that neither of us were in positions to be arrested, and OPR had no way of being informed. _"Where's the drop?"_

"Certified National on Fifty-first and Second." I said it very clearly so that there was no chance of a misunderstanding. I wanted OPR to know exactly where I needed them to be.

 _"_ _Okay. I'll be there."_ I looked over Kate's head at the clock on the microwave, its default display when it wasn't in use. According to that, we had a few hours. That was enough time to persuade Hughes to listen to his favorite agent and authorize me a backup presence, and get everything stationed and prepared at Certified National. With enough disguised federal witnesses, Fowler couldn't walk out of it and pin something else on me. Neal waited a beat and then sighed, soft and regretful. _"I'm sorry about this, Kenna."_

I swallowed. "What are you sorry for?" I thought we deserved some acting awards.

 _"_ _We both know why this is happening."_ Acting awards because this part hadn't been planned, and I wasn't entirely sure if Neal was faking or being genuine anymore, but he sounded full of heart, so I went along with it. If it was real, then this part wasn't a lie; if it was a lie, then I just made it that much more buyable. I let my eyes drop down to the floor and leaned on the kitchen island behind me. _"You're giving me too much help and Fowler wants you off the board."_

"Fowler's screwing with my sister," I growled protectively. "This is as much my fight as yours. Don't blame yourself when I knowingly put myself in this situation." I had chosen to ignore the warning signs; the cautions from Neal and Herrera, the bastard agent worming his way into my home, and the voice in my subconscious that _told_ me it was a bad idea to attack a judge, especially one with connections to the man who wanted me out of his way. Possibly even _dead,_ after what I found in the Køhler file.

I took the phone down and the screen lit up again when I tapped it. I hit the red button to end the call. A long telephone discussion on an open line wasn't a smart move, even if I wasn't privy to the third party listening in. I saw the call time flash underneath Neal's name and then my phone went dark again. I looked at Kate and made the "okay" sign with my hand, touching my thumb and the tip of my index finger.

Now that she could talk, Kate was not pleased. She threw her arms out. "That's it? Really?!" Her voice went up higher, both incredulous and angry. This time, at least, the anger was stemming from thinking that I was screwing myself over. "You're making yourself look like you did the exact thing you just cleared yourself from doing!" _As if I hadn't noticed_. She pointed emphatically at my phone while I put it away into my pocket as if demanding that I call Neal back and call it off.

I held up my hand, fingers splayed. "For a very good reason," I promised, starting off loud and dropping my voice down to normal volume as she glared at me, but fell silent and waited for a reason. She's one of those people who just has no tolerance for her friends hurting themselves, professionally or personally, and from her perspective, I was doing both. I reached out and touched her shoulder comfortingly, assuring her with the touch that I would be fine. I knew what I was doing. "Pack a book and some earphones and meet us in the car," I advised calmly, and then pointed to the stairs that led up to the second floor. "You can come downstairs now!" I added in a shout for Neal to hear.

He popped his head over the side of the banister to look down from the top landing, one hand over the top of his fedora to stop it from falling, and he grinned like a predator, eager to move in and pounce. I gave him a thumbs-up for a performance well done.

* * *

Hughes, Derek, and Diana set up a sting in an unmarked vehicle with a little of… um… Fowler's… help. Or so they thought, at least. This vehicle sat at the front of the block on which Clark's bank of choice was located. Neal, Katie, and I, much less discretely, sat up shop in my car, popped the doors facing the sidewalk open, and waited for the fireworks.

The bank was nice, but it could have been bigger. There was one main entry and several exits, but using those exits would look weird for someone making a deposit into a safety deposit box, especially someone like a federal judge. Ruiz had his own caseload, but had sent his own probie – who was thankfully a lot more considerate – to keep up with the WCCD until Fowler was out of town, and I had directed he, Jones, and Cruz to handle one of the exits onto a busier street. To avoid spooking either of our marks, a few other agents – Spencer, Cookler, and Sheppard – were all in civilian clothes inside, hovering near other exits in case Clark came through them.

I knew the woman better. She would be prideful even when she was afraid. She and Fowler thought that between them, they were invincible. Hubris would be their defeat, because they took their authority for granted and disregarded the importance of communication and honesty in any working partnership – a lesson which Neal and I had had to learn the hard way, but at least we had managed to get through it without either of us in chains.

At promptly noon, Clark was spotted by the trio in the surveillance van stalking up the sidewalk. I had crawled into the backseat with Katie and leaned over her while we watched, Neal in the passenger seat. Although still ticked at being dragged away from her job for the morning, my sister was intrigued. While Fowler wasn't the target, at least, she was interested in seeing our fancy little trick.

The judge walked confidently, but little tics betrayed her nerves. She kept looking over her shoulder, holding the briefcase at her side closer to her legs even though it kept whacking her thigh. She didn't move out of the way for anyone, instead making them swerve around her, but carried the case in front of her when she was around other pedestrians passing by, paranoid that they might swipe it or unlock it.

I felt Katie tense when Clark got close to the doors. Fowler came out of the bank itself, having lain in wait. He barged out of the double doors with his body bristling, temper boiling. "Give me the tape!" He snapped, holding both hands out imperatively.

 _"_ _Yes!"_ Neal balanced on his knees over the back of his seat and I gave him a boisterous high-five.

"What are you talking about?" Defensively, Clark leaned back and carted the briefcase to her other hand, holding it behind her back and away from the grabby hands. She started stepping away, only for Fowler to come following after her.

"Come on," I nudged Katie's leg to get her moving. "Out. Let's go."

Stiffly, she removed herself from the vehicle like her limbs were composed of lead. Standing aside while I followed her out of the back of the car, she sent the door shutting hard after me and crossed her arms, mouth sealed shut. I may have avoided telling her that Fowler was involved in this trap in such a suspicious capacity… She knew Clark was a bad guy and had no supposed ties to him, so she wasn't going to impede us getting out, but she wasn't going to happily prance behind us while we went up to them, either.

Neal and I matched each other's pace, stepping at the same time. I had to take slightly longer strides to stay even. Katie followed behind us slowly. If this plan showed any sign of going south, she was probably going to go with it. _Please don't let this get all twisty right as it seems to be working._

"You think you can double-cross me?" The blond didn't even realize that he was being closed in on by Hughes, who had gotten his group out of the van further down the street, and my partners, who were meters away and closing in fast. "I know what you have in there!" He lunged for her. Any other situation and I'd have intervened, questioning her safety with the man.

Fowler was ultimately faster and stronger than Clark, and she wasn't used to physically fighting back. He ripped the handle of the case out of her hands, snidely snarling at her the whole time, and crouched down, lying the case on the sidewalk to open both of the buckles.

Increasingly nervous, Clark moved impulsively between the case and the street, but not in the way of us. "I didn't double-cross you," she promised, voice desperate to take the argument elsewhere. "It-"

Her words were ripped from her when Fowler pushed the top open. The suitcase was full of pilfered money, organized in rows and bound in thick stacks with bands around the center widths of the bills. The green was the go light for my grin and would be the only necessary signature for Clark's arrest.

 _Three, two, one._ The OPR cop had a lightbulb moment. Slamming the top of the case shut, he looked up at her and grimly explained, "This is a setup." I noticed he didn't apologize for all but assaulting her in order to get what she had already said she didn't have. Clark probably shouldn't've held her breath for a decent sign of remorse or general human sincerity.

Neal cleared his throat. Clark spun around. In her haste, she almost tripped in her sandals. Her tight red dress hugged her chest and hips and emphasized when her breath started to come faster, holding her own hands tight. Neal and I both raised our left hands in a wave and smiled politely. We stopped a few feet away. Fowler was too smart to implicate himself by running, and Clark wasn't going to be outrunning any of us in those shoes.

"What's going on, Fowler?" Clark demanded, fixing her eyes on me in hatred and surprise. Bet she hadn't thought I'd still be showing my face.

He jumped up to his feet and turned his back to us to hiss at her. "Don't say a word," he ordered snappishly. "Let _me_ handle this." Fowler may have been an agent, but he hadn't been to law school; I questioned his own assumption of superior intelligence. Clark may have been found with the money, but if I wanted to arrest him, I could do so and gladly report that he had been the one opening it. He had to realize I was petty and protective enough to try my hardest to color it against him, and it wouldn't be hard. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" He rounded on us threateningly.

Neither Neal nor I flinched back. He was harmless the way he was; a snake with its fangs out. Regardless, I remained in front of my sister. Neal and I had an immunity, but he still had her wrapped up in a perpetuated and encouraged delusion.

"Assisting you!" I chirped, dumbly enthusiastic. "See, you're about to arrest our suspect in a _very_ high-profile case." With one hand, I indicated Clark, who looked between me and Fowler in trepidation. "You're taking down Judge Michelle Clark on multiple cases of mortgage fraud and have caught her, cash in hand!" There were other things, too, but I had to go at her piece by piece. If it got too complex, she could get away with all of it. "Let me paraphrase for you." I stepped up close and raised my chin, staring him dead in the eyes. "You fucked with my family, so I took away your pet judge."

He shook his head. "You have no authorization for this," he growled.

"But I do, don't I? You gave it to me!" Here, I reached into the inner pocket of my jacket and took out a folded-up piece of paper, smoothly creased through the middle. I unfolded it and bent the fold backwards to hold it open. "See, right here," I pointed at the line, "I have you signature. Very nice. Clean. Cut-and-dry."

I turned it over and looked at it again. A black ink pen had written _Garrett Fowler_ on the signature line in the sharp and quick penmanship characteristic on all of Fowler's signatures on every other document he'd collected, including his archived request to have the pink diamond examined for Neal's initials. Now _that_ was art. "You… you did sign off on this, right?" Hughes came closer and within earshot, Diana and Derek following behind, Diana sipping on a gas station soft drink and Derek swinging his handcuffs around eagerly. "Because if you did, then you're a civil hero. If you didn't… well…"

Meaningfully, I looked to the suitcase full of stolen and illicitly-obtained money sitting right at his feet, then to the judge behind him who stood proven corrupt.

"Then I really don't know how I'm supposed to explain what I'm seeing," I finished with a shrug. It didn't bother me any. I got what I wanted if he went along with the forgery. If he didn't, then I got not only his pet, but I got him, too. There was no losing for my side of the battle.

Hughes stopped on the other side of me after a brief hello to Katie. Looking between the faces of five different federal employees and one woman he was keen on convincing that he nurtured puppies in his free time, Fowler sent me one last positively homicidal stare, physically restraining himself from hitting me in the face, and then turned around on Clark, stabbing her in the back as soon as it looked good for him.

"Judge Clark, you're under arrest," he announced, taking his own handcuffs from his belt and robbing Derek of the pleasure. Derek just kind of shrugged and greeted Kate under his breath. She returned it a little more warmly, looking after Fowler with relief.

 _Right._ I hadn't foreseen that he would look even better in her books after we tricked him into arresting the judge that tried to have me fired and locked up. _Huh._ Well, I still had another card to play. I wasn't too worried.

"What?!" Trying to wrench her hands away, Clark struggled to move away from him. Fowler kept a tight vice on her right wrist. Once one hand was confined, she gave up a useless struggle, still scowling at him and seriously contemplating slamming her stiletto into his crotch.

"You have the right to remain silent." Interestingly, Fowler remained slightly to the left of her. Despite working with her, he seemed to have no doubts that all bets were off regarding the safety of his health. "I _highly_ recommend you exercise that right."

Hughes, satisfied that things were settling down – on one area, if not in the other stirred departments – nodded once and commended Fowler. "This is a big win, Garrett." Hughes took a look at the signature that I was still holding up proudly and then didn't comment on the agent's implicated involvement in the operation. He was much stricter on his policy of ignorance than I was. If it went over a line, he didn't want to know. I had definitely crossed some lines, according to the FBI playbook. "Great work."

I took some sunglasses out of my pants pocket after I folded up the paper and put it back in my breast pocket. I was going to have it framed at the craft store and hang it in my bedroom. Neal also took some sunglasses out, but his were designer, passed down from June's late husband (although how they seemed to share the same taste in practically everything is still baffling). My convenience-store shades dulled the sunlight and the colors of everything around me.

"Now all we need is for her to be extradited. Isn't that right?" I inputted sourly when Fowler finished reciting the Miranda Rights and Hughes had taken Diana away to brief her on booking a federal district judge. There were going to be some paperwork differences, and the legitimacy of the warrants and probable cause could _not_ be smudged.

The OPR agent bared his teeth at me meanly, keeping a grasp on the chain links between the two cuffs. "I don't know how you set this up, but I'd watch your back if I were you." The threat was underhanded.

I raised my eyebrows. He was going to threaten me in front of witnesses? Even Clark was pissed enough to tattle. Ultimately I decided that I had better things to hold over his head than a vague, indiscriminant warning. I held up an arm to Neal, who linked our elbows and leaned down onto my shoulder like the animations had in the movie.

"It's called a hustle, sweetheart," we synchronously quoted the condescending punchline.

* * *

Fowler and Clark dominated the conference room while they negotiated terms and probably argued with each other. He looked ready to break the window. Clark looked prepared to wait until he'd broken said window, then stand up and push him out of it. I was rooting for it to happen yet doubted it would. She was already going to lose everything, including the basic freedoms afforded to taxpaying citizens.

I wondered who would have the rougher time in prison – me, Neal, or Clark? I seemed the obvious choice at first: a reasonably young female federal agent. But then there's Clark, who targeted people by taking advantage of the court system that put a lot of the other inmates in the prisons. Would that earn her respect for breaking the law from such a high stance? Or would it earn her loathing and disgust because she took advantage of people who were in similar situations to the inmates? Neal, in comparison to Clark and I, seemed like he would be the least victimized. Maybe not the most liked, but the least hated. That had probably changed, since he'd flipped sides to work for me.

"She's going to be in jail for a long time," I remarked to Neal without thinking while we stood leaning against the banister on the outside of the mezzanine steps, sipping on coffee.

Wincing, I lowered my cup and looked back up to him, trying to read his face. He was taking a drink. The other people we'd caught had been different; unlike Clark, they'd had people murdered. Hagen killed the book dealer, Ghovat killed Dmitri and the victim Tara saw, Maria killed Ignacio, Aimes tried to kill Neal and I both and attempted to ruin an honest man's life. Dorsett had been a murderer, even if no one had died during that case; Lao Shen had killed Costa and dozens of others, Fowler had targeted Neal so that one didn't really count, and Avery had tried his hardest to kill Neal and I both.

Those dramatic cases were done by people who had morals far below Neal's standards. We sent a lot of people to jail. Some paid fines and others ended up on probation or house arrest, but a lot went behind bars. Few went to super-maxes, but we didn't really talk about what happened to people after the crimes were solved. Neal didn't bring it up unless they were particularly abhorrent people and I avoided talking about it because I didn't know how he would react to putting people like himself in prison. I knew he was afraid that he'd be sent back, no matter how many times I fought other agents to keep him safe, both from handcuffs and from bullying within the office.

Neal licked his lips and looked back up at the duo in the conference room, door closed. Fowler was leaning over the side of the table with his hands pressed flat down on the surface. The judge contritely held her hands in her lap, handcuffs temporarily removed. Evidently he was giving her a lecture and trying to hash out how Neal and I had gotten the better of them.

"She took away peoples' homes," the blue-eyed thief reasoned simply. "I allegedly took some nice things that caught my eye, but I never took anyone's home away from them or their kids. I had my limits. Even criminals have their own ethics board." _I guess yours was Mozzie._ I leaned to the side and pressed our arms together for a second. I'd never stop being glad that of all criminals for me to make a partnership with, I'd get one whose ethics didn't completely drive me out of my mind.

Reassured that I hadn't pushed any unintentional buttons, I settled back against the banister with my coffee in hand, smelling sweet and tasting better. I'd added ground cinnamon to the coffee collection in the kitchenette.

"Now we just need to help Katie."

I followed Neal's eyes. Part of the reason he was hanging out with me was because he had relinquished his desk to my sister. Katie had white earbuds playing music from her phone and was curiously flipping through a notebook on Neal's desk. I didn't recognize it as one of hers, but it didn't look like anything official, either, so I let it pass, assuming it was Neal's and not the bureau's. He saw what she was doing, so if he didn't want her looking, he could always just go ask her to stop.

"Got it covered." I patted his arm. It felt weird to be talking about protecting Katie when she really didn't want to _be_ protected. On one hand, it was kind of like trying to shield a teenager from dating when they were ready to date, trying to control her relationships. On the other, while it was uncomfortable for me to be working to control her choices in romantic partners, it was also like not wanting my little sister to meet a guy she met online alone in a park. "Turns out that at dinner, I was using the wrong kitchen item to attack."

"Huh?" Unable to even make sense of that one, Neal frowned at me. I just smiled mysteriously.

The slamming door made both of us jump and look behind us to the conference room. Fowler was storming down, Clark still inside, now with her handcuffs back on. The OPR agent stubbornly refused to look at Neal or I, even though we both smiled like insolent brats while he had no choice but to walk down the stairs mere feet away from us.

"That looked harsh," I remarked about their conversation, brightly and obnoxiously nosy. "What were you playing, Good Cop/Bad Cop?"

Giving me a sideways glower with a curl of his lip, Fowler stomped his way down the stairs. Neal and I both turned around to face him and my mouthy consultant corrected me loudly, and equally obnoxiously, "No, you'd need a good cop for that."

"Oh, right," I agreed. Fowler stopped, huffed, and stared at us, waiting for a good time to leap in with a scathing accusation or a hot comeback.

"As far as I can see, the good cop has been here the whole time." Supportively, and to rub it in Fowler's face that the good ones won again, Neal moved his coffee to his right hand and wound his left arm around my waist, stepping in to fit up against my side. I tilted my head and smiled at Fowler.

The bug was a neat trick. The forgery was helpful. The tools were useful, but the real reason we'd won was what we were showing off right in front of everyone: Neal and I were a team. Not a sneaky pair of corrupt government employees that wanted their payoff, like Clark and Fowler. Neal and I talked and worked together, and we worked for each other's benefit, not our own. We also weren't complete douchebags, which meant we had reliable friends – like Mozzie.

"Great job at your part, though." I genuinely yet backhandedly commended. "For some reason, you're a really convincing bad cop."

Katie unexpectedly came padding up the carpet to our left, her desire to be with other people renewed as her _darling_ returned from his lawful interrogation of the bad guy. Internally, I rolled my eyes. She had taken off her earbuds for long enough to hear Neal and I prodding at the man and had something to say about it. If Fowler was actually a good guy, I'd have been proud of her for defending him. As it was, I just wanted her to join our jeering team.

"Please don't make me keep watching this," she grumbled at me, disappointed as her own sister looked like she was becoming a bully. "Get to the point; you're being antagonistic."

 _What, really?_ Against my better judgment, I exaggerated surprise on my face. _You don't say!_ Katie turned her _really angry schoolteacher_ expression on me. I'd have believed it in that minute if she said she condoned corporal punishment, because if there had been a ruler in her hand, it definitely would've met my arms.

"What's going on with Clark in there?" I redirected the topic at Fowler, bringing him back into the fold. He had to watch what he said and how he acted around Katie. I was _not_ going to let him see how well she kept me in line without also dragging him into it.

Fowler pressed his lips into a thin line at the reminder of his failed plot with the pretty and cunning accomplice. "She's plea bargaining out," he explained. "Confessing the mortgage fraud." _Of course._ That would make Fowler look good. Was it Clark or him that came up with that decision?

 _"_ _Just_ mortgage fraud?" Neal asked, disappointed. His fingers tightened, grasping into my waist. I felt dumb for only just realizing that he might have wanted to see Clark pay for the extradition order that had let Køhler get his revenge against me.

Of course he wanted to see her be held responsible for that. I was his friend and his lover. Just like he wanted Fowler to pay for taking his sister, he wanted Clark to be held accountable for indirectly harming me. I wanted things to be made right, too, but more than I wanted her to be sentenced for it, I just wanted to be done with the entire ordeal and all of its blowback. Fowler should have to pay, and the man who had put me under the knife in the first place, but Clark was too far removed for me to feel the same level of burning motivation for that particular offense.

"Curious." I mused. "I wonder how she's getting that deal. Seems like special treatment to me."

Fowler awarded me with a tight and patronizing smile, a mockery of a symbol of camaraderie. "It doesn't matter." Neal and I both looked properly offended at the way he wrote off something that did, in fact, matter. "She's giving up her sources at the bank, even the clerk helping her to launder the money. She'll get a reduced sentence."

I sighed and turned my face up to Neal. "She's taking advantage of the system," I said at a normal volume while rudely pretending that Fowler was too dumb to hear or understand.

"I hate when people do that," he grimaced, glancing at Fowler dismissively and doing the same thing. I'd read somewhere that it was a means for people to bond in spite of their differences. I just liked to do it to be a bitch, even though Neal and I were very different in a lot of ways.

"It's really rude," I hypocritically tutted.

"I agree," Neal nodded sagely, hesitated, and brought a lively spark to his eyes. "Now that I work for the system, of course."

We simultaneously decided to end our closed-conference meeting and turned back to Fowler, managing to mirror each other. We both tilted our heads towards each other and raised our coffee cups to the OPR agent before drinking. _No wonder we're good partners. We're excellently compatible actors._

Refraining from calling us out on being completely unnecessarily disrespectful, because he knew he had no legs to stand on and because he wanted to appear like the better person in front of Kate, he took his hands out from behind his back once they were no longer in angry fists and held out a hand as if to shake.

I eyed it distastefully and looked up to him. _Really?_ I asked with my eyes. _You really think that I'm going to shake hands with you courteously after all of this?_

"I appreciate your cooperation on this one, McKenna." Kate and I _both_ snickered, although Katie immediately looked guilty for it. I had been anything _but_ cooperative, and we both knew it. Fowler pushed on although his lips thinned in frustration. "Next time I'm in from DC, I'll give you a call."

He turned around and made to leave. I let him take a few steps, took another warm sip of cinnamon-flavored espresso, and called out calmly after him, "You really should." Kate started to glare at me warningly, detecting the note in my voice that said I was up to something. "I know a great body arts place – probably a much better studio than the one you went to."

The effect was instantaneous. Fowler had never been particularly good at finesse or graceful recovery. He had gone to a parlor in a completely different district of the state because he had counted on me not finding out. As if it wasn't obscure enough, he'd been keeping me busy with everything he threw at me, from Clark, to the tape, to the evenings in which I was thrown out of my own residence. Again, he discounted the value of having a team that looked out for each other. I wouldn't have been able to find the proof without Mozzie and Neal working behind the scenes. He stood stock still, freezing in the middle of a step, and slowly turned back around, staring at me fixedly.

"McKenna?" Kate just sounded honestly puzzled why I had said something about body art, and why Fowler had reacted so viscerally to it when there was nothing inherently insulting.

Inhaling deeply, Fowler took slow steps back to me. His walk was more controlled and his face was less temperamental than it had been since I'd met him. "Are you making a point?" He asked, not unkindly, but not particularly warmly, either.

I smiled and nodded. I _was_ making a point. And I wasn't done making it, either. I opened up the flap in the front of my messenger bag and felt around. I held out my cup to Neal, who thoughtfully took my coffee for me to free up my other hand. "I know they're in here somewhere," I murmured audibly, taking out the rough material of an old and scratchy wash cloth. I followed it out with a small, travel-size bottle that I'd filled with cooking olive oil. "Oh, here they are."

I held them both up pleasantly and let my bag close. The bottle was plain, but the olive oil had its yellowish tint and obviously wasn't water or soap. I flipped up the cap and turned it over, squeezing quite a bit out into the cloth, soaking several square inches through. Oil gathered up on my fingers and hand through the already worn material and made my hand feel slick and greasy.

"Give me your wrist." I ordered, holding the cloth in my right hand and passing the bottle of olive oil to Neal. He closed the tab and slipped it back into my bag while I extended my left arm, waiting for him to give me his hand.

Fowler, though confused, scoffed. "This is preposterous," he sneered, moving his arm behind his back in refusal. Either he knew what the olive oil would do or he just thought I was too smug for it to mean anything good.

"Why?" I cocked my head and looked over at Katie, drawing his attention back to the woman whose trust and affection we were fighting for. "Why are you scared?" _Worried she'll see your true colors?_ I made an inside joke and my lips quirked. _Or, rather, your lack thereof?_

"Heh," Fowler sarcastically laughed and turned to Kate for help, imploring, "Katie, sweetie, please tell her to back off."

Katie looked between us, her eyes continuing to flash to the cloth in my hand. I switched it to my left hand, showed her the oil that had seeped through onto my bare hand, and rubbed some onto the back of my other hand just to prove that it was completely harmless. Kate made her decision, full of spite and exasperation and exhaustion.

"For God's sake, just do it," she snapped at Fowler. His face when she failed to be his magnificent trump card was priceless. He gaped like a fish out of water. "The sooner you let her see we're really soulmates, the sooner she'll have to get over it," she rationalized, waving it off with a sharp flick of her wrist.

Losing my patience and expecting him to try to talk his way out, I lunged forward and grabbed at his arm. This time, Kate didn't pull me off – this time, I had help. Leaning my weight back, I forced Fowler to give me his arm. Neal set both coffees on the nearest desk and grabbed the man's hand, wrapping his fingers around Fowler's thumb and pushing his own against the natural joint so that Fowler couldn't fight. _Clever,_ I praised admiringly, and Neal shoved up the shirt sleeve, the button on the cuff popping open.

With a sense of victory, I took the cloth to the man's arm. His wrist was glistening with oils in just a few passes, and I scrubbed harder. The wash cloth was rough, which meant it pressed harder and drew up colors and stains. It really worked the olive oil into the skin. Fowler couldn't really wriggle his way free without Neal popping his thumb out of the joint just by holding on, and if he hit either of us, then that violence would be a turn-off to Katie. All he could do was stand there with increasing tension.

Experimentally, I checked the cloth. I couldn't see colors against the dark brown fabric, but his wrist was bleeding color. The grey of the lock had faded, the bolded black outline was smudged and warped, and the keyhole in the center of the heart shape had blurred into its surrounding ink.

"There!" Neal grinned at me. I stepped to the side and Neal pulled Fowler forward, both of us presenting the fraudulence with pride. "Katie, I present to you my proof." Later, I would feel awful for the way her face fell, eyes shuttering, as she thought she saw something off and slowly approached, cautious to shatter her own hopes. Her will brought her close enough to see without a doubt that the soulmark had been faked without getting within distance for Fowler to touch her. "See," I crowed at the OPR agent, whose face burned red in shame and humiliation at being caught. "You're not the only one that likes Henna."

"That…" Kate's voice was faint. I'd never heard her sound like such an echo. "That's impossible." She took a tiny step closer and asked in a very small, hurt voice, "Garrett?"

He opened his mouth but closed it and looked away, speechless. With the carefulness of someone who thought she'd be smacked away, Katie took his hand. Neal let go of Fowler to let her see for herself, and Kate brushed her fingertips over the ruined Henna print of her own soulmark's match.

Kate wasn't a frequent guest in the bureau, but most of the agents in the WCCD knew her from the photograph in my office and the way I talked about her. I adored my sister and I didn't see a problem with people noticing. When she was around, people stopped to say hello. Kate got along fabulously with Lauren – they both liked fish and while Lauren wasn't a reptile person, her sharp tongue made Kate laugh when she used creative phrases to insult snakes.

Cruz, Diana, and Derek all saw the conglomeration of four by the mezzanine and stood by, pretending to be busy while they actually eavesdropped. Tackling Fowler in the open had been strategic, both to ensure mine and Neal's safety and to publicly unmask Fowler for the bottomfeeder he was, but I hadn't considered that maybe Katie would prefer to have her heart broken in private.

_I have_ _**got** _ _to start thinking these things through…_

Kate looked at her fingertips, shining with a thin coat of oil tinted almost unnoticeably with dark grey. "Why would you…" Her eyes welled up with tears. "This… it shouldn't come off." Diana stood up on her toes to try to see what we were talking about. I shot all three of them hard looks and Diana waved apologetically, moving away to her desk to give us more privacy. Meanwhile, Kate tearfully looked at Fowler and held her hand up for him to see the removed color. "Why is it coming off?"

He shook his head, unable to answer. "Please let me explain," he started nervously, eyes darting around at the audience, and didn't get any further than that. The slap to his face shut him up effectively and the bullpen rang with the sound of Kate's hand hitting his cheek.

"You _lied_ to me!" She yelled at him, throwing her hands down before she smacked him again. She blinked hard and the tears fell, rolling down her face, reflecting the overhead lighting as her face slowly reddened, mortified by the realization that she'd been taken in by a ruse. "You pretended to be my mate – _why?_ So you could hurt me? So you could hurt _McKenna?!"_

 _Ding ding ding,_ I sarcastically thought, envisioning a lightbulb over her head.

"She's my sister," Kate told him meanly, wiping at her face with her hands, but nowhere near done with reaming his ass for what he'd done to her. "She has _never_ let me down and she tried so hard to warn me about you, but I didn't listen, and I'm completely sick of you!" My chest warmed. It was not a good time to feel touchy-feely, as Kate was feeling pretty slap-happy, but hearing her go back to defending me made me feel all was right in the world. I had her back in my corner, and I was five times less lonely. "I said horrible things to her because I was defending _you!"_

Neal uncomfortably tried to catch my eye. I avoided it. Yeah, it was still something I didn't want to talk to him about.

When she lifted her vicious right arm again, Fowler flinched, hanging his head down in a convincing mimicry of guilt. She didn't hit him, though. Instead, she prodded her finger hard into his chest and shoved his offensive wrist away from her.

"If you _ever_ come to my house again," she snarled, undermined by her own hiccup, "I will drop-kick your ass all the way to Canada and take out a _fucking_ restraining order!" Hearing her curse just drove it home. Katie always kept her language to a minimal whenever she could because she didn't want to accidentally let a swear slip while she was surrounded by impressionable children.

I moved in to Kate, offering her my hand. Her eyes were closed and she covered her face, sobbing painfully into her hands. I sent a disgusted look at my nemesis and Diana interfered, cutting herself in between Kate and Fowler.

"Come on, OPR, I think you've overstayed your welcome." Walking forward and pushing at him insistently, Diana made it clear that Fowler wasn't exactly being given a choice as she shepherded him away from my sister and, even better, out of the division.

I would definitely thank her for her help later, but at the time, my attention was entirely for Katie. Sweet Katie, who'd been given what she wanted, had it poisoned by her sister, and then had it ripped away, leaving her with remorse for being so quick to believe it and jump the gun in assigning blame. I set a hand on her shoulder yet stayed a couple of feet away in case she wanted to be alone.

"Oh, God," her voice broke, thick and wobbly. Already I could hear congestion setting into her sinuses. As soon as she felt my hand, she ripped her arms down and turned to me, throwing herself at me. I stumbled back and wrapped my arms around her shorter body, holding her tight.

"I'm so sorry," she breathed, trembling. "I should've believed you, I can't-" She stopped and rose her voice. "Why would he _do_ that?" She sounded positively _agonized._ My instincts told me to seek out the cause of the pain and rip it limb from limb, but all that would've done is hurt us both.

Why would someone play with her heart for their own gain? Lots of reasons, but none of them were excuses and none of them would be any sort of answer Katie wanted. They wouldn't satisfy her; they would make her feel even worse, as if that were even remotely possible. Fowler wasn't a psychopath, but he had no regard for the people he hurt in his search for the music box.

The music box was Neal's problem, and mine because I chose for it to be. Fowler made it my problem when he started targeting my friend. Kate shouldn't have to deal with everything that's happened because of it, not when she's already put up with so much for and because of me.

Not wanting to concern her with the long story behind the entire disaster of the last year of Neal, Fowler, and Kate Moreau's lives, I held her tighter and told a half-lie. "I don't know, Kate. I don't know." I knew why he did it, but couldn't quite comprehend _how._ It was inhumane and beyond cruel.

Threading my fingers into Kate's hair, I tucked her head under my chin and pressed my hand solidly against her upper back, holding her closely. She was trying so hard to put herself back together that she wasn't bawling, but no one could be expected to go through what she had just been forced through and _not_ cry. I could feel the wet spot growing on my neck and the collar of my shirt.

Once Katie started to cry, it wasn't as entertaining to eavesdrop anymore, but Derek, whom had always had an affinity for her and who would deny his crush on her until he was hit in the face with a clue-by-four, only wanted to come in closer and do what he could to help. Katie didn't even notice him approaching, too wrapped up in me and absorbed in her devastation that was hitting her all at once. I was holding up more of her weight than she was. The other FBI agent hesitated and diverted his path to Neal instead of us.

"That design on his wrist…" Derek rubbed a hand over his left wrist where Fowler's faked mark had been. "That was…"

He ended it meaningfully. Neal swallowed and answered quietly, "That was a copy of Kate's soulmark." Ah, so I wasn't the only one feeling really stupid for having dragged her into that. I'd known she would be hurting, but I hadn't anticipated that my emotions would be _screaming_ for her sake as well.

Her head turned on my shoulder, cheek pressing down. "I don't hide mine like McKenna does," she shakily explained between uneven gasps and exhales. I cooed quietly and rubbed her back calmingly. "I guess… I always understood why she was worried about it, but I didn't think something like that would ever happen to _me._ " Miserably, she turned her face to my throat and made an audible cry.

 _Why would you?_ This wasn't _normal._ Normal people don't fuck with others by faking their soulmarks and leading on innocent idealists. Kate was a lovely woman with a bright future and everything about her to love, and she'd still lived out a nightmare she didn't even realize she'd had. No one in their right mind would hurt her, and never like this.

Derek pulled on Neal's sleeve. Katie was far too absorbed to pay them much attention, but I was still giving the boys half an ear while I tended to my sister, intending to soothe her enough to take her to the car and drive her home.

"I need a minute," my brother told Neal seriously.

Neal motioned to Kate and I and gently discouraged it. "Katie needs her sister."

"That's why I need a minute," Derek replied after a pause, deciding that what he needed was important enough to be stubborn.

Neal had an argument with Derek purely through his eyes and facial expressions. It wasn't long before he was convinced that Derek wasn't exaggerating. Coming up to us, Neal opened his arms and slowly joined in on the hug, embracing Kate and I both. One of her arms moved off of me and a minute later found its way around Neal's midsection.

"Hey, Katie? Yeah, sweetie." Kate turned to his voice. Neal kept up the reassuring tone and freed me from her hold with encouraging touches to her face and hands. He hiked up the arm around his middle and turned her face towards him. I kissed her forehead in a sort of blessing and she detached from me, going to Neal and hugging him like she'd been afraid to let go of me. "Come here…"

"Neal," she said his name in wonder and regret. "I'm sorry I let him – he put you in _prison_ , I'm sorry-"

"It's okay, Katie." Neal stroked his hand down her hair. She clutched his jacket's extra fabric in her fists. "All's forgiven," he promised, and shushed her kindly, petting the top of her head.

I was impatient to get back to doing the comforting that I should have, by all rights, been doing, so I let Derek see that I was in a hurry. He looked around, his eyes softening on my sister, and then pointed up to my office. Rolling my eyes and tapping my foot impatiently, I pointed after the same room and then gestured hurriedly for him to hustle up the mezzanine in front of me.

Derek moved faster than a cat to get up the stairs and to my office, regarding the door for a moment like it was a time-out space. I entered after him but left the doorway open so I could hear if I was needed.

"What is it?" I asked. If I was a little short-tempered, well, my sister was heartbroken and needed some love and comfort which I was supposed to be giving. Anyone would be short-tempered in that situation.

As an answer, Derek shucked off his blazer and tore the buttons out of their holes on his shirt, risking it ripping just to open it faster. His broad chest was marked with a heart-shaped padlock directly over where his beating heart was positioned in his body. He stood with his shirt half-off, looking stunned and honest and open. Kate's soulmark didn't look like an imposter on my brother. It looked like it belonged, like it was a part of his body as much as his jaw or his feet.

I was able to think that there was some more merit than I had thought to teasing Derek about being in love with Kate. I also thought that there was a very serious conversation to be had sometime in the near future. What I actually did was shrug, answerless, and not altogether upset. Derek was a hell of a lot better than Fowler, and at least I trusted this one. At least this one made _sense._ He looked paler than white sheets and amazed like he couldn't believe we were in reality, and shrugging was the most appropriate response that I could come up with.

* * *

After everything we had been through, it was easy to forget that it had started out with such a small thing as the Sullivans having their house foreclosed on. The bank hadn't yet seized it – they still had a couple of days – but it was somewhat surprising that all that had happened had been in just a matter of days. I decided I needed to reap some of the rewards of my job. I also chose to share it with Neal and let him see the good of being a public servant.

We were standing out on the sidewalk in front of the one-story residential home, light yellow on the outside with a teal green trim. It looked unusual but not bad, and certainly was distinguishable from the homes on either side of it. When the two-person family's minivan came up to the side, Allison opened her own door and jumped out, in a big pink windbreaker with scarlet highlights on the shoulders and arms.

"It'll take some time to sort out all the paperwork," Neal warned. I personally doubted that David cared, and it wasn't something Allison would need to be concerned with anyway. Going by the wide grin on the father's face, he really didn't care how many times he had to sign his name so long as he got to call the place his. "But no one's taking this from you now."

We all looked to our right at the home across the lawn, which needed to be mowed, but I could easily see them getting the grass under control and then prettying it up with some flowers along the siding of the house. They'd been a bit preoccupied with fighting back to do yardwork.

David covered his mouth with his hands, breathing heavily, repeatedly gasping and then saying parts of halting sentences, overcome with relief. "This is where she'll come home from her first day of school…" Dragging his hand down over his chin, he looked teary-eyed at Neal. "Maybe from her first date…"

I looked down at the little girl. She'd grow up nicely, but I didn't envy her that first nightmarish year of puberty. She had to stop looking like a six-year-old, and then she'd have to get through that awkward stage of alternating between fawning over and being disgusted by boys, then just being plain disgusted by anything to do with the opposite gender once she learned about sex, but yeah. Assuming her dad wasn't one of those who threatened his daughter's potential mates with a shotgun, this would be a nice, safe neighborhood to walk home to after a movie.

Allison smiled up at me cheekily, the dusting of melanin over her face giving her a look like Raggedy Anne, in spite of her yellow hair. She scraped her lower lip with her front teeth while she giggled and kept her left hand up to her father, hanging off of David's arm.

"Well, I'm sure you'll be hearing from the bank, at any rate," I told him conversationally. "Probably to offer formal apologies." I didn't think he could sue the bank, since they had technically acted within the law. The only criminal activity had been on Clark, and why would the banks assume that the courts were rigged? "The new judge appointed to your case really _is_ impartial and will have the forged mortgage thrown out."

"Oh… don't need this anymore." Jokingly, Neal reached down to the foreclosure notice sign and pulled the long prongs up out of the rain-softened ground. The red and black sign was white on the other side.

I held out my hand for it. Neal handed it to me amicably. I took the stiff sign and turned it over so that the holes on the top came off of the curving hooks on top of the sign post that it had been resting in and held the thin metal at my side while I gave Allison the notice.

"There's something for you to color on, kiddo," I said, and was rewarded by her taking the sign with wonder and Neal grinning down at the sidewalk, patting my back in pride for encouraging her artistry and inviting her to defile a government sign at the same time.

She looked at the back of it. It was maybe a foot tall and eighteen inches wide, so it covered her chest, but she held it up easily with a hand on each side. "Thanks!" She beamed like the sunshine and broke apart from David, bowling right into my legs. I looked down at the mess of blonde hair. Her head barely came up past my waist. I looked at her father in surprise and rubbed her shoulder while she kept her arms locked around my thighs.

Smiling, Neal rested one hand against my lower back and the other on Allison's other shoulder. He was so taken with children – it was precious. Allison moved on to Neal before she returned to her dad's side, and I swear Neal _glowed_ while he crouched down to her height and hugged her right back, long arms wrapping almost all the way around her little body.

* * *

Seeing David and Allison reminded me of the other person who had suffered because of Clark and Fowler (one of them, at least) and I felt that I probably owed it to him to visit in person and convey all the good news as everything was put back in order. The world was righting itself again, and it was exciting and refreshing, like stepping outside at five AM right after a spring rain.

With none of the tension or urgency from the last time, I knocked on the door loudly, stuck my hands in my pockets, and whistled the whistling song from _The King and I_ while I waited for him to answer the door. It would be nice to have a candid conversation for once, since he no longer had to live in fear of being spied on or recorded under threat of undeserved jail time.

When Herrera opened his front door and saw me, he went from annoyed to something more reserved. "You again," he greeted. He could have been a little bit more excited, but I was in too good of a mood to take advantage. I knew Katie was at home hurting, and that sucked, but it was better for her in the long run to get it out now so she could move on. With Derek. Whom I wouldn't feel compelled to scream at.

"Yeah, I'm a nuisance," I said with the same pleasant tone I usually took when thanking someone for noticing my persistence.

The detective stepped out onto his porch and looked around. My demeanor must have told him it wasn't as dangerous as it had been last time. Dark denim jeans and a plain orange tee-shirt covered him up, but the shirt's sleeves were short and a shallow 'V' was cut into the neckline. His watch was on his wrist and shoes were on his feet. It was good to see he wasn't lazing around at home all day.

"How'd it go?" He asked, tucking his hands in his pockets in a reflection of myself and glancing down the porch steps.

"Didn't lose my job," I started off with. Taking my hands out of my pants, I held my arms out and showed off my pantsuit with a quick spin around, freezing up like Michael Jackson before I flattened my feet and dropped my arms. "That dirty agent got his ass handed to him and is on his way out of town. Judge Clark is being sentenced to prison for mortgage fraud."

Herrera started smiling, a twist of his lips on one side of his mouth, and his eyes gleamed. He hadn't deserved the terrible situation he'd been put in, and I had more respect for it than ever now that I had also been on the receiving end of his poor treatment. I didn't blame him for stepping out, and I was proud that I had done something to help another cop in need.

"And," I started to grin uncontrollably, holding up a hand with a finger up. "The New York Chief of Police issues a formal apology to you for your wrongful dismissal. I made a few calls, explained the whole thing to the NYPD. They're willing to offer you your job back, no strings attached, if you want to come out of retirement."

I thought I'd done a really good thing there and my face clearly showed it. Herrera paused, put one hand on his hip, and showed off his own outfit, like I had mine but without the King of Pop influence. "You don't think it suits me?" He asked solemnly. The only give from his poker face was the raise of one eyebrow.

I smirked. "I think if you were really into it, you wouldn't have called out Neal on his cufflinks first thing."

He laughed heartily. "Thanks." Hand low, he reached out and gave me a pat on my elbow. "I'll give the chief a call." His entire attitude was lit up in comparison to the way it had been. I had really done something special there, giving him his life and reputation back. His ambition didn't have to go away because it had led him to a deep sinkhole.

Not even bothering to pretend that I'd been giving him the benefit of the doubt, I nodded slyly. "I had the feeling you would."

I'd made a new friend, helped out a family, and protected my own. Seemed like a job well done to me.

* * *

Kate and Derek were going to be in the same vicinity all evening whether I wanted them to be or not, and I was not going to start a Montagues and Capulets setup right after all that drama I had _just_ put an end to (at least, for now) so I just let Derek come over. I figured that Kate might be emotionally hurt, but I was somewhat emotionally traumatized too, and I used that as my excuse to bring Neal over, as well. From there, it was an easy leap to make enough dinner for six people and keep Mozzie (who had done so much to help) and Diana (who had refused to believe I'd go dirty).

We had a very enjoyable dinner, too. We didn't talk about Fowler or Clark or anything that had happened beyond Kate's pass at me not to assault Derek with a dish towel, which made Mozzie snicker and try to pretend he wasn't amused while I looked down and felt no embarrassment whatsoever. I had enjoyed that, damn it. She wasn't going to take it away from me.

But the dinner came to an end because we couldn't eat forever and Diana had other places to be, so she was the first one to depart. The party started to dissolve after that. Derek and Kate moved onto the living room couch, so Neal and I cleaned up. We may have splashed each other with tap water in the process and been called Neanderthals. Mozzie didn't appreciate being caught in the crossfire.

Ten minutes later, he was over himself and had retrieved his briefcase of bug-searching apparatus from the closet. "The entire house is clear?" I asked nervously, too paranoid that I would end up being watched or listened to until there was something incriminating or morbidly humiliating.

"Yes," he confirmed with one hundred-percent certainty. "No bugs, no traps. But your wiring belongs in a museum for sure." _Well, if he's cool enough with it to insult my home electrical setup, then I'm fine._ I relaxed and my shoulders sagged. "You're living in a fire trap!" He warned seriously. Obviously I wasn't taking him seriously enough. "The future is in copper wiring, my friend. I know a guy-"

"I think I've got it covered," I assured. I wasn't sure how many criminals were actually of trustworthy enough character to let them into my house. Mozzie and Neal were special. "Thanks." Besides, I highly doubted that, by some freak accident, there would be an electrical fire in my house. I had it checked pretty regularly for dangers like that even before I met these two and I felt pretty safe. I just hoped Kate hadn't heard that. "Really, for everything. I know I've said it a dozen times, but I can't say it enough."

Mozzie held up a hand to me and bluntly stated, "You already have."

I swallowed. That wasn't the way I was used to doing things, but if he wasn't going to let me dramatically say "I owe you" or something similarly appreciative, then there was no point. I had enlisted his help in an illegal method and I had to adapt to what I'd wanted. Mozzie's line of work was under the table, which meant no one made a big deal about it. In his mind, either I owed him a favor or I was already working it off by protecting his friend.

"Okay," I said, biting my tongue before I disagreed that I hadn't. Mozzie and I shook hands and I saw him out the door. He didn't have a car, so I didn't know how far he intended to walk, but offering to drive was probably going to get about the same reception it did last time, so I pulled the door shut and walked back to Neal.

"How's Katie?" He asked, leaning against the counter of the kitchen bar.

"Well…" Right now I could hear her laughing. Earlier in the day, there had been a very different sound coming from her room with the door locked. I'd had to pick the lock on her bedroom door just to give her a hug. "There was some crying," I murmured, not wanting Derek or Kate to overhear and forget that they were having a good time. I leaned my hip against the counter and faced Neal.

Neal looked sad, but he held out a hand to my shoulder and gently tugged me towards him. I stepped into his side and lazily wrapped my arms around his waist while he held me around my shoulders. "I think I'd be more worried it there wasn't," he admitted.

"But Derek's doing a good job of distracting her," I said, finding the silver lining here. Kate was hurting. Kate wasn't done hurting. She was going to hurt some more. What Fowler had done was sick and revolting and all kinds of fucked up, and it was going to take some time for her to recover from that. In the meantime, she had people who would literally take bullets for her as emotional bodyguards and friends who prioritized loyalty over safety, so she would be okay, given time and patience.

"How do _you_ feel about this development?" He asked, nuzzling his nose against my hair.

"I'm… actually pretty down with it," I said, resting my head on the side of his chest and toying with the hem of his shirt, feeling the seams and stitches. Neal scoffed. I let go of his shirt with one hand and playfully hit him in the other side of his chest. "Seriously! I know him, he's a good guy, they've been friends for years. He's had a crush on her since he met her. Soulmarks or no, I've been rooting for it."

"Still, what Fowler did to her? Leading her on and lying to her about her soulmate, that's… that's cold." I chilled. Neal sounded honestly hateful of the OPR agent in a way I'd only heard when he was blaming someone for abducting his sister.

 _Well._ Wasn't… wasn't I doing… exactly what Fowler had done…?

No, no, I wasn't. I couldn't think like that. Fowler lied about having a soulmark to get close to Kate to attack me. I didn't _lie,_ just omitted the detail that I had one to protect Neal and I both in various ways, and if anything, I was making Neal make the first moves with every step further because I couldn't stand the thought of leading him on for any reason. This way, I knew what he wanted and believed that he really wanted it, not just an ideal of a soulmate. I wasn't doing what Fowler had done. There was a huge difference between the two of us that could be qualified by means, intent, and compassion. I handled the situation delicately where he had crashed into it like a train bowling over a car on the tracks. Fowler did it to be illegal. I did it because if anyone found out, I wouldn't be able to keep Neal's custody, and he would more likely than not go back to prison.

"It'll probably have some lasting damage, in some way," he said thoughtfully, and then, oblivious to the havoc that his words had wrought, he nosed my hair and pressed his lips against the top of my head.

"That's what I'm afraid of," I said, holding on and pressing my cheek to his chest. I truly was worried about Kate, but I knew she had the means of pulling forward. She was the most well-adjusted out of all of us. What if, if/when Neal found out what I was keeping from him, I hurt him just like Fowler hurt Kate? But worse, because Neal didn't have the emotional support. He wouldn't ask for help if he needed it when it came to matters of the heart. "But all I can really do is be where she needs me…" _Protect Neal all the time…_ "Give Derek the champion of all shovel talks…" _Keep a very close eye on the people Neal kept company with…_ "And keep Fowler from getting anywhere near her again." _Keep Fowler away from my mate._

"He won't stay away as long as I have the music box," Neal predicted glumly.

I raised my eyebrows regardless of that he couldn't see my face. I was hopeful it would stay that way. I probably looked entirely too guilty and crushed. "Don't you mean, as long as he _thinks_ you have it?"

"Right, yeah," he hurried to amend. "Just didn't want to broadcast that very loudly in a house with another agent." Contrasting his somewhat belligerent words, the arm wrapped around me was still caring and protective.

"He's distracted," I assured. I forced a little giggle and pushed my face closer to his chest, as if I could just make the world go away if I felt enough of him. "Did it hurt to be honest in the vicinity of straightforward people?" I teased.

"A little bit," he retorted without pause. "There's a twinge." I giggled and lifted my head from his chest to kiss the junction of his throat and shoulder. "Have you heard back from Kate?" He asked, contentedly sighing and throwing his head to the side, baring his neck for me.

I kissed at his neck again, grateful for the invitational gesture. "I got a reply this morning, actually," I said, softly blowing hot air over his throat. There were sensual undertones, but it was mostly just calm enjoyment of the peacefulness and the trust. At least, that's what it seemed like to me. "She just said to see Robert. Whoever that is. Does that mean anything to you?"

"Yeah… Robert's her father." He lifted his chin and set it on top of my head, bringing his other arm up to hug me, too.

"Want to make a field trip tomorrow?" I volunteered. I could probably find some reason to excuse a trip out of his radius if I needed to, and I had to give him the option of following up the lead that I'd just handed over. Especially after what he'd done for me with that tape. I owed him. It was the least I could do to take him to see someone who might have answers.

Neal sighed. "We won't have to go far," he told me without any more background information. I hummed in question, but it turned to satisfaction when he worked his fingers into the muscles in my back. Whatever cryptic message he meant by that, I could wait.

* * *

"You weren't kidding," I said nervously, following behind Neal, who seemed to know where he was going, treading carefully between the rows of gravestones in the local New York cemetery.

"His grave is over here," Neal murmured, holding my hand with his fingers locked through mine. He pulled me through the rows, going three past a large tree with gnarled branches and a long shadow. I let him drag me because I thought that he needed the support, so I let him keep touching me.

"I'm worried about the symbolism," I said semi-seriously, looking around the graves. The tombstones were all marked with various names, none of which rang any bells. I didn't know anyone who had been buried here. Kate directing Neal to a cemetery bothered me.

"The symbolism of a cemetery, or the symbolism of her family?"

Neal slowed down, so I assumed we were close to the grave. I started paying more attention to the etchings, trying to read them as we walked. "A little bit of both, kind of," I answered gingerly, eyes darting from stone to stone until – ah! That one. "There, Robert Moreau."

Kate's father had died in his forties, and a bouquet of flowers was laid over the ground in front of the tombstone, wrapped in plastic with the plastic bound with a purple silk ribbon. The flowers were pretty, the petals mostly the same shades of colors, but they were wilted. The stems were losing their vibrancy and the petals looked sad and slumping.

He lowered himself down to crouch near the side of the grave, looking over the flowers. "She's been here," he whispered, as if being too loud would make the proof of her life disappear or blow away in the wind. "The flowers are a few days old at most."

Neal didn't pick up the flower bouquet from where it lay in the dirt, but he gently smoothed his hand over the dying petals, stroking the silken texture with the pads of his fingers.

"Is there anything else?" I asked, wondering if the flowers were supposed to be some sort of message.

Neal stilled, reached to the other side of the flowers, and pulled out another. This flower was made of paper, and it was an origami piece, done like a flower with three petals, protected in between the bouquet of real flowers and her father's tombstone.

"What does that mean?" I asked, walking over to look down at it, both dreading and interesting in what the message behind a paper flower could be.

* * *

**I asked to be put on birth control and my mother refused. She thinks that it means I won't have sex before I'm married if I'm afraid of pregnancy or STDs.**

**I went to the Milan branch of Planned Parenthood Global. I had to lie a little bit and I lied about my name when I went into their clinic, but they were really nice. They set me up with a woman maybe five years older than me and she told me exactly what was going to happen and offered me all sorts of information and resources. I made an appointment to go back and got myself tested for STDs, breast cancer, and other obvious problems, just to make sure I was clean so we would now how best to proceed.**

**They offered me some choices after that, about what I wanted to do. There are a lot more birth control methods than I realized. There are the pills, obviously – but there are also inserts, implants, and injections. I was hesitant to get the injection, because I didn't have a lawyer I could consult on the safety risks, so I had a couple of consultation visits before I decided on it. I can't trust that my mother wouldn't go through my things and find pills. She'd probably throw them out, no matter what they were for, regardless of the health benefits of birth control completely unrelated to contraception.**

**The injections work for six months at a time. I have one more shot to get before I turn eighteen. I'll revisit my options then, find something that works better for me once I have the legal authority to choose to have a surgical implant or the right to enough privacy to carry around prescription pills.**

**I need more control over my life.**

**I need to live with people who won't drive me to sneaking around looking for health options.**

**Has she really already forgotten that someone drugged my drink and tried to date-rape me? After all the grief she gave me for it – blaming** **_me_ ** **for being there instead of blaming the bastard frat boy who was going to fuck me against my will – it slipped her mind as soon as it was convenient for her.**

**I tried describing my situation to explain why I was there alone, but from the first three sentences I said, the doctors looked incredibly concerned. They closed the door and told me I had options, then asked if I'd ever heard of reproductive coercion. I looked it up when I got home. It's not what my parents are doing to me – actually, they're gunning for the very opposite effect – but it's scary that I can relate their controlling behavior, my fears about their lack of respect for my body and privacy, to the behaviors of abusive partners who would sabotage their girlfriends' contraceptives. No one has any right to force someone to get pregnant. My parents don't have the right to decide for me whether or not I ever have children, and if they ever had the right to have any input in my decisions regarding sexual health, they gave them up a long time ago when they gave up on being invested in anything else I care about.**

**Especially now that I know they would blame** **_me_ ** **for being a rape** **_victim_ ** **.**

**Love (and educate yourself),**

**Zarra L**


	21. Don't You Know I Want You With Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> June's granddaughter inadvertently leads the FBI partners onto the trail of a corrupt and exploitative charity, but it's hard for McKenna to focus when she's being torn between her heart and her head. Neal's not helping.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Lucy Hale's "Kiss Me."

**_Chapter Twenty-One – Don't You Know I Want You With Me_ **

Saturday morning, I intended to go in to work a little later and spend the morning at home with my sister. Katie and I both slept a little bit later, took longer showers, and then chose to be comfortable while our hair dried out in the air. Katie was wearing a tank top and shorts with a fleece blanket wrapped around her in the chilly kitchen, slippers protecting her feet from the linoleum, while I had pulled on some undergarments and then a robe, tying it around me tightly to keep it appropriate.

I yawned while I carried my plate of waffles to the table. Kate was already eating her _L'Eggos_ , freshly-popped from the toaster. The butter was melting into the grain and the syrup warming up, too, smelling delicious under my nose. I set the plate down, grabbed a fork, and then traipsed back over. My robe was a scarlet red with a black belt tie, a size too big so that while the fleece would keep me warm, it wouldn't be too tight or hot to wear in the summer. The end didn't reach much further than my knees.

Kate and I weren't morning people before we had coffee. Katie was already halfway through her cup. I was just starting in on my first and I carried that, the pot, and a large bottle of creamer to my waffles before I sat down, kicked one leg up over the other, and made myself comfortable in my chair to dig in.

Right as I started using my fork to slice through the waffle, the door opened from the front porch. No knocking, no doorbell, no introduction – it just opened, then closed loudly, with the same shameless and unhindered entry of Kate or I coming home. I looked across the table again. Yep, Kate was there. I set my fork down and stood up to confront the invader…

… And then sank right back down into my chair, exasperated, as Neal came sauntering in, fully dressed, hair combed back and tie straightened down over the buttons of his shirt, tightly pressed between his top and his grey vest. He waved at Katie and smiled cheekily at me.

"I hope you don't mind, I let myself in."

"I should mind." I looked suspiciously at Neal, who bent over the table between us, leaning heavily onto his hands. The legs of his trousers pulled up just enough to see the lower half of the anklet cuff on his left leg. Strangely, while I was insulted that Neal had just walked right in without permission, it didn't feel abnormal to have him in the kitchen with us, even though I wasn't dressed. "This is something I should mind," I said to Katie, annoyed at myself. Why couldn't I just respond the right way to something?

Katie shrugged, looked from Neal's hands up his arms and to his face, and then prodded his cheek once with her pointer finger. He frowned at her. Katie hummed and then went back to her waffles, reading on her phone.

 _Well, that's one way to say hello._ Neal sucked in his cheeks, making a silly face at her.

"You girls having breakfast?" He asked, sinking down lower to his elbows, rocking his hips side to side lazily while he looked at both of our plates.

"Yes," I said, smiling at him thinly. "Yes, we are trying to, at least. Most important meal of the day and all that." Contradictorily, I stabbed my waffle with the fork aggressively. The syrup coated my tongue, but instead of tasting enjoyably sweet, it seemed irritatingly thick in my mouth.

Neal raised his eyebrows at my aggravated eating and cocked his head. "If it's so important, why do you substitute it with coffee so often?" He smartly retorted.

"Those aren't breakfasts," I explained in a way that made perfect sense to me. "Those are work days." Which were totally different from leisure days where I had the time and energy to go to the extra effort of making another meal. "Breakfasts are times in the morning when I sit down to eat…" I motioned to my table in general. "With my lovely sister…" I pointed out Katie, who smiled, flattered. "In our house…" Gestured to the ceiling. "With no uninvited guests."

Neal grinned at me when I added the last part and looked very meaningfully at him. Pushing himself off of the table, he spun around and strolled comfortably right over to the fridge, where he pulled down a box of name-brand cereal from the top. He popped open the top of the box, looked with intrigue at the advertisements on the back, and turned the cereal almost on its side to try to peer into the shadows.

I continued, unhindered by his apparent fascination with my cereal. "Do you know the meaning of _uninvited guests_?" _Probably not._ Or, more likely, he knew very well what it meant and just chose to ignore it whenever it suited him.

Ignoring me, Neal tapped on a star-shaped design on the back of the box. "This says it has a free sheriff's badge," he told us both. "Have you found it yet?" Kate shook her head no. Neal shrugged one shoulder and then stuck his hand into the box, rooting around the cereal for the kids' toy. "Come on, it should be in here." He pouted and worked harder.

"Katie?" I asked, unsure how to proceed now that Neal was seeking out toys in our cereal boxes on one of the few mornings I got to have off. It was like having a child in the house, except Neal was big enough not to need to stand on a kitchen chair to reach the top of the fridge.

She hummed, swallowed her waffle, and twisted around to look at the conman over the back of her chair. "You're welcome to get a bowl and join us," she invited, doing the exact opposite of what I had beseeched her to do, indicating needlessly with her silverware where the bowls were. Neal had eaten over with us enough times to know the kitchen almost as well as his own.

With one hand still in the box of cereal, Neal held the other to his heart and spread his fingers inside the box so it didn't fall while he melodramatically pretended to be emotionally touched. "Thank you, I will." Haughtily sniffing and reaching simultaneously to open the cupboard, Neal fixed me with a disapproving stare and scolded, " _Manners!"_

"Says the guy digging through my cereal!" I protested. Since when did I have to defend myself in my own kitchen?! Katie got on me when I ate ice cream out of the quart, but she was cool with Neal rummaging through our breakfast food? There was some favoritism going on there that I was not a big fan of.

Since arresting Michelle Clark, not a lot had changed on the outside. Neal's tracking anklet still showed that he spent an inordinate amount of time at my residence, which I explained away with Kate's happy corroboration: Katie was his friend. He was free to hang out with friends within his enclosure, and since Kate was a friend and my house was in his permitted travel routes… Katie still worked full-time at the daycare, I still worked full-time as an agent, and Neal was still a full-time consultant with a part-time gig as my lover on the side. The largest change to anyone looking in would be Katie and Derek. Katie spent more time out of the house and on dates and excursions with my brother, and Derek came over more than he used to. Which I was cool with. I was never against having him as a house guest. His attention was just… reserved more specifically for Katie lately.

Which, I wouldn't lie, had made me feel a little bit jealous. We'd had plans to go see a horror movie that Kate wanted to pass on, but that premiere was on the same night that Kate had parent meetings and he'd taken her to a very late dinner afterwards to unwind. He asked me first if it was okay, of course, and I gave him the green light, but it was still a little bit hurtful that that happened on top of the distraction and general attention that seemed to be targeted specifically to Kate. I was more of his boss than his friend in the last few weeks. I just hoped that once the honeymoon phase of the relationship was over, we'd go back to being as close as we'd been.

The outsider's perspective left a lot of things out. When I critically looked around and evaluated the people within my life, I could see that the balance was still shaken, no matter how well it was hidden.

In regards to Kate, she was much more conscientious of the people around her, and a bit more suspicious, too. She'd stopped taking rideshares entirely, sticking only to taxis, public transit, and rides from friends. I was no longer the one locking our house up before I went to sleep, because Kate had already done them all up… twice. I'd come home about a week after Fowler left to find her talking to a man from a security firm, getting a set of panic buttons installed – one in the kitchen, another in the living room, one upstairs in her bathroom, and one each in my bathroom and my home office (I wasn't consulted on this). It wasn't just that Fowler had broken her trust; he had violated her privacy to do so, and she was determined not to let herself be caught in a similar situation ever again.

For Derek, Fowler's attack on Katie had made things more personal. Of course he'd been pissed when Fowler had gone after one of our own. Neal was part of the team. Not everyone accepted that, but Diana and Derek did. Neal just wasn't Derek's number one priority, not like Kate had become, and he was itching for blood. The minute Fowler came back for a third round, Derek was going to be on him with unsheathed claws. I had found him asking around about the OPR agent. At that point, I had taken him aside and calmly explained that I was already taking care of it. I was also already in Fowler's line of fire, and had done a little playing of the guilt card to convince him to back off. If Fowler came after me again, then at least Kate could feel safe that Derek was secure. He listened, although he wasn't happy about it, and avoided me for a couple of days.

My siblings' behavior was concerning, but at least it was to be expected. Especially where Kate was concerned, I was relieved to see a change. It meant that, if nothing else, she was accepting what had been done and was adapting, learning to move past it, and her refusal to ice out Derek meant that she was set on giving her soulmate ideals another shot. It was Neal who worried me the most.

He had become more reluctant than ever to let me talk to anyone about anything case-related on my own. He found some reason or another to be in the field with me at all times, and if I was clocking out, then he liked to persuade me into getting dinner with him or going to one of our homes. His motivations weren't the obvious, because the majority of the time, after an hour, he'd be totally fine with us separating. I had suspected it might be that he was afraid I'd go home to another scene like the ones that had sent me running to him previously and wanted to help me avoid that. Or maybe he didn't really believe that I was putting down the case files for the night.

That was what I told myself until I noticed the touching and the security-conscious behavior. More than just paranoia about Moreau's kidnapper being an agent, Neal had started acting more careful about safety. He locked the door to the penthouse suite, even when we were both there, which he didn't used to do. June had a key so he had told me it was pointless, and we both knew that Mozzie would pick the lock if he really wanted in, but something had changed his mind on that. He'd also started to draw the curtains over the sliding door to the roof at night, blocking out the view if he wasn't going to be right there.

Touching. There wasn't much to say about that. Neal was a touchy person with me. He hadn't always been, but he'd gotten into the habit quickly, and I couldn't say I had ever discouraged it. I probably started it, in fact, with the impulsively-guiding hands and little taps for attention. Now his touching was just centered on a different location… where previously he liked to play with my hair or hands while we watched TV, he had taken up a new favored position where he somehow pulled me against his side or his chest and covered my stomach with one or both hands. He also curled up behind me more often when we slept together, possessively protecting my back, which hadn't been _unusual_ , per se, but it also hadn't been quite as frequent.

Kate and Derek were easy to interpret. Neal took me longer because he was more subtle. If I was being honest, part of me hadn't wanted to think it had really made an impact, but he had definitely gotten more protective since I'd told him exactly how I got those scars on my body. He touched to make sure I wasn't bleeding or hurt, he locked the doors and drew the windows in case Køhler came looking for me, he was dissatisfied to let me leave work alone in case someone vicious was waiting to attack. The return of my torturer was a nightmare I had unwillingly entertained several times, but to have Neal concerned about the same thing made it more concrete.

This all left me in a precarious situation. Neal wanting to protect me… that was sweet, it was, and it made me feel all sorts of kissy and fluffy things, but it also made me feel insecure. What did it mean when my pacifistic lover started acting like he intended to physically protect me from something other than a bad fall? Did it mean he didn't think I could take care of myself? Did it mean he thought that it was his _responsibility?_ God, that would've been worse. No one had the responsibility to protect me but myself. I was obligated to protect Neal via his work-release, but it didn't go vice versa. I wanted as little of our relationship to be mandated as possible.

So, since he wasn't technically hurting anyone but me by reminding me even more frequently that I had been a subject of involuntary surgery, I had let the things slide. I'd let him lock the doors – jeez, I'd have to be stupid to try to convince him not to lock his doors, no matter what the context was – and see me out of work safely and get in positions where he felt like I was safer, and if that meant plastering himself up against my back, well, it wasn't a bad thing, was it? It meant he had easy access to playing with my hair. If he wanted me to lay between his legs so he could hold my front, then it was easy for me to fall asleep like that. I felt safer with his precautionary steps, regardless of that I knew that the person we were afraid of wasn't going to be deterred by closed windows or a locked door or a particularly snarky artist.

No – the problem was that Neal was afraid for my sake and acting like it, too. Køhler was _my_ burden to bear, not his. The problem was that Neal was more focused on a part of my past that even I tried not to think too hard on, and it made it hard to be completely open around him when I was being reminded of the time when I had been forcibly opened way, _way_ too much in a much more literal sense. Not that I was really open around him… since there was the whole soulmate thing going on… but I did know that he cared about me, and I wanted to reward the trust and loyalty with some of my own.

Neal rattled cereal from the box and into the bowl. I sighed, sawing off another piece of waffle with my fork. "Milk is in the fridge," I dully informed. He replaced the box at the same time as he got the milk and carried both the gallon and his bowl to the table, a silver plastic piece on top of the cereal.

"I found the badge," Neal said proudly, grinning between Kate and I.

Kate gave him a patient, warm smile. "That was hard work, sweetie, I'm proud of you." I snickered. That was the tone that she used on the four-year-olds. Neal's smile faltered, but his excitement over finding the sheriff's badge would not be destroyed. He stuck his tongue out at her, moved the toy onto the table, and then started pouring milk into his cereal.

"You know, you could call before coming by," I suggested in vain. Calling ahead of time was a rare occurrence, even when it was entirely plausible that I would kick his ass for entering my house uninvited. "I could've put on actual clothes." Not that I was particularly awkward in my state of undress – not around Neal or my same-sex, closely-bonded sister – but, you know, there was a principle.

Neal 'eh'-ed. "Nothing I haven't seen before," he pointed out carelessly, stirring his cereal with a spoon.

Kate choked and slammed her fist on the table. "Oh, God! I'm trying to eat here, guys!"

We both ignored her. Did she think I wanted to imagine what she and Derek got up to? I'm not a sexually repressed person, but neither is Katie by a longshot, and I know Derek isn't, either. If I had to worry about my baby sister being sexually active, she could stand to hear a vague statement about me getting it on.

"I'm just trying to say, you don't live here," I pointed out, though trying to teach Neal etiquette about other peoples' personal space might have been futile. "I call you before I show up at yours."

"I did call," Neal said defensively, scooping up more cereal and nodding over at Kate. "Katie answered."

"She did, did she?" Kate avoided my eyes, looking down at her waffles and starting to eat faster. I leaned down until I was catching her eyes. "Did this slip your mind?" I asked her very kindly.

She started out shaking her head slowly, then tried to cover up the sheepish, meek apologies from her eyes with a winning and persuasive expression. "No, it did not," she decided to promise me. "I very definitely made a point of remembering." I nodded along. Of course she had. Then, quickly, she looked down again and stared at her plate. "I just… chose not to tell you in advance."

"Why?" I asked, calmly continuing to eat my breakfast.

"I thought you might try to lock the door," she said reasonably.

"Heh." Neal giggled and looked down at his bowl of cereal, more amused by Kate's logic than anything else. "As if that would be effective…"

I sighed. So they were _both_ going to be frustrating today. _Good to know._ "What do you want, Neal?"

He put up his hands in front of him harmlessly while he finished chewing and then defended himself. "Hey, I'm not here for my own nefarious purposes," he said, snickering as he said it, which really made me wonder how legitimate that claim actually was. "I come in peace on behalf of June."

Perking up a little, I said, "June owns the penthouse he lives in," to Katie, who had never met the generous landlady.

"I know," she nodded, pushing an emptied plate to the area of the table no one was using. "I don't think you realize how much you tell me when you vent." Wiggling in her chair to face Neal, she balanced her chin on her fist and her elbow on the table, engaging him in his story.

Neal proudly held himself taller for his audience of two. "Her granddaughter needs a kidney, but she was bumped from the transplant list last week."

"Why?" I asked aloud, already interrupting. I wanted to know both why she needed a new kidney and why she was moved off of the hospital's list. Maybe it was something that I could help straighten out. June was always so sweet, and I owed her for giving Neal a safe and comfortable place to stay. She was extremely tolerant of the odd hours of Neal's visitors coming and going, myself included, and if she knew about the nights that I stayed over… she never said anything.

Neal paused, realized he didn't have an answer to either of the ways my one-word question could have been answered, and hastily shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know." Moving on quickly, he continued. "But, a few days ago, a woman approached June and said that her organization could help them find a kidney for her granddaughter."

Katie smiled slightly at what sounded like a happy ending. "That's nice of them," she said admiringly. _Always with the soft spot for children._ "And it's kind of the purpose of some charities," she added, stating politely why she was somewhat unimpressed with Neal's story.

"Yeah, but this woman asked for a donation," he said solemnly, insistent that this was not an ordinary organization. I started to roll my eyes. Just because someone else got their money without swindling and hustling didn't mean that it was completely weird to ask for it. Charities had to have some way of funding their projects. "Of a hundred thousand dollars."

I almost spat out my coffee.

Katie, on the other hand, took it in stride, just frowning and noting, "That doesn't seem normal."

"No, it doesn't," I agreed fervently.

"And," Katie thoughtfully pursed her lips and put more thought into it. "It also occurs to me that they can't go around asking civilians for hundred-thousand-dollar donations, so they must have gone to June knowing she's loaded." Neal and I both looked at each other and then back to my sister, impressed with the amount of consideration she was putting into the matter. "Either the donation size is specifically targeting the wealthy, or it varies according to financial status." Sipping at her coffee, Kate didn't even seem to realize the magnitude of the accusation. "Seems unethical no matter how you look at it."

I leaned back from the table and looked at both Kate and Neal, sniffing and rubbing my cheek. "Aw, look at you two," I cooed. "All grown up and working on your own new case." Releasing them as partners into the field may not be the best for my stress levels, but I bet they'd get results.

Kate sent me a disgruntled glare. Neal, however, was delighted by the positive reaction. Taking up the silver sheriff's badge from the table, he pulled out the front of his vest and clipped the belt fastener onto the front breast pocket, smiling with boyish enthusiasm at the shiny new accessory.

"Well," he drawled in a twang, "That's what us lawmen do."

I tried not to laugh. "Talk to June if you can," I encouraged, reaching out under the table and rubbing up his calf with my bare foot. Neal's legs jumped into action, chasing after me to play footsie. "Get some specifics. I'll join you once I'm showered and no longer mourning the loss of my privacy to professional lock picking."

Suddenly, a smaller foot, with fuzzy slippers on instead of shoes, slammed into my ankle. I yelped and shot backwards in my chair, looking across the table at Katie, who scowled at me. "No footsie at the breakfast table," she scolded. Neal was biting his lip and reaching under the tablecloth to rub his own wounds, too.

He forced on a grin that looked sincere but was tempered with pain. "So you mean I can run with it?" Neal asked me hopefully.

 _"_ _Run?"_ I scoffed. Neal and the word 'run' did _not_ belong together, because for Neal to run, then he was either getting ahead of himself, getting ahead of the law, or just plain running, which I worked very hard not to consider ever happening. "No. Oh, no, no, no." His face fell a little. "What you _can_ do is hold it very, very carefully in both hands," I cupped my hands together as if I were holding a baby chick. "And take baby steps in the vague direction of forwards."

He snapped his fingers and pointed at me. "Got you." Finishing his cereal with a few more bites, he took his bowl over to the sink and washed out his dishes. After setting them in the dishwasher for the next load to run, he came back over, pushed his chair in, and leaned down over my shoulder. "Have a good shower?" He asked lowly, dragging his fingers over my wet, stringy hair.

"Ugh, you guys," Katie groaned, covering her eyes. "I eat in this room. Stop making me watch this."

Neal and I both laughed. That had probably been the entire goal of asking about my shower. Kate picked up her phone while glowering at both of us equally and accusing us nonverbally of being troublemakers. Giving my back a solid pet through my robe, Neal stood up straight and took off, leaving just as quickly as he'd come.

There was a metaphor I could have made to his presence in my life.

"Remember, that badge is fake, Neal," I yelled as I heard the door opening. He hadn't unpinned the sheriff's star from his vest. "Not even a little bit real!"

In the hallway, Neal scoffed disbelievingly and started to laugh upon hearing a joke. The door closed a minute later. Kate looked back at my cynically, frowning in the direction of the front of the house.

"That's a little unsettling," I mumbled, going back to drinking my coffee.

* * *

I took a few breaths outside of Neal's door, looking down at myself and swiping down my shirt. It was one of our few days off, and Neal and I usually took our space from each other at the same time that we took our breaks from work. Fittingly, I had dressed in civilian clothes, and I'd even left my gun in my car since I knew that Neal didn't like them. I thought I'd surprise him by helping out, and if I ran into June, then that would be nice, too, to make sure she was alright.

I knocked on the door soundly and took a step back, forcing myself not to fix my hair the way I wanted to. I was being ridiculous. It was just Neal. I'd come to his penthouse a hundred times before. The only difference was the context. I wasn't on duty as an agent _or_ his handler, and I was trying to be nice, and he had asked me on a date last month and I'd avoided talking about it.

_Yeah. Nice, normal day._

The door opened, but it wasn't Neal behind it. Mozzie stood there instead, looking puzzled to see me. I returned the skeptical and suspicious frown. Mozzie was dressed up. Brown slacks, tweed jacket; like he'd dressed when playing Neal's lawyer from the University of Phoenix online program. I peeked over his shoulder. June as well as another woman were seated at the table, June able to just turn her head to see me but the other woman having to turn around in her chair, her back to the door.

I looked back down at Mozzie. Neal was nowhere in sight. Kind of a weird place for June to have a meeting, unless she had asked for a lawyer. _Lawyer, stranger, hospital, charity._ Things fit together. My suspicion relaxed, but I still stared at Mozzie, unimpressed. _He made a meeting and stuck his friend in._

Mozzie lit up after a second, around the same time I came to my conclusion, as he seemed to realize that there was a benefit to having me here. "Oh! What a coincidence!" He laughed and opened the door further, indicating that I should come in. I walked inside, unsure what I was about to be going along with. "Miss Calloway, this is Dr. Reichs. I mentioned her, didn't I?"

 _Reichs… like the anthropologist?_ Mozzie had seen one of my books lying around and that was when Katie had told him happily that I had an obsession with forensic science novels.

"Should I come back later?" I asked June directly, pointing to the door.

The other woman stood up quickly, spinning around to face me. She was not someone I knew. Her hair was a sort of red, gingery color, light cinnamon, and she had hazel eyes and light olive skin. _Gorgeous._ She wore a pleated pencil skirt and a low V-neck blouse with the top three buttons undone, collar turned down, and a red blazer was draped over the back of the chair she'd been in. Shining black pumps raised her an inch off the ground. The woman couldn't have been older than me.

"Oh, hi!" She came walking forward from the dining area and to the front of the suite, reaching out to shake my hand. I gave Mozzie a little blind faith and let it happen. "Are you Samantha's mother?"

Now that I couldn't even begin to argue. Either the girl was dumb or she'd never seen a photograph of Samantha, because the African-American girl looked nothing like me, and not just because of my skin color. "No," I said quickly, shaking my head vigorously. I was no one's parent, and Mozzie was not going to convince me to pretend to be June's granddaughter's mom.

"Oh, no," June disagreed at the same time, laughing a little bit at the misunderstanding.

"No way," I reaffirmed.

"She's just a family friend is all, Miss Calloway." _Calloway._ Didn't ring any bells. June held a hand out to me as the redhead held my hand firm and started to pull me towards the table, having me join their little meeting. _Well._ "This is A-"

She started to introduce me by my title, but I thought ahead. If Mozzie was giving me a fake name, then obviously he didn't want Calloway to know who I was. I interrupted with a sweet smile to the woman. "A very energetic, curious, and nosy woman who saw a strange car out front and decided to check it out. How are you?"

She smiled broadly. "I'm doing well, thank you." She sat down without letting go of my hand. I took my own hand back and walked behind the chair Mozzie had abandoned, going to the unoccupied side of the table to sit. Calloway just kept engaging me. "It's been a while since I've come to New York. The city's just like I remembered." I nodded slightly. There were things about it that always appeared the same, though the people came and went. "Melissa Calloway. I'm here with an appointment with June and Mr. Honeycutt regarding Samantha. I work with the Hearts Wide Open foundation."

 _I don't even know where to begin._ For one, that was an absolutely terrible alias. Had Moz been hungry when he'd come up with that one? Because all I could think about was Christmas ham.

I chose to go with the second point, seeing as how he was in the middle of lying about his identity, so broaching that topic probably wasn't the most fantastic idea. "Oh. That's a… that's a very…" I struggled to find something nice to say. "That's a very _interesting_ choice of name." Melissa tipped her head back, giggling and smiling. "Sorry, I'm being really rude. I don't know where my head goes off to sometimes. I'm McKenna, McKenna Reichs." _Nothing wrong with using my first name as long as I don't contradict Mozzie._

I wasn't breaking any rules by giving her an alias. I was just lying. Which, while impolite, is not a felony.

"It's not nearly as gory as it sounds," she promised humorously. "We connect people in need of new organs with willing donors outside of the bureaucratic limitations that govern hospitals." Mozzie came back and sat down while Melissa and I made friends. "Red tape frequently gets in the way of human compassion, so Hearts Wide Open aims to rectify the situations as we see them."

"That's really nice!" I beamed, pretending to be emotionally touched. It _was_ a nice sentiment, really, it was just that this was the organization Neal brought to my attention, and this was probably the representative that had upfront asked June for a small fortune. A charity doing strange things might not be all that straightforward what it seems, and anyone that preys on the sick just needs to be pushed out a window. "Yeah, I hate when that happens. Some things just shouldn't have the place to interfere with health and medicine, right?"

"I couldn't agree more," she vehemently concurred, nodding her head, her hair falling in loose curls over her shoulders.

Mozzie scooted his chair back in. He and his tweed and glasses looked really uncomfortable. June was looking like something had started to be resolved, too. I took another look at the way Melissa's chair was angled so she could get up quickly and concluded that things had probably been going pretty poorly. Well, Mozzie was a great actor, but he wasn't all too hot with forced empathy. Despite having a lot of what he called "moral relativity," he had a pretty powerful moral compass when things got serious, and I doubted Melissa was one of the people he would be able to feign compassion for.

Still, this was not the situation I _really_ wanted to be in when I drove over, and I couldn't help but wonder what Neal was getting up to that meant Mozzie was left to handle this alone. "If this is your meeting, I should probably go-" I started to say, shifting to get up again.

"It's not a closed meeting," Melissa quickly interrupted, looking up at me with a smile that she tried to repress by pursing her lips.

I paused, mouth slightly open, and saw her eyes dart to my lips. The first thing I did was look to Mozzie, who looked fidgety and a little hopeful, and bite my lower lip. Mozzie had done crazier things for me in the past. At least this didn't necessitate some vehicular assault. "June?" I asked carefully. It was still her granddaughter's health in jeopardy.

"By all means, stay if you like." June wasn't trying to be subtly persuasive like Mozzie. I sat back down slowly. If everyone wanted me here, then I didn't have a good enough reason to leave. June smiled at me reassuringly as if she could tell that I wasn't fully comfortable with prancing in and doing spontaneous reconnaissance improvisation. "You have a sort of insight into these things."

 _That Mozzie doesn't?_ I wondered privately. Sometimes it occurred to me that he may have _actually_ gone to law school. He liked to put on his "lawyer jacket" and he did a damn good job of defending Neal against evidence that had seemed damning when Fowler was trying to stifle them with warrants and tampered proof. I doubted he would tell me if he had, and unless he ever told me his real name, it would be almost impossible for me to verify it either way.

I leaned into the back of the chair and picked up my left leg to cross over my right, symbolically getting comfortable for whatever terror was coming.

My presence settled, Mozzie swallowed when he saw I was waiting for a lead to follow and turned back to Melissa. "You said you make connections outside of the bureaucracy," he recalled. "Going around the national registry – isn't that illegal?"

"Only if the money exchanges hands," Melissa said, and skimmed over that close technicality. "We find our donors willing to contribute through the Good Samaritan law. I am sure there is _someone_ out there who will find Samantha's case as compelling as we do." Giving June a warm and friendly grin, Melissa stretched out across the table to take the homeowner's hand.

Mozzie waited a bit too long before he said something. I glanced at him, wondering why he was letting it slide, only to find him looking at his lap and playing with something. He kept looking up afterwards. I followed his eyes to his open laptop on the island counter by the kitchenette and my eyes widened. It was a real-time video of the street outside the manor. Neal was small and his face unfocused on the video, but given the pattern my life followed, there was really no chance that it _wasn't_ him trying to push something thin into the mechanism of a compact, dark blue car.

 _You fucker…_ I stared meanly at the video for a second and then covered up my ire as I distracted Melissa with some smooth improvisation. I wasn't comfortable, but my talents hadn't flown out the window with Neal's common sense. _It's broad daylight and you're breaking into a car!_

"As I understand," I said, and got a grateful look from June, who was increasingly stressed by Mozzie's attempts at multitasking. "You asked Miss Ellington for a pretty hefty sum in exchange for further consideration."

"Oh, not in exchange for," Melissa disagreed, rapidly shaking her head. "Merely along with. We would never discourage anyone from helping us to continue our work."

"Oh, boy," Mozzie squeaked. I looked over Melissa's shoulder. A police uniform was showing up on the screen, and Neal was turning around to face the officer, pushing his back to the car.

As Melissa looked over her shoulder to see what I was looking at, Mozzie shut the laptop video off just in time, leaving the screen blank. The close call left me wondering what the hell was going on outside and why Neal felt the urge to carjack, but my loyalty to the two idiot conmen made me just sigh and continue to play.

"How much is a typical donation?" I inquired politely.

Melissa glanced at June to include her and be personable. "It varies," she answered me.

Mozzie set his padded elbows on the table, laughing a little in spite of that the situation didn't call for amusement. "But ballpark it for me," he asked, rubbing his hands together unsurely.

It was clearer that Melissa didn't actually want to answer, but as the matter was pressed on, it would have just looked sketchy if she didn't. "Anywhere from a hundred thousand to half a million," the coordinator disclosed.

 _Wow._ I didn't realize I'd said it out loud until Melissa winced and nodded reluctant agreement.

"How much time do we have to consider?" Mozzie asked.

"Not much," Melissa warned, fixing her handbag in her lap before it tipped over. She kept her hands on it securely, though I bet it was so she had something to do with her arms. "Unfortunately, there are only so many willing donors, and there are many more people in difficult situations."

Her explanation didn't seem entirely congruent with what she'd told me about money being appreciated, but not required. The entire discussion seemed to be revolved around the financial aspect, and if we didn't have time to consider money, then it felt to me as though they would move on to another person who would more enthusiastically pay whatever price the so-called charity set. A decent charity wouldn't pick and choose who it helped depending on how much profit it could make off of the people it chose to aid.

Distracted by Neal's plight, Mozzie didn't have an immediate reply. He struggled to find something to say and had to settle with a lame, "Truer words!" exclamation, raising an empty fist up like a toast.

_No wonder he was glad to see me; this is crashing and burning._

* * *

No matter what pretense Mozzie had set up, letting him lead the discussion had been a tremendous mistake that equated to almost physical pain and a severe case of secondhand embarrassment.

"Well, I hope I've answered all of your questions." Melissa gathered her purse in her arms and pulled the loose strap up over her slim shoulder, holding it against her side. She pushed her chair out and stood up while Mozzie reached after her as she moved away. In return, she rewarded him with a tense and uncomfortable smile. "And then some."

"But-" Mozzie stuttered, lacking the conversational fluidity to come up with a quick and engaging reply and the charisma to stall until he had one. Instead, he stammered. "But-"

June sent me a pained look, asking me with her eyes to do _something_ , _anything_ to stop Mozzie.

I rose gracefully from my chair, stretching my arms and standing up on my toes. While I luxuriously stretched, I tipped my head back, baring my throat while my hair fell back, conveniently also pushing my chest out by arching my spine. Melissa's rattling keychain, attached with a carabiner to her purse, stopped just a few feet away.

"Feel free to call if you have more." _More questions,_ she implied to the conversation, but I got the feeling that wasn't exactly what she meant when Melissa offered me a business card from her leather bag, bangles on her wrist clinking, large on her slim wrist but too small to fall right off of her hand. "Or just happen to think of me." She gave me a slight and pretty smile.

I returned it with one of my own, a little laugh, and ducked my head, playing it as embarrassment at being the center of attention. _Mozzie totally owes me for taking over._ I could distract Melissa for at least a few minutes, easy. "I'll remember that," I said, loud enough for Mozzie to hear I had it under control, reaching up to rub the back of my neck and looking at her through my eyelashes. "Thank you, Miss Calloway."

I used her last name intentionally to see just how interested she was. If I was right, she would correct me to use her first name, tearing down the professional wall that separated us. It was no shock to me that that was exactly what she did. "Melissa, please," she corrected kindly.

While I stalled, buying more time by taking a few seconds to respond, Mozzie panicked and tried to interrupt. "Wait, uh, you haven't given me the chance to-" He stood up so quickly that he knocked the chair over. June and I both flinched back at the noise. Melissa turned to look at him over her shoulder, startled, and made a face that could only be compared to the grim resignation of someone about to take a broom to the spider in the corner of the ceiling. Mozzie fumbled with his hands after he almost tripped over the chair legs. "To ask you to dinner!" He exclaimed, having what he thought was a stroke of genius.

The silence that followed clued him in. His hand, which was held out, quickly fell back to his side, and I swear he started to blush.

Melissa took one swing with the verbal broom. "You're crazy," she decided, her attention drawn entirely from me in the face of being hit on by someone who couldn't take a hint.

The spider clung on while Melissa turned on her heel and started to not just walk, but _stalk_ back to the exit, eager to leave. Cursing internally, I started forming a plan to follow her and stall some more. June hid her face, humiliated by Mozzie's poorly-executed good intentions.

"Crazy for you!" Mozzie called after Melissa desperately.

It was truly pathetic. I stepped in between Mozzie and Melissa as she swung open the door with more force than was strictly required, swift to leave as soon as she could. "Um, okay, that's enough," I promised him, torn between laughing and crying at the horrific natural disaster that I had just been a witness to. Next time Neal wanted to snoop, he had to get someone else to do the talking.

"Thank you, Mr. Honeycutt, _that's all,"_ June emphatically agreed, sending me another apologetic glance while she rose quickly, gathering up her coat and the long fur sleeves, leaving after Melissa to smooth things over. I didn't know if she knew what we were doing to protect Neal, but she certainly didn't want the charity representative to leave with so many crooked feathers.

After the door closed behind June, I kept rubbing the back of my neck. The awkwardness of that affair had lasted long enough for an entire lifetime. I looked back at Mozzie, unsure I even _wanted_ the accompanying explanation, but curiosity killed the cat.

"That was… whoa." I shook my head and swallowed. _Interesting_ was too nice; _heartbreaking_ sounded mean; _odd_ didn't even begin to cover it. "I don't even have words." Mozzie was pressing buttons on a flip phone, a burner cell he'd trash in about a week or less. "What was that?"

"I was buying time," Mozzie snapped, taking insult to my tone while he held the phone up. Shooting me a look that was more embarrassed than mean, he put the call on speakerphone. Glaring up at me over the rim of his glasses, he looked kind of like an angry gnome.

The phone clicked. _"Moz, don't worry, the cops are gone."_ Neal soothed calmly.

"That's great," Mozzie said with distress, taking his glasses off of his face and rubbing the lenses on the shoulder pad of his jacket. "I hope you're done."

_"_ _Not yet."_

"Well, then _get_ done. You told me to do what you'd do, so I asked her to dinner." He rushed through it, realizing now that that was _not_ the right approach to take.

I burst out in a fit of giggles and covered my mouth with my fist, biting down into the side of my hand to try to stay quiet. I didn't want to be mean or hurt his feelings, it was just… that explained a lot of the last twenty minutes. Mozzie had his own charms, I was sure, somewhere among the eccentricities and paranoia, but he wasn't the personable, easily-lovable Neal Caffrey. He lacked the social grace, among other things.

Neal actually paused for a moment, a little bit curious. It was nice of him not to automatically assume it went terribly. _"What happened?"_

"She left," Mozzie reported, his face turning red all over again as he pushed his glasses back on with one hand.

"Running!" I added while cackling, bending over the table with a stitch in my side.

 _"_ _Kenna!"_ Instantly distracted from Melissa and the disaster flirting, Neal sounded like he would've gone bolt upright, nervous that I was aware of what he was doing – which was, for the record, _not_ walking very slowly with the lead. _"I can explain!"_

_Really, I would love to see you try._

"Just get out of trouble," I told him over the phone, looking at Mozzie again and whistling, valiantly avoiding another fit. Spinning around, I went to the fridge to go get a drink, and hopefully both of us would have gotten over it enough to not spur each other's reactions on.

I could do the mature thing when I really had to.

* * *

"I sent a text to Diana while we were talking with Melissa to look into Hearts Wide Open." I stopped, holding my phone against my hand, and looked up at Neal from the couch. Mozzie had left, a little embarrassed, several moments ago, leaving the two of us in the penthouse. The roles had reversed, and I was the one dressed while Neal was stripping off his top to change. " _Horrific_ name for a charity, by the way. I don't know _what_ they were smoking."

"Moz agrees," Neal told me with a grimace. "He thinks it's a better name for a horror movie." The buttons undone on his shirt, he rolled his shoulders back, sliding the sleeves down his arm, the front opening over his torso. I eyed his abs hungrily but stayed put on the sofa before him.

"He's not _wrong,"_ I pointed out. Mozzie was, for once, one hundred percent correct. A charity that handles organ donations shouldn't be called _anything_ "wide open," let alone a vital organ such as a heart. "Anyway, she works for the founder, a Dr. Wayne Powell. He runs medical clinics all across the east coast officially, but each clinic has their own administrative supervisors, leaving him free to travel and broaden his reputation."

Shirtless Neal was one of my favorite versions. Much happier and more amicable than Jumpsuit Neal and much more pleasant to be around than Sulky Neal, I appreciated his presence. Picking up a couple of shirts on hangers that had been draped over the empty coffee table with care, he held them both up in front of his body to show me.

"I got some names. Which do you think?"

My first impulse was the blue shirt, but the color wasn't the best for his eyes, and the vertical stripes would look… weird. Neal in stripes was unusual, but he had a dark blue shirt with vertical white lines across it that looked amazing on him, especially without a business casual tie, and now anything else with stripes seemed odd.

"Grey," I decided, pointing to the one on the left, then went on with the conversation. "How did you get them?"

Neal paused, eyes sticking to the grey shirt like they'd been glued, and he tossed the royal blue with red stripes at me. "Her briefcase wasn't locked," he admitted, and quickly moved on to change the subject. "I thought you liked blue on me."

"Inadmissible," I sighed flatly. One day, he was going to get evidence in a way that meant I could press charges without jumping through hoops to get more evidence. "I do, but this one isn't as nice as the blue and white. Look, it doesn't matter. Tell them to me anyway and I'll do a Google search."

 _But it does matter._ The cigarette filters had been the start of not just a convenient in to keep himself out of prison – they'd been the beginning of a long chain of events in which he'd had to avoid meeting my eyes while he told me something that he had done. I had told him to proceed very slowly and carefully like he was holding an egg in a spoon, and he had just fucking _catapulted_ the egg, sprinted forward, and somehow miraculously caught it before it hit the ground. In this case, the smashing egg would've been the police outside arresting him. Those odds weren't going to hold out for forever.

Neal, oblivious to the growing uncertainty on my face, shrugged the chosen shirt up his arms and flipped down the collar around the back of his neck. "Leonard Parker was one," he said. I typed it into my phone's search bar. Neal had a knack for remembering names. "Also, Edgar Tanenbaum-"

"I want you to start being more careful, Neal," I blurted, mouth running without my permission, and as a result, I snapped my mouth shut.

We both blinked at each other. Neal seemed as surprised by my sudden outburst as I was. Then, forgetting about the rest of the shirt buttons, he sat down on the couch next to me and wrapped an arm around my shoulders.

"I talked to the police," he reassured, retelling the story from his perspective, filling in what I didn't know, and probably hoping that proving he'd had it under control would convince me he was all good. "Told them I was a prosecutor, and-"

"You broke into someone's car and lied to the police!" I pointed to the door to the rooftop. He'd been just yards away from us and down a couple of stories and could've been arrested for suspicious activity. He was lucky he had talked himself out of trouble. _Lucky._ And if I knew anything about luck, it was that it would inevitably run out right when he needed it the most. "I'm not saying it's not for a reason, but you're not armed and you don't have the protection of being a government agent." I twisted, pulling one leg up so my knee was on the couch, and started to pull the sides of his shirt together across his chest, working on the buttons for him so I had something to do with my hands before I started to anxiously pop my knuckles. "Consultants are very useful, but when they start going off on their own, they get too caught up, they start to drown, and they get hurt. Worse, they get _killed._ "

I couldn't let anything happen to him. It was endearing that he wanted to protect me, but if that was what it came to, I'd rather face my demons alone than have Neal where he could be harmed by them. I would rather take his fights onto myself than stand by and watch him struggle. He just kept putting himself in danger. When he had been moved to prison again, I'd sobbed in my bedroom, reduced to useless anxiety and terror until Katie had come to snap me out of it.

Swallowing, I pressed the final button in and rubbed my thumb over the space just above it as the collar opened up, showing a section of tanned skin that was warm and smooth to the touch, heated with his blood and pulse. Neal raised his hand when I wasn't paying attention and he caught my wrist. I stopped the gentle touching of his chest and looked down to his lap, embarrassed by my worrying. I wasn't supposed to care. I wasn't supposed to need him to promise me he'd be safe.

"I'm careful," he said to me gently, holding my hand lower and closer to his heart. "It took years for Peter to catch me _because_ I'm careful."

I shut my eyes. Neal could say that he was careful all that he wanted, but that didn't change the fact that he wasn't careful _enough._ As long as he was going to keep doing dumb things like breaking into cars in broad daylight, I was not going to be able to stop fretting. I had come perilously close to losing him to a lifelong prison sentence once already, thanks to Fowler. I wasn't going to let him do something stupid that made it hard for us to so much as hold hands without getting a whistle blown at us and someone snapping that physical contact wasn't allowed.

Mozzie and I teased Neal about being Peter Pan and Robin Hood for a reason. Like those childhood heroes, he had an underdeveloped sense of consequences and an inflated idea of his own invulnerability. One day he was going to get caught and neither Mozzie nor I would be able to do much of anything to help. We could warn him as much as we liked, but Neal didn't get how close he pushed it. It was either that he just didn't think it through or he genuinely didn't _care_ how much he toed the line, and I wasn't sure which was worse.

He was watching me carefully, judging if he needed to say anything else. I took my hand away and scooted a few inches down the sofa, taking his arm off of my shoulders. Clearing my throat, I steered the subject back to safer waters. "All of the names are part of DGI – that's Doctoral Global Initiative."

"I know what DGI is," Neal nodded and let the translucent redirect slide. "If Powell's charity is supplying organs to those in need, maybe this is how he gets hold of them to start with."

"Using the third world as your own personal organ bank…" I shivered. "It's either clever or extremely skeevy, depending on how you look at it." Hopping up from the couch, I shoved my phone into my pants and grabbed my jacket from the back of the furniture. "Alright, I will ask to see where he's currently at and we can talk to him pretty soon. Does that work?"

_Please say it works. Please do this with me so I can protect you._

"No need." Leaning back into the sofa, Neal stretched his arms along the back, crossed his legs, and grinned at me proudly. "I know exactly where we can find him."

"The briefcase?" I surmised, pinching the bridge of my nose. That was one change of topic that didn't last very long.

"The briefcase," he confirmed, bobbing his head. "Are you a tennis fan?"

* * *

A tennis club. I hadn't really seen myself ever returning to one of those, but I hadn't forgotten how to look the part. I took out a chiffon dress with stylishly short shorts, the fabric white with swirling blue and yellow as if the white was water and the colors were dissolving tablets. I'd paired the dress with black heeled boots, been sent back into my closet by Neal, and repeated the process a couple of times before he said that I absolutely could not wear combat boots and raided my shoe supply himself, setting me up with tall golden gladiator sandals.

I didn't have an alias prepared to get in, but I was confident that I could just show my badge to the man monitoring the visitors and get let inside with no hassle. If not, maybe I could drop a few important names. Neal took my arm, wearing a casual business suit without the blazer, and led us inside the gallant entryway.

The interior of the main building was rich. This was clearly a retreat of the one percent. A chandelier hung from the ceiling and cast sparkling reflections on the floor and walls, the tiled floor had been polished to shining within an inch of its life, and lacy curtains trailed down over broad windows, filtering out the sunlight while leaving the room bright and clear. Spiral staircases gradually arched to the second level on both sides of the lobby, wide corridors extending under them both to the left and the right to the two wings of the building, and a greeter stood behind a front desk.

I kept looking around curiously, not seeing anyone else but strangely feeling at home in the library-esque quiet. It was rude to make too much noise indoors, especially in a club like this one. I didn't like how welcomingly familiar it felt. I had left that sort of setting a long time ago and I missed the luxuries, but I was content with my choice. After all, opting out of the extravagance had gotten me Katie, Derek, Diana, and, later on, Neal.

Neal oozed comfort, but I knew it was for other reasons. His broadcasted confidence wasn't just a front – it was from experience in these kinds of settings, and he knew how to play it like he belonged to the right class. After linking arms with me like a gentleman, he matched my slightly shorter stride while subtly leading the path up to the desk.

The man looked up from the ledger, glasses perched on his nose, thick, luscious hair pulled back with a sweeping motion like the dip of a wave. "This is by invite only, sir and ma'am," he told Neal, following it up with a polite nod at me.

I dropped my arm as Neal patted his pockets, first in front, then in back. "Oh," he said, laughing embarrassedly. "I left mine at home."

Unmoved, the greeter raised his eyebrows. "Then you're just going to have to go home and get it, aren't you?"

I pursed my lips and tried not to look too pleased as Neal was shut down before he even really got started. Neal smiled friendlily at the greeter anyway, nodded his agreement, and turned around. "Okay," he said. I looked after him, confused, but he kept walking back towards the front entryway.

_Well, that's unusually… compliant… of him._

I started to follow, walking faster to catch back up. I reached for his arm and touched his elbow. "That was the extent of your plan?" I asked incredulously, mindful of my volume. Neal shrugged and looked down at his shoes. "That was _sad,_ " I informed. I expected at least a little bit more effort from such a brazen conman.

Before we left the lobby, I heard another person's footsteps and impulsively looked to my left, down the right wing of the building. Melissa Calloway was walking out of the corridor, passing underneath the staircase, head down and one hand rifling through her red-orange purse. Ginger hair bounced, curled and sprayed neatly with loose ringlets around her face. Her dress was similar to mine, but had a longer skirt instead of shorts, and was purely white. Two-inch white heels were making the clicking footsteps.

I pulled on Neal's arm to slow him down. "Wait, there she is, it's Melissa." Mozzie had not endeared himself to the woman in any way, but she had liked me pretty well. Well enough for me to expect a warm welcome. I could be friendly and probably talk my way into some information, possibly even convince her to set up a meeting with Powell if I played it right, and if I was _really_ good, I could make her think it was her idea.

Neal paused and looked at her. He hadn't really gotten to observe her for very long before, keeping his head down and unnoticeable so she wouldn't pay attention to the man walking away from the direction of her car. "As good of an approach as any," he murmured thoughtfully, reaching up to his head and swiping back his hair vainly. It hadn't needed to be fixed. I rolled my eyes as he pulled away from me and went up to Melissa, throwing her a handsome, bewitching smile. "Excuse me, hi. I seem to have forgotten my invitation."

 _That is not the approach I was trying to initiate,_ I sighed. Clearly, we needed to have a talk about who called the shots on who does what.

Melissa looked up from her bag but kept her hand inside, not willing to open up and have a long discussion with the man who just came up to her, looking down to her earnestly with a flirtatious grin. "And… you are?" She asked expectantly.

Neal held out a hand. "Dr. Parker, from Doctoral Global Initiative," he lied. I could have smacked my forehead into the nearest wall, but the greeter would have gotten suspicious. As it was, he was glaring over at Neal, insulted that he was trying to get in without an invitation after being turned away. What if Melissa had already met Parker and knew Neal was lying? "But you can call me Leonard. And you are?"

"Miss Calloway," Melissa returned sharply, not having any of the first name business. I winced sympathetically. Neal was not used to being turned down so quickly, and that was twice in a row. Thankfully, she didn't seem to catch on to that Neal wasn't who he said. "Remember your invitation next time, Doctor. I hope you have a good afternoon."

Faltering, Neal just said, "You, too," and stepped aside so that she could pass.

Giggling behind my hand, I walked up to Neal's side. "I don't think that went the way you expected it to," I snickered, leaning against his shoulder. He frowned at me. Someone was not having a great day.

When she heard my voice, however, Melissa stopped and turned back around, recognizing the tone from June's house. Brightening up significantly, she walked back towards us with a more enthusiastic spring, her hair bouncing. Letting her bag slide comfortably back over her shoulder and forgetting about whatever she'd been looking for, she approached – but had eyes only for me.

"Miss Reichs!" She held her hand out. Neal leaned back, rocking on his heels, stunned by the role reversal. I smiled warmly, forced a small blush to my face, and looked down to hide the redness. I'd learned a long time ago that when people were interested in me, that usually charmed them a little more, so I shook her hand while thinking about the time I'd stumbled face-first into a closed door and been laughed at by the interns. "Oh, I never asked. It is Miss, isn't it?"

Holding up my left hand to show her the lack of jewelry, I smiled encouragingly, blushing yet appreciative of her interest. "I'm not married," I confirmed, biting the inside of my cheek shyly.

If anything, my apparent timidity to her attention spurred her on. "What are you doing here?" She asked, moving forward slowly and taking my elbow. I let her guide me with my arm back into the open lobby, slowly steering towards the greeter's desk.

Only the knowledge that looking back and smirking at Neal would give up the game kept me from doing exactly that, because for once, he was the one left standing, disgruntled and disapproving, forced to follow along like a puppy.

I went over the medical information I knew and chose the safest way to go. "I'm an orthopedic specialist in DGI," I fibbed, glancing over at her like I couldn't keep my eyes away. "If I'd known you worked with Dr. Powell, well, I'd have never let you leave without a longer conversation." My face reddened a little bit more, but I wanted to validate her attraction so she didn't lose focus. It could have been considered mean, but if she was feeling anything for me, it was little more than lust. Exploiting love and tenderness were cruel, but sexual attraction… well, I was playing with her libido, not her heart.

"We may have a few slots still available, now that I think about it," Melissa warmly said, as if she wasn't just going to make some new slots appear if there weren't. I knew this game. It had just been a while since I'd played it. After all, who goes for the professional, coffee-consuming, and irritable federal agent when there's a suave, smooth, and beautiful blue-eyed man next to her? "Doctor, would you care to accompany me to the lawn? We've hired caterers and there's a minibar outside."

 _Ooh, a minibar._ She had me at 'caterers.' "Sounds absolutely fantastic," I agreed, biting my lip as I smiled at her. Neal was probably going to want a drink.

"Come on, then," she invited, letting go of my arm when we were close to the desk. Looking over my shoulder, she surveyed Neal for just a moment. "I'm sure I can fit in your associate, as well," she added as an afterthought, being nice to my friend to be nice to me. I nodded gratefully and Melissa turned to walk up to the greeter and have a few words.

Neal slunk forwards. "Wow," he said, his tone the opposite of what 'wow' usually entailed. He sounded flat and unsupportive. "That did not go _at all_ like I thought it would."

Melissa motioned to us over her shoulder. The greeter looked right at Neal and scowled, irked. "Don't take it personally," I told him, referring to Melissa more than the annoyed man at the desk. "I think she just bats for my team." I made a little swinging motion and winked. Turned out that it was a good thing I'd ditched the intimidating fed suit.

Neal's face darkened. "She wasn't even a little interested in me," he muttered, stingy. "You're not on the same team."

I shrugged. Yeah, _I_ was definitely attracted to Neal, but what did it really matter that Melissa wasn't? Other than that it apparently hurt his ego. And personally, if he was that offended when someone didn't take an immediate shining to his pretty face, he probably needed his ego knocked down a few pegs, anyway.

"She likes women, I like anyone that can give informed consent. There's an overlap."

Neal huffed. "You _do_ realize you now have to flirt with her for the rest of the day, right?" I wiggled my eyebrows. Did he think I was incapable of flirting? I'd been a teenager at one point. I could do it. "This should be a fun story to tell your lovely sister over breakfast tomorrow," he continued sarcastically.

Something clicked. The date we'd never gone on, the restaurants he kept trying to take me to, known for their romance and reputation as a couples' destination, that I narrowly avoided by complaining about the price or the cuisine. He wasn't pushy or rude but he also wasn't subtle, either.

"Are you-" My head reeled. It seemed ridiculous, not to mention hypocritical – how did he think _I_ felt when I watched him ply women into falling all over him? "Are you _jealous?"_ I hissed incredulously.

Neal scoffed, but he looked away, and he honored his longstanding promise not to lie to me by saying nothing to refute.

* * *

When we left the back of the large facility, we came onto the club grounds. A huge green field expanded for at least an acre in each direction, tennis courts covering the land to the left. White tents had been pitched on the right, and on the green directly behind the building were setups for minibars, tables, picnics, and a large grill being attended to by several staff members.

Melissa excused herself to go check in with her boss and left down the slight slope to the minibar, which had been set up with the alcohols in view of any direction. A breeze came up and ruffled the pants of my shorts, also catching Melissa's dress and sending the back flying up to her thighs. Since I knew Neal was watching me, I fixed my eyes on her legs and licked my lips.

He shoved his hands in his pockets. I thought it was good for him to understand how I felt every time I watched him flirt the pants off of (metaphorically) anyone else, or how it felt when he had shamelessly ogled the models at _Le Joyau_.

Melissa caught someone's attention, a male person at the minibar who was hunched over the top with his back to us. "Over there," I said at a normal volume. Melissa was too far away to overhear and no one else was hovering – they were enjoying themselves, getting food or wandering over to the tennis courts to play a match. "That looks like Powell." She had said she was going to go see her superior, and Powell was the overseer she corresponded with. "Since I'll be entertaining Melissa," I grinned, "See if you can get Powell to entertain you. Get close to him, and get whatever information you can."

Neal snorted. "You'll have to pry your girlfriend off of his arm first," he pointed out. Melissa was pulling on Powell's hand, tugging him to face her, while he clearly just wanted to drown himself in drinks. Someone was having a bad day.

"Cheer up," I elbowed him. "There's nothing really to be jealous of, is there?" I added, and I let it hang pointedly for a few seconds. Neal couldn't be upset with me for flirting when he did it all the time, and he also couldn't be upset with me for flirting because we weren't an item. Hadn't I made that clear? Gods, I _wanted_ to be, but I _couldn't._ It wouldn't work. "Either way, the only person's bed I'll end up in in the near future is yours." Melissa was gorgeous, but she was no Neal, and currently the only person I really had eyes for was him. "It's kind of cute that you're worried, though," I teased.

"I'm not worried," Neal defended, very transparently lying as he shifted his weight to one leg, watching Melissa as she said something to Powell and turned around to come back up the hill to us. It wasn't a long trek, so we'd need to wrap this personal conversation up soon. "I'm just thinking about potential ramifications."

"You? Considering consequences?" I covered my mouth and snickered. _Neal, thinking about ramifications._ "That's a first!" Scowling gravely, it was Neal's turn to elbow me. I took it with grace, still giggling until Melissa came close enough. Then, to rub it into his face, I forced another heavy blush into my cheeks and flirted some more. "Hey, Melissa…" I moved a few small steps closer to her and nodded back towards Neal. "My friend here says he doesn't think I can get the sexiest woman here on my arm with two sentences. Care to prove him wrong?"

Although she blushed, too, flattered, she laughed, her voice like gentle chimes. "I would love to prove you right by doing the exact same," she winked, holding out her elbow to link our arms. I slid my hand into the crook of her elbow, her arm warm and smooth and deceptively strong. "I still need to show you your spot, don't I?" She asked as if just remembering, beginning to lead our walk to the right, heading towards the tents instead of the courts.

"I'd love to see my spot," I replied in a conspiratorial hush, glancing back over my shoulder to smirk and throw a wink at Neal before laying it on extra thick and leaning into Melissa, lowering my head onto her shoulder.

* * *

My 'spot' was apparently one of the white tents furthest away from the group. They were almost ten feet high and as many feet long, but a few feet shorter where width was concerned. A sort of hospital bed had been set up to the side of the tent with its wheels locked and blocked with cinderblocks, and a set of drawers with a tray on top had been rolled in for first aid. A cooler was on the ground over a pretty orange and yellow towel.

Once inside, Melissa zipped the tent closed from the upper middle of the flaps, isolating us alone and out of sight. The white fabric was thick and opaque. "You work very closely with Dr. Powell, I take it?" I asked lightheartedly, making conversation while I took in the limited scenery.

It did occur to me as she was closing us in that this was as close to a secure place as any to hook up, and it was a lot classier than a janitor's closet in the building. There was also less risk of someone interrupting. All we'd have to do was be quiet and no one would know that we were here; no one would think to look…

Melissa hummed noncommittally. "He does keep a small circle," she stated without explaining anything. I pretended not to notice how guarded an answer that was. "Your… friend… back there seems to have captured his attention." Neal had gone right to Powell and before entering the tent, we'd seen the two of them talking, acting like commiserating lonely pals at a bar.

"Well, he's definitely a charmer. He will flirt the pants off of anything that breathes," I chuckled. I wouldn't have been surprised if Neal was coming onto the doctor down at the minibar as an in.

Melissa frowned slightly and turned her back to me. I thought for a second I'd said the wrong thing until she bent down to open the cooler. She kept her knees straight so her dress pulled up. My eyes widened. "He's got a nice body," she commented, seeking out… some sort of answer from me, while her dress slid up her thighs, over the curve of her ass, showing a hint of lacy white underwear.

I swallowed. "He's gorgeous," I agreed passively. Any onlooker with eyes would say Neal looked pretty. It didn't necessarily mean I was into him, which was what I needed to remind Melissa of or she might shut down. Although she seemed like she was going a little fast to hit the brakes. "But a little too flippant and a lot too facetious…" I looked down to the ground, leaning back on the hospital bed, which was about the right level to just hop up and sit on. "I prefer someone a little more trustworthy, responsible, dependable."

Neal was all of these things, I knew that. The flaws and the ideal characteristics – he had them all. The problem was that he was only trustworthy, responsible, and dependable to certain people. Moz would trust him. I didn't think he'd ever hurt Moz, and they might be best friends, but they weren't so tightly entangled that Neal could break his heart, I didn't think, unlike me, who was expecting to be hurt at any time. It hurt every time he did something like asking me on a date or trying to do something indicative of the like, because I had to say no. What if I couldn't trust him? What if it was a scheme or a ruse? The downfall would hurt twenty times more than just declining to begin with.

Melissa slowly stood up straight, the skirt taking its time to pull back over her creamy, pale thighs. The cooler lid slipped shut and left her carrying an iced bottle of champagne. "We've arranged this setup in tents in case any of our athletes are injured. The club has a doctor on call, of course, but would you mind acting as backup?"

The coordinator pulled the cork out of the top of the bottle. It had been opened before, probably by someone in the staff that put it together. Normally I'd refuse to drink from it without knowing who else had had access, but Melissa seductively wrapped her lips around the rim and tilted it back, pouring a sip down her throat, swallowing slowly.

"That's my job," I laughed a little nervously, both as a shier character and as someone who wasn't sure how far this would have to go. "As long as they don't hit their head, I'm pretty useful…" The redhead licked her lips, sucking in on her plush bottom lip. I swallowed hard and dove in. "… In whatever way you need me."

The woman stepped closer. I'd have backed up, but the bed prevented me from moving. She raised the bottle to my mouth, giving me little choice but to drink, and when I parted my lips, she tilted a thin stream of sparkling champagne, making my mouth glisten wetly and the wine flood my senses. It wasn't a strong liquor, but it was heady, with a powerful scent and a strong, all-encompassing taste that took over my tongue. Melissa had good taste in drinks.

I let her continue to pour the wine right into my mouth, darting my tongue out to lick a bead that collected on the rim. A thin hand tangled in through my hair, pulling at the curls in my ponytail and tugging my head back further. Blindly, I reached behind me to balance myself with my hands on the bed, the sheets crisp and heated from the sun.

"I think I'll be your first patient," she purred, her breath catching, her head coming closer and eventually touching home on my bared throat. She bumped her nose against the side of my neck, nuzzled down to the sensitive spot between my collarbone and my throat, and just missed hitting that zone as she moved an inch back up and pressed a kiss from wet lips. "And, if all goes well, your last."

I could have interpreted that as a death threat, but I was having a hard time concentrating on much. It wasn't so much that I was so aroused I couldn't think straight. No, Melissa wasn't familiar with my body. She didn't know the words to use or the way to touch, let alone the places that set me on fire with want or just made me weak in the knees from sensual goodness. But there was the wine being slowly sipped and her face so close to my neck, her mouth so wet and warm and I could feel her breath curling over my throat and collar, down the front of my dress, her hair tickling my shoulder and her perfume filling my nose where the champagne didn't. _Anyone_ could have come in. Anyone. Just because we were out of the way, didn't mean we were invisible. If I let this continue, if I found myself on the bed with my legs spread, anyone could walk right in and see, and I hadn't ever really considered myself an exhibitionist but the idea of _Neal_ coming to check…

I shuddered. Melissa took it as a sort of cue, scraped her teeth over my jugular in a playful promise of more to come, and took the bottle away. She took another slow, sexy, tempting swig and shrugged her shoulders, rolling them back… She put down the bottle on top of the cooler and trusted its hazardous perch, sliding elegant fingers underneath the left strap of her dress, pushing it down her shoulder, bending her elbow and pulling her arm out.

Melissa twisted her dress around with the sleeve off enough to pull down the zipper in the back, and held the dress up to the front of her body with a hand just under her chest. The dress didn't have the pressure to keep it up around her and left little to the imagination, which I was fairly certain was her intention. She backed up to me while she turned around, gathering her hair out of the way over her right shoulder.

"I have this… knot… in my back." She said, her tone frowning. "It's been _ages_ since I've had a nice release…" Part of me took it as a challenge. My hormones were rising to the occasion before she even added innocently, "Of stress."

 _I can give you a nice release,_ I thought provocatively, laying my fingers over the back of her spine. The dress unzipped almost all the way to her ass. Her back dipped, was narrow like an hourglass. I liked giving as much as I liked getting; I was _good_ at giving. It'd been a while since I'd been with a woman intimately but it wasn't the kind of thing I thought anyone would _forget_ , per se. I was more than content with my male lover, but there was something enticing about a female that men just didn't have.

Of course, if Neal was female and Melissa male, then I'd have been thinking the same thing, just with the sexes swapped. I considered myself pansexual and without a particular biological or anatomical preference, but it was like having ice cream and cake. Most people love them both and happily enjoy one, but that doesn't mean they don't remember liking the other. Melissa was an offer, a temptation, a reminder of a lot of self-exploration and… well, just exploration in general, and a sense of coming to peace with myself.

"Here?" I asked, a little throatier than I meant to, pressing my fingernails a little harder against her lower spine.

The redhead made a _very_ happy sound and nodded her head, keeping her chin down and her hair out of the way. I pushed my fingers in deeper to her lower back and spread out my hands, splaying them across her skin while I massaged my thumbs into the left and right of her thoracolumbar fascia. Dipping my head down, I pressed my nose to the base of her neck and breathed in deep. Her perfume smelt like petrichor, that fresh, earthy scent after a rainfall, and I shut my eyes and pretended I was in the country in the spring instead of New York.

I darted my tongue out to taste without thinking, taking a small lick of her skin. Melissa jumped and made a quiet gasp. She didn't _taste_ like petrichor, but she had the clean smell of some sort of passive soap and a little bit of sweat from being in the sunlight that made her taste like a real person.

Thankful for my (albeit limited) medical education, I continued my massage and worked away from the fascia, extending up to the trapezius. Melissa leaned back into my hands with a soft, repressed whine, her eyes falling shut, resting back against me. I tucked my face between her shoulder and her throat and started to kiss and trail my tongue in earnest, searching out a spot where the nerves would sing and she'd make louder versions of the pretty, enticing noises. I liked noisy lovers. It was somewhat reaffirming. Lovemaking was sweet, but it required an emotional connection that I didn't get to make… and, in my current relationship, didn't want to let myself make. So hearing verbal confirmation that _yes,_ it felt good, _please,_ I want you… it was validating that I had a place, even though it was far from permanent.

I had a fantasy for quiet sex, but it wasn't something I was going to share with Melissa, and oddly enough, it had only started to reoccur after the first few times with Neal – both getting naked and vulnerable, having him lean on the headboard, straddling his lap, kissing him and murmuring his name while I rode him, feeling his hips thrust up shallowly and hearing the mumbled, broken groans. Lights low, doors locked, soft music playing from speakers, maybe the smell of candles in my nose. I could trail my hands down his chest or grip his deltoids, feeling the hidden muscles in his arms, or he would take me by the hand, raise my wrist to his mouth, and kiss adoringly over every centimeter of the soulmark that we shared. _Fuck, I'd love that._ It wasn't fucking, it was making love. If I closed my mouth, brushed my lips over the skin, I didn't have the feminine taste in my mouth and could pretend I was nibbling at Neal's throat. Large and yet artfully clever hands cupping my thighs, helping me bounce. Him exploring my throat like I was doing to Melissa-

 _Melissa._ As the redhead intruded on my fantasy, I was ripped out of it, only barely aware that I'd been starting to breathe heavier myself, eyes shut tightly while I laved at her neck the same way I treated Neal, and Melissa leaned her head back onto my shoulder, reaching up with the hand not holding her dress to my hair, pulling me by my ponytail down further on her neck and to the front. Her knees were bent, she was sagging against me, but it was a weight I could easily support, even if the position was a little awkward.

But Melissa wasn't _Neal._ She wanted a different treatment, she wanted to get pushed along faster, while Neal enjoyed having his throat teased and tasted, kissed and sucked and nibbled at playfully, and he was beyond happy to let me take my time with foreplay. Melissa was warm like Neal, but she was too small, too little and lithe, not built and strong and firm. Her noises were whines and whimpers and gasps, but they weren't _right._ They weren't meeting my ears through Neal's lovely tenor voice, lowered and roughened with arousal.

She reacted in the wrong ways and she wasn't my lover and as much as I had thought I'd missed women, my skin crawled at even the thought of going further with anyone but Neal, whom I was so intimately comfortable with, even though we lacked the essential key element to my fantasy: love.

 _Damn it,_ I fumed miserably, trying to think of a way to weasel out of a heated situation I had encouraged. _Fuck, fuck, fuck._ While I kept trying to feign interest, I could feel my body cooling down, the fever lessening. Melissa was sexy, soft and supple and warm and very, very beautiful, but she just wasn't _Neal._ I felt like I was _cheating._ Somehow I knew that she might _feel_ exquisite, but she wouldn't do anything for me emotionally, because I didn't feel anything for her… nothing like the way I felt for Neal.

 _How can I be cheating when there's not a relationship to cheat on?!_ Despite my best efforts to protect myself and shield us both from a fallout, it was seeming more and more like we'd become a couple without me even noticing.

I almost told her to stop whining when she was supposed to be groaning, because _that_ touch always made Neal groan so obviously she was doing it wrong, but even I knew that I was being dumb and obtuse and that was just a stupid thing to say – there was no _wrong_ reaction to a stimuli, and it was _beyond_ rude to say something like that in a sexual situation, of all times, but I was so irritated with myself that it almost slipped out regardless.

Melissa felt my vigor decreasing, most of my kissing becoming closed-mouthed, and she took in a deep breath. "Maybe we're working on the wrong side," she suggested breathlessly, no doubt intending to renew the heat and get my mouth down on her breasts. Which, five minutes ago, I'd have not objected to.

"Um…" My stomach flipped when she took one of my wrists and guided my hand up to her chest. Her breast was firm and just barely too large to fit in my hand, a distantly familiar weight that made me just want to shrink back. Everything was _wrong._ Instead of letting her push it onwards, I panicked. It felt like I was one come-on away from running out and taking a cold shower. "Talk work to me," I mumbled against her throat.

I cringed. _Terrible approach._ The coordinator, however, was so startled by the change in subject from sex to work that she started to laugh. She let her hair fall and slipped her arm back through the sleeve of her dress, turning back around to face me with sparkling eyes and a reddened yet delighted face.

"Ah… Dr. Powell and I put a lot of time into running the Howser clinic in Manhattan," she offered, doing exactly what I had asked and talking about her work. She looked down at her heels and giggled, pulling her dress's neckline back up.

I motioned with my hand for her to turn around. She did, so her back was to me again, but this time instead of feeling along her spine, I pulled her dress closed for her and re-zipped her. "The more I hear, the more I want," I said as my head cleared, letting me think again. The perfume still stayed in my nose, but as much as I liked petrichor, I'd much rather taste it in the air naturally than breathe it in from someone who wasn't my lover, a lesson I'd just learned the hard way. "The Howser's supposedly the best clinic in the state, I've been meaning to go see but don't seem to have the opportunity."

She turned around, playing with her hair to get it to lay the way she wanted again. I stayed against the hospital bed, sinking most of my weight backwards while trying to still look composed. Though it didn't go the way she had planned, it could certainly be said that Melissa was very gracious about having the brakes slammed, even though they'd been triggered by someone else without a stated reason.

"You should come see it for yourself sometime," she invited, so while she was polite and considerate, she was not going to give up. She bent over again. This time it wasn't to show off her body, just merely to pick up her purse from the towel under the cooler. She took a cardstock piece out of the front pocket and handed it to me with a smile, a wave of auburn hair bouncing out in front of one of her eyes like mine did before it was straightened. "This is my personal phone number. Feel free to give me a call and we can see each other again… whenever you're ready." Her card was plain white with black lettering spelling her name, phone number, email, and the address of her office at the Howser (six-two-six William Street).

She raked her eyes up my body quickly and then gave me another charming smile. Blushing heavily, I forced myself to nod. I knew very well that I was not going to be ready in the way that she hoped. I was way too into my illicit and illegal affair with my soulmate. _What a drag._ My soulmate got in the way of my hookup and he wasn't even _there._

Katie would have laughed her fucking ass off and called it karma for keeping my soulmark secret.

* * *

I wasn't back at work for long before a knock was on my door. Without waiting for assent, Neal propped it open and leaned inside, peering around the edge. "Hey, Dr. Anderson," he called mockingly, "I have a question for you: Does 'FBI' stand for Female Body Inspector?"

Surely he meant to piss me off, or at least embarrass me, but he had no idea how far I had or hadn't gone with Melissa and I intended to keep it that way, not giving out any information. That disastrous attempt had gone awry, which I had almost expected – the potential to be caught making out or getting it on was hotter than I had thought it would be, but I didn't seriously think I'd have let anything get to that point in a public place, much less during an investigation. The means by which it had gone awry, though… those threw me sideways and made me mad at my own head, my own sense of loyalty and feelings of cheating, like I was being disloyal to Neal.

Well, if nothing else, at least I knew that I still had a strong character.

I grinned and put up a front that showed no sign of distress. "Ha!" I laughed loudly and leaned back from my computer, waving him on inside. "If it does, then you're certainly out of luck, aren't you?" I joked. It was one of the few times the context permitted me to say something about Neal's and my private relationship without actually being strange. It was the same kind of joke Diana, Derek, and I would throw around.

Neal, still smirking with pride at his own joke, came inside and sat down in the chair that had practically become his. I turned the monitor of my computer around so it was between us. He could see as well as I could.

"I pulled up his travel records, thanks to our lovely government information-retrievers. He travels all over the globe, especially the third world, and he focuses a lot of his time in India. Any idea why?" I propped up my chin on my hand.

I knew before he said anything that Neal was going to have an answer; from the second I'd said 'India,' his eyes had been alight. "He told me he had a friend who needed a zero-mismatch kidney and that the biological pool in an Indian village was looking pretty promising for him," he explained, pleased to have been able to answer.

I hummed. _Zero-mismatch, huh?_ The last twenty-four hours were making me pretty grateful for the biology and physiology classes I'd taken in college. Zero-mismatch kidneys were hard to find. Everyone's DNA was different, but it was possible that enough proteins matched up between kidneys… it had to be rare…

"Did he give you the friend's name or was he vague?" I asked, hoping that maybe whoever the mysterious friend was would either be a lead to the organization or might even be unaware of what Powell was doing, and thus be willing to help stop him.

Neal shook his head. "He was very careful to be ambiguous." I nodded and flicked my wrist like it was not a big deal. Neal was excellent at getting information, but it was unrealistic to expect him to get everything we needed, especially before we even realized that we needed it. "What about connecting the people he uses to scout out the donor organs?"

My turn to shake my head negatively. "Nope." I popped the consonant. "Hearts Wide Open – ugh, still an awful name," I reminded for the record. "Officially does volunteer work. All funds and donations are passed through the books as charity. Powell looks like the new saint and there's no way to get anyone on anything suspicious through this angle. Oh, and given his own condition," I snorted. Kind of ironic, really. "He gets to look like even more of an A-plus person. Makes even you look like – I don't know, _Ted Kaczynski_ in comparison."

Neal stared at me, but paused before he took offense to being compared to a notorious killer. "His own condition?" He asked instead, still giving me an unappreciative frown as if to make sure I knew that he objected.

I leaned back. I'd already gotten the full down-low on Wayne Powell, but there wasn't anything dirty on him. Scholarship through pre-med at Harvard, top of his class in Johns Hopkins, parents both dead but with a niece whom he had doted on until she and her dad moved to Canada, and now he didn't see her as much – through no fault of his own, _of course,_ because he was busy changing the world through his charity. The only shade wasn't even from his own shadow, it was from the creeping threat of genetics and misfortune.

"Powell was diagnosed with renal agenesis before he was even walking." I looked at Neal's face, didn't see immediate understanding, and elaborated. I watched so much TV and educated myself on medicine to the point where I wasn't sure what was common knowledge and what wasn't anymore. It's not like I could really consider myself a doctor. "That's when a child is born with only one kidney," I explained. Neal 'oh'-ed and motioned me on. "Now, he was fine, completely healthy, even, until a couple of years before he founded this organization. His PRA levels started to climb, meaning he's becoming more and more susceptible to kidney failure."

"Of course he was cryptic," Neal's eyes widened. "He's the one that needs the zero-mismatch." I nodded slowly and rolled my eyes. The man had done a damn good job of covering his own tracks. One detail kept away from the stranger who went to talk to him and we wouldn't know anything. "He's got the perfect cover story here. If he weren't so dirty, I'd almost respect him."

 _Almost?_ Aside from the ethical appeal, I was having a hard time thinking of many criminals I'd met who had smarter plans. Just because we had cottoned on didn't mean we had anything that we could use to go after him with. He did an excellent job. He was reprehensible, of course, but his intelligence – if not his morals – deserved some recognition.

"It's just frustrating that, for all the financial flips and funneling, the charity is actually still saving lives." I shrugged, a little sad that I was deliberately going to try to take down such an organization. People not unlike Samantha were depending on Hearts Wide Open for one reason or another. Was it worth risking their health – their lives, even – to stop one skeevy bastard? Legally I didn't have a choice, and the number of people actually being helped had to be low if they were demanding a hundred grand for a transplant, but the question still stood. June could have afforded it. She and many other people in the one percent. "A lot of people have recovered from otherwise terminal prognoses thanks to him and Melissa. I hate the grey areas; they make it so difficult to be sure of anything."

Yet another point to blue-collar crime. It was hard to be morally or emotionally confused when the results of not doing anything would only be more bodies, more fear, more grieving families and dark funerals.

"Pretty much life in a nutshell," Neal sighed.

I gave myself a shake to get back into the game. Life was going to be grey, but that didn't mean that Powell got to get away with extortion. He's no saint. It's not just self-preservation; it's greed and cruelty and disrespect for other human beings. How many people had died that he could have saved, just because they couldn't produce a hundred thousand dollars for him or some similar amount at the drop of a hat?

"There is going to be proof of it somewhere," I said determinedly, trying not to think too long about the kids like Samantha. June's granddaughter needed a kidney… theoretically, Powell could get her one… but my job was to prevent creeps like him from taking over the world with dirty money. If worse came to worst, I could always call a few friends and see if I could get consultations on her condition. I had a few with medical degrees around the country, and a really good one in Switzerland. "He has to keep a log of the information. My guess is that it's all in the Howser."

"The Howser clinic?" Neal checked. I confirmed. "You think he'd keep his patient records all in there?"

"Someone has to," I reasoned. The building existed. It would just be _weird_ if they were lacking in patient files. Surely that would draw more attention than a bunch of names and logs that most staff wouldn't even care to comb through unless ordered. "It's one of the most secure places where patient records wouldn't actually be questioned. Totally normal for a practitioner and administrator to have those."

Looking prepared to go along with it, Neal stood up and stretched his arms behind him. "What are we waiting for?" He popped his back and bit his tongue, grinning at me. "Let's go take a look."

I stayed sitting. "Nope." I shot it down. Neal's smile faltered and he fell back into his chair, looking disappointed. "We need another angle first," I explained, resisting the urge to smile wanly at him for his enthusiasm. "Doctor-patient confidentiality is shielding him now. Without client permission, we don't have enough cause to requisition those records. I trust you see the problem here?"

"Without those records, we have no way of knowing who those clients _are,"_ he supplemented, shoulders sagging.

"Bingo."

* * *

I dropped Neal off at his house a couple of hours before dinner and he invited me in. Though it made me feel bad, I was hopeful that I wouldn't have to face June before I could tell her much of anything about the charity. It wasn't like we'd made a lot of practical progress. Luckily, my guilty wishes were answered and the woman wasn't home when Neal led me up to the penthouse, the long set of stairs making my calves burn by the time we got up to the top floor.

June wasn't home, but Neal had an unexpected guest at the dining table with a chess board in front of him. I spared a brief look over in that direction as I took off my jacket, embracing the warmer air from the outside chill. "Well, you look lonely," I remarked, combing my hair back into order and tossing my jacket over the back of the couch.

Mozzie didn't even look up from his chessboard. It probably said something about how many times I tried to get under his skin. "You are your own worst enemy, and I am my own best opponent," he quipped at me, probably quoting some philosopher from the nineteenth century.

I turned to Neal with my hands on my hips and complained about his friend. "Alright, now I want fortune cookies," I loudly declared, while sending Mozzie an unappreciative look.

Neal loosened the cuffs of his sleeves and rolled his eyes. He was never going to get Mozzie and me to stop bothering each other. The arguing was how we got along best. Neither of us were totally okay with the other's career of choice, and it was better than we aired our complaints when we got the opportunities than waiting until the grievances were too stressful.

The artist leaned over the table opposite Mozzie and looked over the chessboard. It looked like just a normal chessboard. The conspiracy theorist was playing himself on a rotatable table. "Byrne versus Bobby Fischer, nineteen fifty-six," Neal said from memory after analyzing the pieces.

"Very good," Mozzie praised, Neal's reward being his undivided attention as he finally tore his attention away from the pieces. "Who won?" He quizzed.

"Fischer," Neal answered without pause. "He sacrificed his queen on move seventeen."

I was about as talented at chess as I was at tennis, and let's just say that it was a good thing Melissa hadn't actually expected me to play tennis at the club. "Why do you just _know_ that?" I wondered, joining them by the table and sitting down in the chair at the end, kicking one leg up over the other and sighing.

Both of them sent me disapproving looks for my bewilderment. Apparently it was normal to have the exact positions of chess pieces memorized for certain games of chess throughout history. _Weirdos._ Clearly Neal had missed the lesson in high school where the chess nerds are the ones that can't get dates.

"Name all episodes of _NCIS_ that featured Troian Bellisario." Neal demanded wryly.

I _just_ stopped myself from starting to answer "Red Cell." A little chagrined, I realized that Troian Bellisario and _NCIS_ weren't the only actors and shows I could do that for. I had a weird thing about memorizing the titles of episodes and their guest stars. I guessed I was supposed to take this as a sign that I was being hypocritical in telling them that they were the strange ones.

Biting the inside of my cheek and staring at them, I crossed my arms. "Okay, point proven," I grudgingly admitted. "Carry on."

Mozzie stared forlornly at the chessboard yet seemed to be looking right through it. After he didn't do anything, Neal went to move one of the white pieces to its next spot according to the game Mozzie was recreating. The shorter one didn't even react to his friend interrupting his gaming process.

His lack of engagement made me a little worried. I could be snippy, but Mozzie was never that easy to knock off of his feet. "Are you okay?" I reluctantly showed some concern. "I feel like we've stepped into the Doom and Gloom Room."

Mozzie slowly drew his hand up and nudged the base of a black piece, pushing it a few squares over. He took a deep breath before he slowly said with obvious frustration, "The charity rescinded its offer to June's granddaughter."

All of us reacted. June and Neal were friends, Mozzie had taken a liking to June from the first time they met, and I was of the personal opinion that June was the reason Neal wasn't spending half of his time in the hospital from that hellish motel the bureau had wanted to book him in. God knew what kind of diseases and bacteria there were. Forget pajamas – he'd have needed a hazmat suit.

"What?" Neal asked, forgetting the chessboard and looking as though he'd been hit.

"Yep," Mozzie confirmed sadly.

" _God."_ I stopped and uncrossed my legs, leaning over the table. Pushing my head into my hands didn't really help until I pinched my nose tightly the way I did to ward off headaches. The pressure helped me feel a little more centered. "Damn it," I groaned.

Powell needed to be taken down and Melissa obviously had to pay for her part in it, too, but Samantha _needed_ a kidney. Not immediately, not within a set time frame, but she would need it sooner rather than later. For every day she went without, her odds increased of going into renal failure. I didn't know the full story, but I did know that no one can survive without functional kidneys, and Samantha stood even less of a chance than Powell – Powell was a grown man and she was a little girl, half my height and weight and still growing.

"Did they say why?" Neal asked after a moment while I tried to wrack my brain and think of some way to fix it. Maybe not through Hearts Wide Open, granted, but there had to be some alternative.

"They say they found a 'more urgent recipient,'" Mozzie recited dryly, his tone giving away that he didn't buy it for a second. I couldn't blame him. The so-called "charity" didn't care about _patients,_ it cared about _money._ Which June had plenty of. They wouldn't have backed out unless things looked suspicious around June, and they hadn't. Melissa wouldn't have been so overly friendly to me if she recognized me as a connection to a risky target.

"And you-"

"I scouted out the clinic," Mozzie dully interrupted before it could be asked. He sounded so upset and sullen, lacking the lively energy even to be his normal sarcastic, cynical, and annoying self. "Something's got them spooked. Employees have been throwing files into the garbage all day."

I let go of my nose and lifted my head. "I'll see if there were security cameras," I volunteered lamely, feeling like there was something more I should have been doing instead of just checking out some videos. "If we prove they were destroying evidence…" It was tenuous, but it might be enough to convince Hughes.

Neal pulled out a chair next to Mozzie and sat down in between us. "Could you see what they were?" He asked quietly, not quite able to be that optimistic.

Mozzie huffed. "I couldn't tell. It's a big, pretty upscale place, in case you didn't notice. Private security is at every corner." Right. The Howser was the clinic they were working out of, probably what they were using as a front, and it was a private clinic. You didn't get walk-in appointments. They hired from a private security firm and were a quiet, secluded faculty. "Any idea what has them rattled?"

If it hadn't been something Neal or I had done, which I was reasonably sure it hadn't, then they'd found out from another source that someone was onto them. The only person I could think of would have been anyone with the bureau. I hadn't kept the Howser investigation a secret, and with my luck, someone had thought they'd be helpful and try to collect more information. Sometimes I wished my colleagues would take a little _less_ initiative.

I had left some stuff out on my desk. There were only two people who would take something right off my desk without being asked, and Diana was more likely to ask me what the case was about before she started working on it. "Derek probably asked for some of their records," I mumbled, feeling like it was partially my fault for not keeping everything away from others' questioning hands until we were at that stage.

Mozzie made a cynical and rude hum. _Well, at least his spirit isn't completely destroyed._ Looking up at me with a glare, it was evident that I wasn't the only one who assigned some of the blame in my direction. "Have you noticed yet that your brother has a really bad habit of putting the worst things through the wrong channels at the most disadvantageous times?" He questioned testily.

As if I had forgotten how the innocent inquiry about Neal's secret signatures on the forged bonds had snowballed into Fowler planting evidence of Neal's initials on the pink diamond. That hadn't been Derek's fault, though. Hadn't really been anyone's but Fowler's for being low enough to use that trick to begin with; it was just an unfortunate consequence of Kate overhearing and then sharing with her best friend, which wouldn't have mattered if he wasn't a curious agent.

"It's not like he does it on purpose," I defended Derek and myself at the same time. He'd been trying to help; I had just assumed that my office was a private space and had forgotten that it was actually in a public domain. "Damn it! Again. It's worth saying twice."

"I'd be doctoring my books right now, too," Moz snidely wouldn't let me have the last word.

I took out my phone and decided to give up the fight. It wasn't one worth starting. I wasn't at fault for it and it wasn't an intentional harm, so Mozzie would get over it once the anger at the charity wasn't as fresh. He had a right to his emotions and I didn't want to invalidate those, no matter how much he got on my nerves.

"Well, if he's already butting in on the requisitioning of potential evidence, I'm going to tell Derek to look at security cameras in the area," I shrugged, opening up my texts and finding my recent contacts. Katie and Derek were my most frequently texted, followed by Neal and then Diana. "It's a longshot, but maybe they saw something suspicious we can use as probable cause."

_A really, really long one… but it's possible, and this isn't a game, it's not a fun chase, not when a victim is my friend and her family members…_

I felt eyes on me and looked up. Neal was staring at his hands, delving deep into thought in the quiet that followed my statement, but Mozzie was just staring at me over the chessboard with narrowed eyes.

 _"_ _I,"_ I amended with a roll of my eyes, then adopted a scolding voice. " _I_ can use as probable cause." Jeez, he knew what I meant, were the semantics really that important? I sent my text and stood up. Mozzie and I obviously weren't going to get along right then, and not only did I want to reassure myself that Katie wasn't in danger of internal organ failure, but Neal didn't need to be in the middle of his friends fighting. "I promised Kate I'd pick up dinner. I'll call you if I find anything. Stay out of-"

"Stay out of trouble," Neal looked up. His face was tired. I hadn't noticed his eyes darkening, but they seemed a dimmer and darker hue than I'd seen since he'd been shoved back into prison. "Yeah, Kenna, I've only heard you say it to me the first three dozen times." To show that he wasn't also being irritable like Mozzie, he cracked a grin at me.

"Well, if you would listen any of those times, I wouldn't have to keep saying it," I wisely retorted, reaching over the table to him. Neal lowered his head amiably and let me mess up his hair, scratching my fingers through the thick locks and taking them out of place.

Mozzie looked away like he couldn't stand to watch the indignity.

Neal looked up with a boyish and keen smile, brighter than he'd been before, and he didn't immediately fix it. He looked atypical with one side of his hair sticking up funnily. I smirked. "I don't actively go trying to get into trouble," he said to his credit. "I just go looking for ways to help with our cases, and trouble sort of finds me. It's like I'm wearing some sort of tracker or something."

I stuck my tongue out at him for the poor attempt at a joke and left feeling a small bit better.

* * *

Mozzie had a role to play in the selection of my dinner that night. Katie had been prepared to make chicken sandwiches, but when I told her I wanted fortune cookies, she gave me the name of her favorite Chinese takeout place and turned off the oven. My craving had evidently passed to her through the mere medium of text messaging. Although I was obviously upset about the charity and the frustrating position June's granddaughter was in – bumped off of the waiting list without consideration, and now without Hearts Wide Open doing anything about it – I was trying not to think about it very much. My life got very complicated the day Neal Caffrey was released from prison, and ever since Fowler had decided to screw around with my sister's feelings, I've been trying to set aside time each week to be with her, not thinking about work, or Neal, or the "work" that, on the record, I definitely _wasn't_ doing.

And, yes, once I actually tried to stop myself every time my mind wandered to topics that didn't have to do with pre-kindergarten children and the TV show being adapted to a board game that Kate wanted once it was sold in stores, I realized that Neal was the sole focus of many of those tangents, which was irritating and exasperating. So much for having a new CI not changing my life as I knew it – now I can't even go a day without speaking to him, much less thinking about him.

I pulled my feet up onto the couch, leaning into the corner between the back cushions and the arm of the sofa. Cookie crumbs were sticking to loose fibers on my shirt, and my tongue still tasted like fortune cookie. The slips of paper that had been wrapped up in the fortune cookies were all sitting in a pile between us on the couch for us to play the phrase game that we'd been doing since the first time we had Chinese together. I'd never have played it with my parents, but Kate's were the people who introduced her to it to begin with.

"Your high-minded principles spell success," I read aloud, darting my eyes up over the edge of the red words on white paper, winking at my sister. "… In bed."

Kate was holding one between her hands, the paper forced smooth with tension. "A dream you have will come true… in bed."

We both giggled. This never failed to make us laugh. It turned out that when you took the words on the fortune cookie quotes and added the words "in bed" to the end, they were almost _always_ interpretable as something hilarious. While my shoulders shook, Kate tossed hers over into an open container that used to hold rice and dumplings. She reached between her raised knees and the back of the couch to grab another from the small pile.

"Again!" She cheered, sliding the ribbon out straight over her thigh and reading, "There is no greater pleasure than seeing your loved ones prosper… in bed." She wiggled her eyebrows overly suggestively and looked up at me at the end.

There was definitely a joke there that I wanted to make about pleasure and beds, and another one about she and Derek. The thought of almost anyone else in bed with my sister would annoy me, if not set me off, but I'd long since been forced to learn the thing about how I'm not allowed to choose who she dates, and if she wants to have someone in her bedroom then that's her decision, and I'm just glad that the person to make his way there will be someone I already trust not to hurt her. I chose to count that one as a lucky win. Before I could open my mouth and smoothly add that joke, my head gave me images of someone completely different from Derek, and I shut my mouth, feeling my face getting hot. Evidently my memories were objecting to associating that particular phrase with Kate and Derek.

I picked up another with slightly less enthusiasm, praying that she wasn't noticing the blush on my cheeks. "You can make your own happiness… in bed." On that one, I threw my head back laughing.

Kate hooted and kicked her leg across the couch to shove at my feet. "I think yours is trying to tell you something!"

In the dining room, something started making noise – a very loud noise, like the sound of a printer working to warm itself up and ink something out after a long time of being asleep. Kate looked over in that direction quickly, dropping the fortune she'd held onto. One of my feet was too near the edge, and when my body jerked, my leg went sliding off of the couch. I sat up and looked over towards it. The old fax machine that we'd had when we'd moved to our first New York residence bleated pathetically and sucked up a piece of paper from the dock.

"I didn't know that thing still works," she remarked, turning back to me. She sat up, pushing her legs back over the front of the furniture to sit normally.

I couldn't resist. "In bed," I cheekily finished for her.

In return, I was delivered an elbow to the ribs that made my jaw drop and a quiet squeak leave my throat. "Were you expecting anything?" She asked as I doubled over, half off of the couch and hurting like I'd been smacked with a really heavy book. Kate completely ignored that she was the reason I was bent over in pain. This time I knew better than to add 'in bed' to her sentence.

"Of course not," I almost wheezed. Okay, maybe I was overdoing it a little bit. It didn't feel like it though. For those few seconds in which her elbow had been connected to my ribcage, it felt like something had shattered inside me. Physically, not emotionally, although there was a minor sense of betrayal beginning to manifest, now that I thought about it. I opened myself up to her and she physically abused me. _Hm._ "I never use it anymore." Kate stood up while I pressed my hand hard against my side where she hit me, and she almost skipped across the foyer into the next room, bouncing in front of the fax machine as it sadly tried to print out more. "I don't think I ever have, really… why do we have it?"

Kate looked so honestly confused that it was probably never her idea to keep it to begin with, then reached for the paper. She didn't pull at it, since it was still printing out, but she held it straight out so that she could see what it was. "I don't know what the first part is," she said slowly. "It looks like a legal document or something. "It says…" her eyebrows drew together and she squinted at it like it was an illusion, then slowly read aloud, "Something's written in pen, and it says "drowning."" My head snapped back to my warning to Neal and I sat bolt upright in the hospital, fading pain in my ribs forgotten in light of a burst of adrenaline. "What the hell?" She canted her head and stared at it sideways like there was a secret meaning.

"Neal," I stated simply, scrambling to find my telephone on the coffee table behind boxes of takeout and fortune cookie wrappers.

* * *

 _"_ _Electronic Monitoring Compliance Units,"_ the second person to answer the phone, and the last person who would put me on hold if I had anything to say about it, answered with a feminine voice, inappropriately perky for dealing with aggravated FBI agents. Because that whole four-word spiel was so much faster than just saying what they were – _tracking anklets._

I had no patience for them and couldn't have cared less about being polite. Neal wouldn't have tried to reach me unless he _needed_ me. He needed me and I wasn't there to help him because I didn't know where he was. I needed to call on that insurance policy of the anklet _now,_ not after I've listened to the hold music for another fifteen minutes. What if he was hurt, needed serious medical attention? What if he was being arrested because he'd been caught right then? What if he was _literally_ drowning _oh God-_

"This is McKenna Anderson, FBI special agent, I need the location of detention tracking anklet nine-three-oh-five alpha, subject Neal Caffrey." Reciting the numbers breathlessly was easy. I knew the designation number better than I knew Neal's phone number. His phone number let me talk to him if he allowed it; his anklet permitted me to find him regardless of whether or not he was mad at me.

 _"_ _One moment, please."_ A keyboard typed even as I was asked to wait and I growled meanly and loudly but shoved the microphone of my phone up against my throat so they didn't have to hear me as clearly.

"I'm going to kill him," I swore vehemently, locking eyes with Kate, who drew her knees up onto the couch with her nervously, watching with apprehension. She was frightened, too. It was her friend that I was scared for and she didn't know any more than I did about what was going on – less, even, because I hadn't explained every single detail about Melissa or Powell or the Howser clinic, which I was about eighty-four percent sure was where his coordinates would be. "I'm going to absolutely _murder_ him!"

Except I wasn't, I wasn't going to hurt him no matter how mad I was, I would never hurt him, I'd probably just hug him really, really tight, maybe smack the back of his head or squeeze him in such a tight hug that he'd have to wheeze and push me away. I couldn't settle down until I was back to his side.

Kate straightened up a little, her arms around her knees, holding her knees tight to her chest. "In bed?" She asked, forcing a small little smile that trembled on her lips.

I snickered anxiously. It sounded hysterical, even to my own ears. "Fortune cookie game's over, Katie," I said misleadingly even while I laughed about it, giggling with anxiety as I imagined 'murdering' Neal in bed. Either I was going to give him such a good time it blacked him out or things were gonna get all _American Horror Story_ in our bed.

The mumbling of a voice came back to my ear and I yanked it back up, though the edge of the phone caught on my earring and jolted the wire. I barely cared. I was too hyped up to feel the pain as acutely as I later would.

_"_ _Agent Anderson, we've located Neal Caffrey at six-two-six William Street."_

_Six-two-six William Street._ Damn it! That eighty-four percent won. That was the address on the card Melissa gave me; that was the Howser Clinic. He had done exactly what I'd told him not to, infuriating me all over again. He was such a pain in my ass. Disobedient, unruly, impulsive – reckless enough to get in trouble and expectant enough to believe I would come running.

And I was so hopelessly drawn in by his beauty that the thorns were in too deep to pull out.

"Thanks," I lied, not feeling grateful in the least, but it wasn't the other woman's fault. I hung up and chucked my phone at the couch. Katie watched it bounce and looked ready to object to my rough treatment, but I was already going off at a man that wasn't even there while I aggressively shoved my feet into my shoes. I had no idea what I was going to do to help him, but I wasn't going to let myself just sit around and do nothing, so I was pretty screwed either way.

"I _told_ him not to go to the clinic alone," I ranted. Why did I like him so much? Why was he so deep in my heart when I couldn't even be surprised that he'd done the wrong thing and gone bungee jumping into danger? – Practically back into prison? What was it about him that supposedly made him so _perfect_ to my soul when he was constantly agony to my brain and my heart? "God, what's he gotten into, I don't think he was invited!" He _knew_ it was private property. "He could be arrested and convicted again!" He could be thrown back into prison, his worst nightmare, and he…

I paled, blood flushing down out of my face. "Oh, Jesus, no," I mumbled. I _couldn't_ let him go back to prison; I couldn't lose him back to those tiny little cages and the violent, mean killers that were in the near cells. I couldn't let my darling back in that hell. I couldn't, I just couldn't, I _couldn't._ "I need a way in that actually is legal…" Or else it wouldn't matter, they would say 'she's in here illegally, he's in here too, he broke the law just like her' and I'd get in trouble but they'd have their confirmation bias and I wouldn't get a say.

"Um," Katie concernedly piped up, raising her hand shyly half in the air, fingers barely above her head. "I'm pretty sure you already have one."

I'd have been polite in my corrections, I really would have, but there wasn't _time._ I needed to make a _plan._ An _illegal_ plan to get in after Neal, and that was Neal's thing, not mine. So instead I went past her entirely. "Getting a warrant will take too long," I muttered, not to mention that I didn't even have enough cause. "Who knows what's happening! Maybe he was caught by security." Security carried tasers… maybe guns. "Oh, God, he could be hurt."

"You're no use to anyone if you're panicking," Kate said, raising her voice so it was harder to just completely ignore her and continue with my poor problem-solving. I snapped my head to her, about to just tell her that if she had an idea then she had better just tell me instead of making me guess. "Call your lady friend," she suggested, her voice mild and calm even though she was still frowning, playing with her hands uncertainly. "If she invites you in, shows you around the clinic, then that's okay, right?"

 _Melissa._ Melissa would let me in. Melissa thought that she could woo me by offering me a tour of a clinic my character would adore the chance to work in. And she _definitely_ wanted in my pants. The sooner she won me over before she had to leave on some foreign, exotic trip to their third-world organ bank, the better.

There was nothing wrong with being invited inside. That wasn't forcing an entry; that was walking in the doors to no resistance.

I inhaled sharply and leaned down to her, taking her face in both hands and cupping her cheeks. I pressed my forehead to hers. She blinked, a little earnestly puzzled. "Oh, Katie…" I breathed, looking into her shining eyes with the flecks of green. "If it wouldn't be totally awkward, I would kiss you so hard you forgot your own name."

Kate grinned and giggled, not completely relieved but a little bit relaxed by my unorthodox praise.

"You know, I just realized," she said thoughtfully, her breath puffing over my lips. I gave her a solid kiss on her forehead before letting go of her face and standing up straight, clapping my hands hard together, rubbing my palms. "You guys can't go anywhere unless you're invited in. You're kind of like vampires."

I stopped frozen. _… FBI agents… Vampires…?_

_FBI agents are not vampires._

"Right as I start hailing you as a genius, you say something like that," I said sadly, patting the top of her head. "Come on, I put the card down in the kitchen. I need the phone number."

"You need my help to make a phone call?"

"I need your help to keep me from saying something dumb!"

* * *

Kate controlled the cell phone, laying it on the table and lighting up the screen so she could press the tab for the speakerphone. That button glowed white to prove that it was turned on while the dial tone rang. My sister sent me a thumbs-up. I nervously rocked on my heels, taking long, deep breaths and guiding my breathing with my hands. I was anxious, but I could do this. It was just like any other undercover lying thing, and I loved those.

The phone clicked right as Kate sat down behind the phone, hands out to change the settings at a second's notice of things not going according to plan. _"This is Melissa,"_ came the prompt, professional greeting.

 _This is it,_ Katie mouthed at me. I swung my arms and spoke loudly to be heard with confidence and clarity both. "Hey, Melissa. This is Dr. Reichs from the tennis club. How are you?"

It took her a second. Did she actually expect me to call, or had it just been a line? Was giving me her number just one of those things people did when they thought someone would be a good hook-up? Just as I got worried all over again, Melissa assuaged my concerns by sounding pleasantly surprised, but honest. _"Actually, I'm going into the office for Dr. Powell."_

"That's great!" I exclaimed delightedly, rocking. Kate did a small victory fist-pump with me. _So far, so good!_ "Wow, perfect timing!" I milked it for all I could. "You said I could swing by at any time, and, well, I'm in the neighborhood."

The next split-second pause was less positive. _"Oh… I'm sorry, but today is not looking good."_ At least she genuinely sounded apologetic.

On the ball, Katie tapped the screen, glanced down at the icons, and hit the one that looked like a dashed "X" mark over the speaker depiction. That one lit up as well as the speakerphone. "Don't give up," she commanded insistently. "Be flirty."

Conscientious of the time it would take before Melissa realized we'd muted her, I spluttered. "What – what do I say?"

Kate looked disappointed and rolled her eyes. "You used to be good at this," she reminded me cynically.

I threw my arms out. "I hear her voice and all I can think about is giving her a massage!" It wasn't _my_ fault that every time I heard her voice I thought of when I felt like I'd been one base away from cheating on Neal, and if I kept on that vein then my mind strayed to the lovemaking fantasy that just kept coming back.

"Wait, _what?"_ Kate was missing a very large part of the picture, but she vigorously shuddered, realizing that she didn't want the full picture to begin with. "No, you know what? Just remember you need to sweet talk her so you can get to Neal," she said firmly, pressing down on the mute button again to turn the volume back on.

 _"_ _-tor, are you still there?"_ Melissa was asking in concern.

 _For Neal._ I licked my lips. My life had relied on my acting before, but my lying had never seemed like such a hard thing to master until I was forced here to lie about my true feelings.

"Yeah, I am." I went quiet again. We could hear her breathing. Kate's expression changed to one of gentle encouragement.

I had to do it just right. If I didn't, it wouldn't be believable enough. _How?_ I wasn't the one that watched the dumb dramedies, and I wasn't a big _Harry Met Sally_ fan, either. I didn't commit the romantic monologues to memory, I didn't even pay enough attention to the advertisements about soulmates to paint my feelings for Melissa like they were that irrevocable – not that I could stomach doing that anyway, because it would seem like I was trying to undermine Neal's place in my life, which no one would ever be able to do. I couldn't just throw out purple prose because then it would be obvious that it wasn't realistic-

 _Realistic._ The operative part being _real._ I wasn't normal, but no one could say that my feelings weren't _authentic._ I could do _realistic_ as long as I just omitted out the parts that were super specific, the parts that were _only_ reserved for me and Neal, that no one else was allowed to see, ever, because they belonged to _us_ and it was a personal bond.

"I… I need to see you."

 _Truthful enough, just misleading._ I cut out Neal's name at the end and if I squeezed my eyes shut, leaned over the table and forgot that I was putting myself under any pressure at all, from myself or from Katie's audience, I could envision him talking into his phone on a street in Manhattan. I started out with him at the payphone, but it was too painful – that memory was laced with Kate Moreau, so I threw it out, replaced it with his voice telling me that I was hearing No One as I called him in to search for the Bible stolen from the church.

"I just can't get you out of my head."

I couldn't go a day without thinking about him. Neal pervaded every aspect of my life. My professional life, my social life, my private life, my sex life – he was everywhere because it felt like it wasn't too offensive, then because it was practical, then because it started to feel like it made logical sense, then because it was okay and now because he belonged there.

Slowly, Melissa responded. _"Is that right?"_ She asked, voice changing. Not sultry, per se, but definitely sensual, and flattered.

 _No,_ I bit my tongue. _No, it's not, I don't like you. You're seductive and sexy and you have a nice voice and you're clever but I don't like you, I can barely stand you, because you're in on a terrible scheme and you're using your intelligence to genuinely hit people while they hurt and you're not the person I have stuck in my head every day for the past nine months and I wish I could stop thinking about him but I_ _ **can't**_ , _he's my new addiction._

"I've never met anyone like you before," I rambled, venting at both of them at once. The more I talked, the longer she stayed on the phone, the closer I got to being invited to the Howser. I was getting in that clinic whether or not I was extended an engraved card, damn it, but it would be so much easier if I was. I just… couldn't talk about _Melissa_ because she would know I was lying. I was too frustrated to pull off a convincing lie, so I just told the truth instead. "I'm intrigued and curious and amazed. And it feels a little dangerous, too, because I can't control my feelings and that's terrifying."

I stopped, took a long, slow breath, and remembered the first time we met, the first time I'd felt proud of him, first time I'd called him by his first name, the first time he saved me, the first time I saved him, the first time we kissed, the first time he held me while I fell asleep feeling warmer and safer than I had in months, the first time he broke a promise to me, the first time he betrayed me for Interpol (hopefully also the last), the first time I lied to the bureau for him, the first time he broke my heart, the first time he _really_ trusted me, the first time I called him my soulmate, even just to myself, the first time he was my everything when I needed just anything. Everything felt so real and powerful and it was really no surprise I couldn't get over him.

My breath shuddered. I leaned onto the table and shut my eyes. "I can't stop thinking about the kisses we shared," I admitted, swallowing past the long-standing resistance to anything romantic. I wasn't doing a good job lying to myself anymore. It was time to be honest with someone, even if it wasn't the person who should have been hearing it. "Your hair was so soft and smelled like the tropics and your lips tasted like Chapstick." Purely coincidence that Melissa used fruity shampoo; Neal had run out of his and used some of mine, and I guess he'd liked it, because he kept the bottle. "It's only been days but you don't know how hard it's been not to call you and hear your voice again."

Movie night. Game night. Night with Mozzie and June – whatever. I just missed Neal and it was dumb because I'd just seen him a few hours ago but having him in danger amplified the need to have him close, where I could personally ensure his wellbeing.

Kate's mouth was open in shock, her eyes bright and wide, leaning forward in her seat as if paying the utmost attention to her romance drama, but this was real life – it was my life – and it was high time I started to own up to it.

Melissa's breath caught. It wasn't every day that someone directed a romantic speech at you over the phone, sounding breathless and full of the "L" word and like they wanted to take you off your feet and place them in a private corner of the universe.

 _"…_ _Wow,"_ she said, taken aback, touched, thrilled. _"I… I'm really honored, Doctor."_

"McKenna," I corrected her, just like she'd corrected me to call her Melissa. I could pretend I was talking to Neal, but Melissa didn't get to call me Kenna. Kenna was _Neal's_ nickname for me, designated for his use only. "Please call me McKenna." _Remind me that you're not him._

The woman on the other side of the phone sighed softly, her tone longing. I drummed my fingernails hard into the table. _Just say yes. Let me come get my mate. "I'd be lying if I said I didn't miss those magic hands… McKenna. You knew just where to touch."_ Kate frowned, mouthed it over again to confirm it was what she'd heard, and then stared up at me demandingly. I waved it away. _Not the time!_ _"McKenna?"_ Melissa asked of the silence, trepidative.

I cleared my throat. "Yes, Melissa?"

 _"_ _I've got to run, but if you're_ _ **really**_ _interested in seeing the clinic later today, I can get you a visitor's pass."_ My knees went weak. I held tighter to the table and dropped my head. _Yes._ That was the green light. All I had to do was get in and she had already invited me, she wouldn't press charges if I just played it up like that again. _"You can come by later, and maybe we can grab a drink somewhere else."_

"Perfect," I agreed before she could change her mind. "That sounds perfect."

Kate hit the button to hang up without Melissa's or my consent. I hoped Melissa wasn't offended. My sister looked up at me wish thoughtful fish-eyes. I looked down at her in turn, breathing heavily like I'd run a marathon, or as good as. I had just talked about my feelings. I'd admitted what I felt to myself. I'd said it out loud, even, in a way.

"That was a little too inspired to be a script," she said knowingly, lowering her chin and staring at me expectantly through her eyelashes.

I coughed. "Shut up." My heart was racing and I hadn't done anything.

She put her hands up innocently. "I'm just trying to point out to you that maybe if you're _that_ into him, you should let _him_ know that." Didn't she know that I wished I could?!

* * *

I did not go into the Howser clinic with the cool composure that I prided myself on. In fact, I felt like I was only half put together. And I was pretty sure that my watch was on upside down.

The Howser was a chilly building, air conditioning running full blast over the entry. The lobby was using a color scheme of dull blue and silver, and the front desk was large and curled around, sweeping in an arc around the inwardly curved wall behind it. The shape of the desk complimented the similarly curling stairways on both sides, those curbing outwards from the lobby as they ascended to the second level. To the right behind the stairs was a sign for the bathrooms and the elevators. A plaque with the names of doctors and their room numbers was behind the front desk.

I went up to the receptionist. The first thing I wanted to say was _give me back my consultant,_ but I knew that that may not be the best way to address the issue for many reasons. What if they didn't know who he was or the leverage they could use him for? What if it was only a select few holding him hostage, and the receptionist wasn't one of them? The fewer people who knew about it, the better.

"Can I help you?" The woman, her blonde hair tied in a low ponytail, looked at me as if I were kind of dumb for just standing there for a few seconds, working out how to approach.

 _Yes, you can get me my consultant!_ I overrode the impulse by looking around for something other than the receptionist and spotted my mark – the ginger-haired administrator coming down the stairs, saying something low and quiet to a security guard at the top of the flight.

"I was going to say yes, but my invite is right over there." Like that negated the need for the front desk and any attempt of signing in, I waved goodbye to the woman, who looked irked, and whirled back around to the stairs on the right. "Melissa!"

Melissa looked startled to see me regardless of our phone call, and for a second, I swore she looked a little bit hassled and nervous. _You should be, if you have anything to do with what's wrong with Neal._ I raced up the stairs, bounding them with enthusiasm, and met her halfway.

"McKenna!" She said, reaching to touch my shoulder to affirm I was really there. There was a short landing halfway up the staircase that she stopped walking when she reached, probably for a safe place to pause rather than on the ledge of the steps. "You're, ah, you're early."

Her eyes wandered down to the lower-cut neckline of my shirt. I almost sneered. _I bet you're not complaining._

Instead, I breathlessly flattered her. "I just couldn't wait to see you any longer," I said imploringly, begging her not to turn me away. Internally I felt sick. This wasn't romantic. It was a movie ploy, sure, but following her around Manhattan and being so obsessed I couldn't wait and make an appointment was just _sad_. I was being pathetically, creepily desperate. I could only hope that she was turned on by the stalking Edward Cullen/Christian Grey type.

Melissa looked over her shoulder at the guard. The security guard had something sticking out of a holster on his belt, but didn't look enough like a gun for me to be alarmed. At worst, it was a taser. He didn't look down to her, instead holding a position steadfastly.

"Ah…" Turning back to me, she smiled, a little bit antsy and not doing a good job at hiding it. Melissa was definitely spooked. "Truthfully, I'm flattered, but this really isn't a good time for me." _Why, because you've just caught a trespasser?_ "If you wouldn't mind waiting until this evening…?"

"I'm sorry," I said relentlessly, injecting fueled adoration and lovesickness into my voice. "It just couldn't wait."

She smiled uncomfortably. It is not the best feeling when someone you barely know starts acting like your one true love you had been separated from five years prior. I was being kind of unsettling; if I were Melissa, I'd have taken my pushiness as a red flag and had security escort me to another room, if not out of the building, uncomfortably.

And who knows, maybe she was contemplating doing exactly that, but her phone rang and her smile melted into something a little more worried. "Excuse me," she said, thinly concealing that something was really, _really_ bothering her. She turned her back to me and leaned on the banister looking down to the ground floor while answering her phone. "Yes?"

I wanted to be nosy, but honestly, I couldn't care less about Melissa's problems for as long as Neal was in jeopardy. It was easy to slip past. Melissa got so caught up in her concerns with whoever was talking to her on the phone that she didn't even notice me moving behind her or creeping up the stairs, careful not to let my footsteps make a lot of noise. Ditching her was rude, but then, so was extortion, so I figured we were even.

At the top of the stairs, I said hello the security guard and then introduced myself as an associate of Dr. Powell, saying that I was sorry for making that scene, it was just that I'd been head over heels since Powell had introduced me to Melissa. The guard looked very uncomfortable hearing my story about my whirlwind romance, which was the intention, and he just waved me on through so that I would stop trying to tell him about the redhead's virtues. Once my back was to him and I had thanked him profusely, I smirked and went to exploring. The second floor seemed as good a place to start as any.

Past the security guard, I looked back over my shoulder at the first turn. He wasn't paying attention, so I made a quick left that led down a hallway. One of the doors was ajar. I pushed it open wide enough to see no one was inside and then moved it back to its half-open state before scurrying away and sneaking further into the clinic.

The corridors were long and dark, and I expected to be stopped by someone demanding to know what I was doing at any moment. The second floor was oddly empty, strangely quiet. I would've expected a medical clinic to have patients and staff running around, busy and well-lit. Had I come up the stairs into the wrong wing of the Howser? Were they so spooked that they were clearing out their patients, now, too? And where the hell was Neal? He _was_ still here, wasn't he? Surely he would've called to tell me he was alright if he'd gotten free and left.

"Neal?" I ventured forward, raising my voice a little bit, just to be heard through closed doors. I swallowed and moved forward at a normal walk. I was in a hallway. No matter how quickly I could freeze, I wouldn't turn invisible. Might as well cover more ground. "Caffrey?"

 _"…_ _two lovers kissed and the world stood stiiiiill…"_ I perked up. That sounded like it was coming from nearby, somewhere along this hallway. _"Still…"_ And raising in volume, too, but not because I was getting closer. I picked up my pace. It sounded like Neal's voice, albeit the pitch sounded weird. His singing was usually more even. _"Stiiiill!"_

"What the hell is going on?" I asked myself. Was he trying to free himself from trouble by intentionally being a headache or something? I knew for a fact that he could sing like an angel, not… whatever screeching that was supposed to sound like.

 _"_ _Stiiiiiiill!"_ That one lyric seemed to have fascinated him, because he kept repeating it, falling flat on the high note and making me wince every time. I went past a door that was completely shut. _"Stiiiiiill!"_ The direction had changed. I backed up and looked at the door. It was just like the dozens of others I'd gone past.

I pressed my ear to the door.

_"_ _Stiiiiiiiill! Two lovers- stiiiiiill!"_

I sighed. The sooner he stopped that, the better. I pushed on the handle slowly, expecting it to be locked, so it was surprising when it opened right up with no resistance. I only pushed it open an inch at first while I held the handle with my left hand and took out my gun with my right from under my jacket. I was not prepared for a fight, though I hoped no one was going to challenge an FBI agent with a gun. I didn't want the hassle and Neal certainly didn't need to witness that.

No one was inside. Nothing came flying at me and no voices were raised except for Neal's, which was a lot clearer when I entered the room. _"Stiiiiiiiill!"_ He belted off-key, head rolling to the side. I stared in shock for a second. The room was an empty office with a hospital bed rolled in, Neal strapped down and _restrained._

My blood boiled. Leather straps were pulled tight over his upper chest and shoulders, his waistline and forearms, and his thighs. A stout and unremarkable pillow was shoved under his head carelessly. His hair was still looking rough, not just from being laid on but from what looked like hands being in it. _No one_ touched his hair but _me._ That was his rule; he didn't like people messing with his hair, I was the exception because we were sleeping together. I assumed he'd been manhandled, going by the _restraints._ Shining silver handcuffs were on both of his wrists, but instead of keeping his arms shackled together, the other cuffs were around the wide beams running lengthwise on the gurney.

It was a good thing we were alone in the room, because when I pushed the door shut with my heel, I might have _actually_ gone Uma Thurman on anyone else who had dared to have some hand in trussing him up like that. His pants were wrinkled and he was wearing… _oh._ He was wearing the shirt I'd mentioned, the blue with the vertical white stripes, the top button opened and collar turned up towards the front. Both of his sleeves were rolled up to his triceps, which normally made me want to touch, but right then I just wanted to fix his clothes and hair and take off the restraints and _punch the perpetrator in the face with a chair._

I took a deep breath but it didn't do much to seethe the fury I was feeling. _No one_ got to treat Neal like that.

Neal himself distracted me. _"Stiiiiiiiiiill! Nature's wiii-"_

"This doesn't look good," I said, forcing some calm into my voice to make a joke by understating it. Hopefully Neal would stop making that noise.

Instead of lifting his head to look over his chest, Neal sighed at my voice, took another long inhale, and started to sing again. _"Hiiiiiiiiiigh on a-_ "

"Sh!" I snapped, hurrying over to tell him to shut up and to undo the buckled leather straps. "Sh." Neal fell silent obediently and looked up at me. He just watched me with sort of dulled curiosity while I yanked on the buckles, tightening them just long enough to get the latches out and loosen them, throwing both ends to either side of Neal's legs. I went up to his waist and broke him out of that one before getting the one on his shoulders last. I smiled at him, trying not to appear ready to break someone. "Hey."

He blinked up at me with wide, glassy eyes. I frowned and felt his forehead. He was sweaty and warm, face flushed. I'd thought it was just from expending all his oxygen on shrieking out the lyrics to Frank Sinatra, one of his favorite composers. His fringe was soaked, too, the sweat washing out the product that kept his hair the way he liked it.

"Hey, sweetheart," I said cautiously, hesitant to lean over him but doing it anyway. I touched his throat softly with my left hand while I kept my right on his forehead, feeling his pulse. _A little rapid._ His eyes seemed unfocused and dazed, feverish, even, and he seemed to have a hard time concentrating on anything other than _Love is a Many Splendored Thing._

 _They drugged him._ Forget Neal seeing anything and me getting in trouble. Without any information on his identity or his potential allergies, they had given him a drug that _obviously_ had had to be forcibly injected, otherwise they wouldn't have had to _restrain him._ I'd have shot live rounds, no questions asked. My sweetheart had been manhandled and strapped down. I knew what it was like to be drugged and I could count on one hand the number of things scarier than being shot up with a syringe that could have had anything in it.

Shaking, I leaned over and kissed his forehead. His temperature burned my lips and sweat clung to my mouth. I stroked his hair back and kept my kiss there for a second, just petting his hair and shielding him from the rest of the room. I _trembled._ He must've been so scared and I hadn't been there to stop it or save him.

"I'm so sorry, darling," I mumbled against his skin. Part of me knew I couldn't be held responsible, but the larger part couldn't stop seeing what might have happened, the pain and anxiety he must've felt while he was assaulted and forced down, the terror as he was given a shot of who-knew-what, the distant and detached panic as it got harder and harder to stay lucid. It didn't look like he'd been crying recently, which was a shock, since I was tempted to just sit down and bawl and I wasn't even the victim.

Around that time, he seemed to catch some hint of what was going on. I carded my fingers through his hair and stood over him, touching my hand to his arm supportively, considering how to get him out of the handcuffs. I could always pick them, but I didn't want to rely on a skill that I didn't think I could say that I'd mastered, and I hated the thought of leaving him unattended even long enough to walk to the office desk five feet away to get a paperclip.

"Hey!" He wriggled and then was promptly shocked into stillness when he realized that he could move most of his body. Neal threw his head back on the pillow with a giggle at his newfound mobility. It would have been adorable if he wasn't on some chemically-induced high. "Kenna!" I smiled at him and curled my fingers into a half-fist in his hair, tightening my grip so he'd feel without pulling. "Baby!"

He seemed delighted to see me. My toes curled in my shoes at the pet name. "Hi, Neal," I murmured back.

"Hi!" Neal enthusiastically responded, which just seemed to remind him that he was supposed to be putting on a Best of Sinatra concert. _"Hiiiiiiigh on a windy hill!"_

Now that he knew who he was singing for, he put more effort into the tonal quality. Still annoying, but I would've been happy to let him sing until his throat was raw if it didn't pose the threat of drawing attention. Singing kept him happy, I wanted him happy and calm and okay until he could think clearly. Better that than distressed.

"Sh, sh, sh," I hushed him again, taking my hand out of his thick hair and covering his mouth with two fingers over his lips. Neal looked completely enraptured with my face from the second he looked up at me again. "We don't want to be heard," I reminded him carefully, trying to be empathetic to that he might not even remember my last name. "How did you get in here?"

"Mozzie was Bruce Lee," Neal chuckled, rolling his head to the side. I frowned and opened my mouth to press on that one, but stopped and just shook it out of my head. There were more important matters. And if Neal thought that Mozzie was actually a movie star, then I should probably wait and get a more coherent answer after he sobered up.

Neal turned his arm over, movement still limited but able to catch my hand, just barely, with his. I moved my hand into easier reach and he excitedly intertwined our fingers. "Does the world stand still to you when we kiss, Kenna?" He asked languidly, looking up lazily at me with a slight smile, like I was his entire world in that moment – the look of afterglow infused with – with something strangely like _love_ and _longing._ My breath caught in my throat. _It's just because of the lyrics,_ I reminded myself, heart pounding. "Because I feel like it does. Feels like home… ah…" Neal rambled and squeezed my hand, palm clammy. "I really really like to kiss you McKenna," he said, sounding earnest and turning his head to the side, pushing against my other hand like a cat looking for attention.

Nervously, I just laughed. What else could I have said? _No, Neal, the world doesn't stand still because when we kiss, you_ _ **are**_ _my world, and you're never still._ "You are completely high," I said, avoiding the question.

I realized my mistake after Neal started on the music again. _"Hiiiiiigh on_ -"

"No, no," I reminded, tapping my finger over his lips. "No more singing. Sh…"

"Have I told you how pretty you are?" He started talking again, my finger no more of a deterrent than my shushing. Now that he was fully aware of who I was, he did _not_ want to shut up. The obedience had been nice while it lasted. "I should tell you," he mused to himself, then cleared his throat and said loudly, "Kenna, you're pretty." I rolled my eyes. "You're _soooo_ pretty…"

"I need to get these off," I muttered, feeling the cuffs. How did they even get them? At least they had a lining on the inside. I slipped two fingers in between the cuff and Neal's wrist, feeling the inside. He likely wouldn't have bruises or marks from them. The fleece made them hot, but didn't let them chafe.

"Whoa! You mean these?" Neal proudly showed off, flipping his arms up on his elbows. The cuffs on both wrists just sort of fell off, dangling uselessly by the other ends hooked to the bed. "What?" He laughed. I sighed at his obnoxiousness. "Never met a lock I couldn't pick."

_But how did you pick the locks on your wrists when your hands were – I give up._

"Alright, Houdini-"

"Except my anklet," Neal interrupted morosely, lifting his head up to look down his front. He picked up his left leg and the cuff of his pants fell upwards; he looked at the blinking light on his tracker, the flashing green managing to cut through the haze long enough to keep staring at it.

 _Oh, you are not going to make me feel bad about the anklet._ If it weren't for the anklet, I wouldn't have found him. I'd never been more grateful for it. Who knew what would've happened if I didn't show up? They could've drugged him some more, maybe poisoned or overdosed him; they might have turned him over to police, and having broken in would get him back in orange. Once he was clearheaded again, he'd realize that the anklet was a good thing.

"Okay. That's it, sit up." I pushed a hand underneath his shoulder to prompt him to move.

"My anklet's mean. It – it makes my ankle all trapped and hot." Neal whined, arm reaching for my body, grappling around my waist, and pulling me over the edge of the bed, holding my back down. He turned his head so he was facing my stomach and sighed, using me to block the light from getting to his eyes. "But you can always find me wherever I am and I think that part's nice. I know you'll keep me safe."

 _I clearly didn't do a very good job this time,_ I thought guiltily before reminding myself that Neal had gotten himself into this one. "What did they give you?" I asked on the off chance that maybe they had told him, or he'd seen the name on the needle or jar or something.

I started wrestling with Neal to get him upright. It was like trying to get cooked pasta to stand on its own. His entire body was loose and uncontrolled. I pushed him until he was sitting up and one of his legs fell off the side of the bed, but he rolled his head to his shoulder, not seeming to notice that he was supposed to be helping.

"Can I kiss you?" He asked tiredly. "While we're vertical? Well, you seem vertical, I dunno what I am, but it's more…" Waving a hand out in front of his face, he searched for a word. "… Moving. Nothing's straight. It's all blurry. Something's wrong with my eyes." He covered his face with that hand and groaned. "But I feel great so I dunno…"

I did not envy him his trip. "Kiss me later," I said dryly, taking his other arm around my neck and pulling his forearm down my front. "Come on, keep your arm over my shoulders."

"I like kissing you later, I just never get to kiss you with our clothes on," he rambled. I nearly fell down. _Jesus Christ!_ I could not let him talk to anyone else before his brain-mouth filter came back online. "It's nice to kiss without clothes but it's also probably really nice just to kiss for fun, you know? Because you're so special and stuff." I ignored the voice that told me to just kiss him then and mentally counted to three. "We should try that, we should-" On three, I hefted him up and pulled him forward off of the table. Neal fell onto jellylike legs and his knees bent instantly, dragging him down. "Whoa," he mumbled, impressed, as I kept him from falling. "You're strong."

I bent my knees to get to his level, wrapped my right arm around his back, and pulled him back up. He was still slumped over but at least he wasn't falling down. "Yeah, I know," I grunted with effort.

"I got it, I got it," Neal claimed intently, legs wobbling as he tried to take a step.

"I don't think you've got it," I disagreed when one of his feet went across the other. Was he even entirely autonomous yet?

"I got it, love, I got it," Neal insisted, trying to pull away from me just to prove how much he had it.

I wasn't about to try to break him out of the clinic while he was trying to get away from me, so I decided to just go with it and let him prove to himself that he was _not_ currently suited to walking. I let him go. Neal stood unsteadily for a second, tried to take a step, and the second he lifted his foot, he crashed to the floor.

"You don't got it," I reminded him, looking down at him while he laid on the carpet. Awkwardly, the conman writhed, trying to get up but lacking the strength. He got his hands over his head and his knees under him, but couldn't raise himself any higher than to get his ass in the air. When he tried to push himself up with his arms, he teetered. I moved to the side so that he leaned against my legs instead of falling over. "Neal, do you know why you're on the floor?" I asked patiently.

He pitifully mumbled, "I don't got it."

"You don't got it," I agreed.

* * *

**Protecting people is the best feeling in the world.**

**It depends on the people, but when I protect people that deserve to have someone looking out for them? It feels amazing. There they are, maybe scared, maybe confused, maybe hurt, and I get to take care of them. I get to make sure that they stay okay, stay safe. I get to make them feel secure and comfortable. Maybe I like it because of the trust thing. I get so little trust and responsibilities from my parents that I just love it when I'm trusted with something as important as a person's wellbeing. It gives me some power and control, but it also makes me feel incredible because I knew I had an opportunity to be bad, but instead, I was good. I was nice and kind and helpful and a good person.**

**Looking after a sick friend, or walking someone home because they're scared to be alone, is one of my favorite things to do. And I'm a good protector. I excel in martial arts. No one's going to hurt someone under my watch unless they get through me, which is harder to do than one might think.**

**I'm looking forward to proving myself as a good protector for my friends, my significant others, and my soulmate one day, but I don't want them to be the only people I provide that service for. There's a huge number of people who need someone to have their backs, and the number of people who I will personally know is very small in comparison.**

**That's why I'm starting to think about law enforcement. It never really occurred to me before, but that's something I could do. I could help and protect civilians. I could help and protect so many people that even though my parents can't stand me, my friends, my significant others, and my soulmate could all be proud of me.**

**Love (and protect),**

**Zarra L**


	22. Make Me Feel Loved

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Neal and McKenna plot to take down the charity's founder, reluctantly addressing some personal issues along the way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Lucy Hale's "Loved."

**_Chapter Twenty-Two – Make Me Feel Loved_ **

"You could try _helping,"_ I hissed my irritation. I held Neal up with one of his arms over my shoulders and one of mine tightly around his waist, but not only were his legs apparently made of jelly, he staggered too far when he _did_ walk. It was one hard balancing game. "Muscle is heavy, you know."

Neal made no move to make my life any easier, because that just would've been being too nice, I supposed. "I believe in you Kenna," he promised, the words coming easily like it wasn't even a question. "You can do it!"

Neal probably didn't realize just how heavy he was. His last prison physical, done right before his release, had put him at about a hundred and sixty pounds. Since then, he must've gained some, what with the access to food pretty much whenever he wanted it, and with more time in the bureau office than in the prison yard or workout room or wherever it was the inmates got their exercise. He easily had over twenty on me, and since he was taller and broader anyway, it made trying to carry him even more awkward.

Still, his support was touching, if obnoxious. Not that being emotionally touched helped me much to carry him to an inconspicuous and isolated office in the eerily quiet Howser clinic.

"Hey," he said hopefully, perking up and walking a bit too quickly. I tightened my arm around his middle reproachfully and pulled on his arm, shifting more of his weight onto my shoulder. "Maybe you should lift me sometime!"

 _What, like you lift me?_ Neal liked picking me up and carrying me to the bed, hands on my thighs and ass, and I enjoyed being cradled to his chest. It worked. What _wouldn't_ work was trying to reverse the roles. I snorted as I imagined it. Also, grinding would be harder if I was the one holding him up. "Hah, I don't think so."

Losing interest, Neal exhaled loudly. " _Stiiill,"_ he sang off-key.

"Sh, sh," I quieted, squeezing his wrist hard. "Still no singing."

He stopped trying to perform show tunes. Instead, he started mumbling, giving up on walking and leaning over to press his nose into my hair and breathe in the smell of my shampoo. I gave up for a moment and sank against the wall, propping Neal against my hip and just letting myself collapse on the wall. It kept me upright so I didn't tumble.

Neal snaked his other arm around me, leaning heavily on the wall as well, stumbling to the side of the hall. He entrapped me in his arms and held my side to his front, nosing against my temple. "Holding you's nice, too," he purred contently. "I wanna hold you while we're both awake."

"Oh, for God's sake," I grumbled.

"When I wake up like I should be holding someone and you're not there it's sad." He didn't appear to have heard me. Neal also seemed to have forgotten that commas existed. I forgot how to breathe for a few heartbeats, squeezing my eyes shut. He had no idea. It was just cruel to do this – to dangle this in front of me, like he wanted it, too, like I could have it if I'd just _ask._

* * *

"Come on," I wheezed, nudging the door to an empty conference room open with my foot. The deadweight attached to me let me tug him inside but he was losing his balance. The longer he spent on his feet, the harder it got for him to keep the limited control he had (and that was very, very limited control). I basically carried my con artist to the side of the room, lowering him down to the floor to lean against the wall. The window was wide and stretched out almost the whole room, but it was just normal wall for the first three feet upwards, and Neal leaned back on that numbly. "Careful…"

I actually felt my back pop when I leaned back and bent backwards like I was doing the limbo. If he had any respect for my skeleton whatsoever, he wouldn't make this a recurring sport. Then I hustled to the door, pushed it shut, and twisted the lock. It wouldn't deter anyone for long, but it was something. Out through the window I could see an incredible view of the city, full of bright colors and reflecting glass shining sunlight right back at me, so _alive_ and _busy_ that it was hard to imagine New York as anything but a teeming metropolis.

And then there was the room I was in and Neal, who could hardly keep his head up.

I fell down to my knees and responsibly checked his temperature again, griping at him while I did so, feeling his forehead and pushing his flopping, damp hair out of the way. "I don't believe you sometimes," I complained. Neal's eyes slid shut and he pushed his head into my hand, relishing the comparative coolness. "How could you do something like this? You know, I think they just gave you tranquilizers, but they could've just as easily given you something lethal." Which was what was going to give me nightmares, I just knew it.

Neal peeked open his glassy, reddened eyes. "Were you worried about me, Kenna?" He asked, making himself comfortable, clumsily straightening and spreading his legs, leaning the hunch of his back to the wall and bending forward to follow my hand when I tried to move away from his forehead.

 _"_ _Yes,"_ I said emphatically with plenty of exasperation. It was hard not to worry when Neal did stunts like these.

"Aw," he cooed, grinning childishly. "That's sweet. Thank you for caring." _Yeah, yeah._ He was blind if it was surprising to him that I cared. His goofy smile faded. "A lot of people don't care about me…" _You've conned a lot of people,_ I reasoned, though Neal just seemed like his feelings were hurt. I got an itchy, uncomfortable feeling that maybe it wasn't the marks that bothered him, but people who had once been close to him. His eyes popped wide open and he grabbed at me, hands landing hard on my nearest arm and my knee. "Did they give you something lethal?"

 _Me? What?_ "What? No, of course not," I blustered. "Why do you even have to ask?"

He relaxed, satisfied with the answer, and gave me a tired grin. "B'cause I'm caring for you, too!" He explained proudly, something he thought was deserving of ultimate praise.

"Well… thanks, I guess. Oh, why didn't you wait for backup?" I moaned. This whole thing could have been avoided if he'd just stuck to the unofficial plan. I unbalanced myself intentionally and fell down next to him, sitting on his left and hiking up my knees to loosely set my elbows on my thighs.

"Oh, Kenna, I've done things worse _you_ don't even know about. Sooo many worse things." Before I could advise him that this may not be a conversation he'd be glad to have sober, Neal paused and he shifted, picking up his left leg and moving it to mirror my right, pressing our thighs together and then our calves. I grimaced as he dug his anklet into my ankle and didn't seem to notice. "Or better… There's a lot of things I've done that I'm not proud of… no, that's a lie, I'm really proud of most of them, but I'm not proud that you wouldn't approve." _At least he's honest,_ I told myself unconvincingly. Neal rolled his head to the side and rested his cheek on my shoulder, sighing loudly. "Don't like you angry…"

My curiosity got the better of me. Neal was so conniving that it had been hard enough catching him on just the one case of forgeries, and he was practically volunteering. Statute of limitations aside, I wasn't interested in incarcerating him, but I was endlessly thirsty for more knowledge about his past that he kept zipped tightly to his chest. It was kind of hypocritical of me, since I did a similar thing, but at least I knew my history didn't involve grand heists.

"Like what?" I asked, cringing at my own ethics even as I did so. Asking information from a drugged person that I wouldn't get an answer to had he been sober was not my proudest moment.

Neal hummed and rubbed his face against my shoulder like a cat. Like a giant, humanoid cat. "Remember the Antioch manuscripts?" He rumbled smugly.

 _I_ didn't, but one Peter Burke sure as hell would. I remembered that Peter had suspected him strongly of involvement with the theft of some very important documents, but it had never been proved, and there were no records documenting Neal being anywhere near the region at the time, so that was one charge Peter hadn't even come close to sticking him with.

"You _did_ take them," I mumbled, just sitting with him. I told myself I was giving my back a break before the next leg of the journey. "How'd you pull that off?"

Neal picked up his head and tapped his index finger into his temporal bone. "Carrier pigeons… think about it." He was smiling through a haze, distant and not quite there, and yet still annoyingly pleased with himself.

I just couldn't believe he'd used birds to handle such important manuscripts. There were so many issues with that plan I didn't even know where to start. _Birds._ Neal, the guy who doesn't like to let me touch his paintbrushes, let _birds_ carry something he considered worth stealing. _Precious boy has strange quirks._

Discontentedly, Neal struggled to keep his eyes open. "Ah, that's not what's important," he mumbled, fighting a yawn. "It's not about _money_ , it's about – it's about _people._ "

"Yeah, well you're gonna be well-acquainted with the people who wear orange jumpsuits once I get you out of this, I swear," I threatened emptily. I would never send him back to prison. If I wanted him returned to prison, I wouldn't have even bothered coming to the Howser to get him. I just felt really mad and needed to say something to get it out, even if it was something that we both knew I would never follow through on.

Instead of writing me off like he was supposed to do, Neal's face crumpled as he realized exactly where orange jumpsuits were the norm. "Right…" he mumbled, depressed. If he had more energy, I bet he would've started to cry. I'd never seen him look so emotionally open. I'd never been able to see it on his face when he was feeling sad or vulnerable unless it was about that damn manipulative sister of his (our breakup aside, because that hadn't actually been a breakup. Had it been?). "I'm going back once they see those security tapes of me breaking in here."

"Security cameras…" That was right, Mozzie had said something about those. I looked in all corners of the room, but there didn't seem to be any monitoring the conference room. Didn't mean there weren't any in the hall.

Resigning himself to a fate I would fight tooth and nail against, Neal's shoulders sagged and he leaned his head back down. He did more than just use me as a pillow – he scooted up to my side and cuddled as tightly to me as he could manage, sniffing quietly and pushing his nose into the soft shoulder of my blazer.

"'m sorry, Kenna," he said mournfully. "Will you visit me in prison? I'll miss you lots." The plaintive way he asked broke my heart. He wasn't even trying to ask me for help, just didn't want to be lonely.

"Stop worrying. I'll go get the tapes and no one will know any better," I reasoned, heart thumping fast again. It would be riskier, but it was better. I'd just have to find their security room and then hope that my moderate technology skills covered whatever kind of security system they had in place.

Neal didn't act like he had heard me. Maybe he wasn't lucid enough to process everything. Maybe he didn't believe me. "Before – before I go back, you should know this…" I wrapped my arm around his upper back and held him by the shoulders. "Out of all the people in my life, Mozzie, Katie, June, even Kate… you should know…" Having a hard time talking and getting more emotional, Neal picked up a hand and prodded my leg through my pants, stabbing with his fingers meaningfully. His voice got thicker and choked up. "You're the _only one."_

That had to have some meaning, I was sure of it, otherwise he wouldn't sound like he'd just confessed to something huge. I trailed my hand up his arm and then to his head, petting through his hair. I liked it when it was unstyled. It seemed longer, it was easier to play with.

"The only one, what, Neal?" I indulged him. _The only one who knows about the manuscripts?_

"You're the only person in my life I trust." He stated matter-of-factly, throat still rough, voice tight.

I stilled. _Trust. Yeah._ That wasn't too weird. Neal trusted me a lot in some ways and a little less in others. He'd proved unnecessarily that he trusted me with his life when we were in Avery's vault. He'd proved he trusted me with Kate when he asked me to go with him to Grand Central Station. He trusted me not to backstab he or Mozzie when he introduced me to his friend. He trusted me not to physically bring him to any harm or let any befall him if I had any power to control the situation. It was the _only_ part that got me.

The _only_ person he trusted. How lonely must that be, not to trust anyone but one person? And then that person keeps you at arm's length, scared to be hurt. Neal was a conman by trade, conditioned to second-guess and psychoanalyze everything, see every mark as a puzzle, assume everyone had ulterior motives. But he trusted me. He trusted me over his best friend. _Why?_ For the same reason he wanted to kiss me while we were vertical and clothed, why he wanted to take me out for coffee and talk about something other than work? Trust was so important, and he just told me from the lack of specification that he trusted me with everything.

Overwhelmed, I turned my head to his hair. Being the one person he felt safe enough to trust and rely on… it was an honor, and one I didn't feel like I deserved. I was still keeping his soulmate from him, still shooting him down when he came too close.

"I trust you, too, Neal," I stated into his hair, screwing my eyes shut tightly. It hurt to be so close and so far from what I wanted at the same time. Could I really take everything he said for the truth? Would anything he said stand true by the time he was no longer under the influence? I wished I could imply that I trusted him with everything but I couldn't. Not because of him, but because of _me._

But if he was going to hold me as his protector and trustworthy partner, then I had a job to do. I gently pushed him off of me, moving his chin off of my shoulder. "I'm going to go get those tapes," I said simply. Come hell or high water, Neal's trust was not going to be proven incorrect.

"Wait," Neal called with a pout as I got up. I continued to crawl around to my knees so I could stand. "I have a question," Neal announced, dropping off the first two words' volume to half what they were supposed to be.

I looked at Neal hard and decided to go along with it. "And what is that?" I stayed at a crouch in front of him, cocking my head, trying to catch eyes that didn't want to overstimulate by making contact.

Neal fought to eye me seriously. "Why don't you ever let me take care of you?" He asked, knees straightening, legs remaining apart. He held both hands between his thighs and looked down to them as if nervous or embarrassed. "I know I can't 'xactly take you on romantic dates but I bring you flowers, and coffee, and movies." My eyes softened. _This is exactly the kind of question I did not want to answer!_ Neal thought he was doing those things to make up for being inadequate in other departments? "I don't get why you don't let me hug and kiss you just 'cause I feel like it," he finished, soft spoken as when he started.

I floundered. What was I supposed to say? The truth? I wouldn't tell that, I had already decided it had never really been an option, especially not the _relevant_ truth. I couldn't tell him, drugged or not, that I would adore the chance to share that cutesy couple scenario.

Finally, I swallowed. "You really want to talk about it?" Neal nodded once jerkily. "Ask me when you can speak without slurring." _There._ Neal would take it as a deflection and take what he would read as a hint, and that was if he would even remember this entire crazy excursion once the meds worse off.

I trusted him with many things, but not to stay on focus when he couldn't even remember which way was up and which way was down. I looked around the room for something to anchor him to and found what I was looking for level with our feet. The rotating base of spinning office chairs gleamed silver, polished and/or scarcely used. I crawled on my knees to get one of the chairs and brought it back to Neal, one hand on it and the rest of me acting like a tripod to crawl back. I wheeled the chair to Neal's side where I had been, pulled my shirt up past my waist to get to my belt, and took my handcuffs from their position dangling in through the loop.

With a sound _click,_ I locked the handcuffs to the chair legs first. Next came Neal's arm, which he had no objections to donating for the purpose. He was still looking around like everything was just a trip. When I tightened that cuff, Neal noticed, and he spent about twenty seconds trying to remember how handcuffs worked and why he couldn't pull his left hand over his lap.

I pointed down at those handcuffs. " _Don't_ pick your way out of this lock," I warned. Neal didn't look like he was at risk of doing that any time soon, not with how entertained he was just at the fact that handcuffs worked.

* * *

I returned, less than impressed with my (it had to be said) stealthy skills at creeping around. The security system needed to be updated. All I'd done was pop out the tape that was being used to record the footage. With that removed, I tossed it in the air before shoving it into my jacket and walking off back to where I'd left Neal.

With every person that I passed, I expected to be grabbed and shoved to the wall; interrogated, assaulted, maybe even drugged like my darling had been, but I looked like I belonged and I walked dully, acting disinterested by my surroundings, pacing forward just like I would have at the bureau, and it seemed to be the right attitude to take.

I peeked over both shoulders, down both the opposite and the adjacent hallway to the meeting room before I pushed it open, slipping in through a narrow gap. I closed it very slowly to stop the latch from making any sorts of loud noises. Neal was talking, mumbling quietly, slurring a little bit.

"I could slip you off…" the sounds of metal clinked as he moved the hand that was cuffed to the chair. Twisting the lock on the door, I turned to look into the room and my shoulders fell at the conman, very importantly explaining the process of loopholes to the inanimate objects nearest to him. "That wouldn't be picking, that'd be slipping," he said wisely, then yawned, stretching his jaw and smacking his lips tiredly. "But…" his head lolled to the side tiredly, hair flopping around with him.

I huffed. _What a fucking dork,_ I insulted affectionately in my head, walking slowly back over him so he didn't startle. Dropping down to my knees, I took the tape out of my jacket and waved it in front of his face.

Unexpectedly, when Neal opened bleary, unfocused eyes, glazed over feverishly with drugs, he started to belt out a song. _"Oooh, many spleeeendored thiiing!"_ As if he was mistaking the tape for something like a wedding ring.

I slapped my free hand over his mouth quickly, pressing against his face and bending over to put my face in front of his. "Shh," I hushed. "Shh! Bad Neal!" The panicky exclamation made his face fall heartbrokenly. I groaned in my throat while he lowered his eyes slowly from my face, looking sorrowfully across the room. His eyes started to look bigger as tears swelled up. "Oh – oh, no, honey, don't do that…"

I just wanted him to be easier to handle. I dropped the tape into his lap to take his face in both hands, cupping his cheeks, and pressed a kiss to the furrow of his eyebrows as he went cross-eyed trying to watch my mouth. His face was hot. Not alarmingly so, but it told me I needed to get a thermometer. I was _not_ trained to handle this.

"I'm sorry, hon," I apologized quietly to his hair, balancing on my knees as I pushed myself back to look at him. I stroked my right hand down the side of his face. "You're such a sweetheart, Neal. I'm not mad."

He blinked. A sole tear started to run down his cheek and he sniffed, his face calming, unpredictable emotions settling. I caught the tear on my thumb and swiped it off of his cheekbone, rubbing the moist trail carefully until I was sure he wasn't going to keep acting like I'd killed his best friend.

Without energy to keep his head up, it fell down again, chin rolling down to his chest. Curiously, he just then noticed the cassette between his thighs. "What is that?" He asked, making a move to prod at the tape and misjudging his depth perception. Instead, he poked himself in the leg.

"The security tape," I said shortly. Neal wasn't going to go back to prison if I could help it. He looked at me with awe, lips parting. His expression looked conflicted and frustrated as he tried hard to get lucid to concentrate. "You really like singing, don't you?"

"I love to sing," he agreed happily, nodding dazedly. "Kenna?"

"Neal?" I cocked my head at his plaintive call of my name.

The conman blinked and raised his free hand up to my face. He hit my cheek a little hard, so I grimaced. Muttering an apology about how my face was closer than he thought, he rubbed the heel of his hand across my jaw, uncoordinated and awkward.

"You stole a security tape for me?" He cooed, touched, while I'm sure he thought that he was tenderly caressing my face instead of just awkwardly petting my jaw and ear. I wouldn't've been surprised if I'd ended up poked in the eye or something if I moved, so I just stayed still while he was overly tactile.

"Yeah, it's a real gesture, I know." I tried not to blush. I don't think I succeeded. I had pretty much done the ultimate romantic gesture for a criminal, hadn't I? I was like Juliet betraying the Capulets by turning my back to the law that said it was illegal to tamper with security footage. _Does that make Neal my Romeo? … Well, he_ _ **has**_ _been drugged with some potent stuff._ He was lucky it wasn't poison. "Let's get out of here before I become any more like Mozzie."

The longer we stayed put, the higher the odds got that we would be caught not-so-stealthily creeping around. I already knew it was going to be hard to lug Neal out without raising suspicion and didn't want to make it any more difficult. Removing his hand from my face, I moved his searching fingers away from my hair again while sliding the key to my handcuffs into the lock.

Neal persistently ran his fingers into my hair and turned his hand, tangling his long, artsy fingers into my tresses and holding on. I heard the click and took the cuff off of Neal's wrist. He didn't even realize that he was freed. "See, this is another of those moments where it'd be awesome to kiss you just 'cause," he said matter-of-factly.

As if I _needed_ to be educated on that it would be really super neat if I could just lean in and kiss his soft pink lips whenever the desire struck. Exactly who did he think had been fighting themselves on it for the last several months? Yet I'd had no intention of discussing it with him sober, and I sure as hell wasn't going to violate his trust by indulging his want to talk about an important aspect of our relationship while he was too high to even hold back tears from being called naughty.

* * *

Kate took me by the arm before I could return to the parlor with one of the blankets from my bedroom and she pulled me into the kitchen before I could go back to the poor con artist who was so high that he had started frantically warning me that the ground was attacking when he forgot to step up on the porch stairs and hit his toes on the stone. He had suggested that I shoot it (nonfatally) and then had held onto my shoulders to hide behind my back from the gunfire, giggling.

_Uh, yeah, I think I'll have whatever he's having._

"Are you sure he's going to be okay?" She asked anxiously, chewing on her lower lip.

I started to assure her that yeah, he would be perfectly fine, but before I got to doing the part where I said actual words, Neal's voice carried out from where he had been deposited on the couch.

"Kenna, right is the side that's not left, right?" He asked me, sounding completely careless. Neal's tone reminded me of talking to people who'd been doing marijuana, or of Katie after she had fractured one of her ribs in a self-defense class and had been given a morphine shot in the emergency room. His voice pitched down like I wasn't even meant to hear him anymore, or as though he'd forgotten where I was. "Because down is where I fall…"

I was no stranger to narcotics, having been badly hurt many, many times before, but I was pretty sure I had never been _that_ loopy. If I weren't so worried about not knowing what he'd been dosed with, I'd have thought the entire incident was hilarious.

"He's not running a fever," I told Katie, realizing for myself that her concern was completely, completely understandable. Responsible, even. Scared that he'd been given too much, I'd reached across the car a few times on the drive back and felt his forehead. Every time, my hand got wet from his dampened, sweaty hair that had curled down onto his forehead, but his skin didn't feel any warmer than it was supposed to. The temperature hadn't changed when I had kissed his brow while convincing him to let go of me and stay put on the sofa. "Unless he starts, this has to stay quiet. How do we explain where he was drugged, huh?"

I pleaded with my expression for her to realize just how important this was. If it got out that Neal had broken into the Howser, then even I couldn't protect him – especially after I had committed a crime myself and stolen the security footage!

"Okay, I guess you're right." Kate looked worriedly through the kitchen doorframe, hallway, and into the living room where we could see a shadow moving on the wall. It was one long arm lifting up, waving around a little, and then falling lifelessly down. Neal was still humming carelessly. "But it's still not a good thing to think about… drugged with who-knows-what." Katie pursed her lips, trying to decide what to do to make herself feel more assured. "I'm going to go get a thermometer just so we can check and be sure," she decided.

I didn't want to have to take him to a hospital and try to lie my way out of this problem, but I would rather suffer that uncomfortable tension than sit around while a fever spiked. His body could handle the drugs, hopefully; if he had been given too much to metabolize, then he would _have_ to go to an emergency room, regardless of the troubles it would bring. I wasn't going to risk him overdosing to death. My relief was that it had been a while since he'd been shot up – at least an hour, getting close to two – and I was fairly sure that we were out of the woods. If he was going to overdose, I assumed it would have been soon after he'd gotten it in his bloodstream, when there was more in his body at once.

"Good idea," I told her quietly, but doubted she'd heard. Kate had already gone to a kitchen drawer to find where we stored our over-the-counter medicines and a bottle of prescription painkillers that I had kept just in case they were needed.

Taking the blanket in my arms out to Neal, I almost shivered. The air conditioner in the living room was on full blast to help him get comfortable. All of the sweating didn't help with Kate's or my anxiety, but Neal didn't seem to notice, which was probably fortunate for him, since it had screwed with his hair. The only times Neal seemed able to tolerate being anything other than well-groomed and clean were after a roll in the hay, when he was too tired or too satisfied to be bothered to shower.

Neal saw me approaching after I checked the air conditioner and he started to sit up, pushing up with a shaky arm and then rocking side-to-side on the couch like he was about to lose his balance and fall to one side.

"Hey, Neal, I think you should lay down," I coerced kindly, taking him by the shoulders and pushing him back to laying down again. Neal was too high to even think about resisting, and his eyes fell shut exhaustedly. I made sure his head touched the arm of the sofa softly and ran my fingers through his thick hair. Neal picked his feet off of the ground and bent his knees to fit on the furniture, shoes still on.

"This isn't a bed," he muttered, slurring, not opening his eyes.

"No, no it's not," I agreed with a giggle. "It's a couch." Was this what Kate had meant when she described me on oxycodone? According to her, I'd had the attention span of a squirrel, the strength of overcooked pasta, and the energy of a sloth. I was apparently also like overcooked pasta in the respect that I clung to her in the times that I was awake, but Neal didn't seem particularly clingy, just really out of it. "I don't trust you to go on the stairs right now," I said more seriously, because it was a legitimate concern for me.

Neal forced his eyes to open and looked up at me, focus going in and out. He smiled cutely and dazedly. "Are you looking out for me again?" He didn't need me to answer and didn't offer me the chance before he giggled, entirely too adorably. "That's so nice," he cooed.

Kate came back into the parlor while Neal was laughing himself into even deeper comfort amongst the couch cushions and I moved down to the other end of the couch, picking up Neal's legs and taking his shoes off for him. On his left leg, I noticed that his sock had fallen down, so I pulled it back up underneath the strap of his anklet so it didn't chafe.

"Open up, Neal," Kate called, her voice highly optimistic. She had found a thermometer.

Obedient as an angel, Neal opened his mouth wide and blinked at her with intrigue. Katie slipped the silver part under his tongue and tapped his jaw. Neal shut his mouth and my sister rubbed her thumb over his cheek affectionately. I liked having a lover my sister approved of. Any other woman and I'd probably be jealous, but I just enjoyed watching them talk and get along, even when that got to hugging or touching.

"Do you want us to do the camping thing again?" Katie asked, looking at me and offering compassionately. She didn't see Neal finally seeming to notice that there was something in his mouth, and he went cross-eyed trying to read the screen. I stifled a snicker at the bewildered look on his face. "At least, until we're sure he's coming down?"

I shook my head. This was already calmer than he'd been in the clinic, and much quieter. Neal sounded just as whacky, but more tired. If sleep was what he needed, then that was good. He deserved the rest for the stress he'd undoubtedly gone through while he was forcibly restrained and injected, and his body needed the chance to recover.

"It's not worth it," I told her. Neal would be okay with one person looking after him; he didn't need Katie to miss out on an entire night of decent sleep. She had work to do and kids to look after the next day. During the car ride, I had seriously thought about calling Mozzie, but had decided that Neal was going to process the drugs the same way regardless of whether or not his friend was with him, and while Mozzie was welcome in my home, as a general rule, he avoided it more often than not. "You get some actual sleep. I'll stay with him."

The thermometer beeped. Hilariously, the artist learned that he had something in his mouth all over again, going wide-eyed and lifting his head, struggling to see.

Kate and I both laughed at his expense. I reached for his leg and stroked my hand down his thigh repeatedly. "Thanks, sweetie," I murmured, taking the stick out of his mouth. Neal licked his lips and sighed contently, leaning back. Then, suspiciously, he went cross-eyed again before he was satisfied that it was really gone. "Ninety-nine point five. Subtract a degree for the kind of thermometer it is, and he's fine."

He was supposed to be fine, anyway. Instead he yawned, and then started to sing out, _"I'll be your disaster, ever after!"_

Katie jumped in shock, stared at him like he'd gone insane, and then slowly turned her head to look at me, silently demanding I explain. "I had music playing in the car," I confessed. It wasn't the full story – I was guilty because I'd put the CD on so that Neal would be distracted and wouldn't ask me about feelings or kissing. "Clearly, that was a mistake."

_"_ _So fi-i-ire away!"_

"He likes singing?" Katie asked, shaking her head with fondness even as she looked ready to plug her ears or stuff a cloth in Neal's mouth – whichever.

"Apparently," I responded with equal exasperation, looking down the couch at my oblivious mate's happy face, concentrated solely on remembering the lyrics to the song he'd heard last.

Katie grimaced when Neal got the words right, but the note wrong. Badly wrong. His voice cracked and went from an even note to the sharp below it. He didn't seem to care. "His voice is nice," she told me over the sound. "But I hope he's less tone deaf when he's lucid."

She had no idea. I loved Neal's interest in music. I liked singing with him in the car, but car-singing was a lot different from singing together or bonding – it was like karaoke, where the goal isn't to sing or feel sentiment, but to make like a fool and have fun doing it. Even in car karaoke, his singing was gorgeous and made my ears tingle. Just… not now.

"I had to deal with this all the way back," I said, pointing at Neal indicatively. "You can handle it for a while, too."

"Why didn't you just let him talk?" She asked with an eyebrow raised loftily, obviously thinking that she had the superior idea.

"I was trying to distract him!" I defended my choices before I realized that I had just given her more to pick at, and regretted it promptly, especially when she visibly processed that there had been something Neal needed distracting from.

And of course, the little Dalek had to go and bring the topic back to it, _right in front of Neal._ "From what?"

"Kenna is modest," Neal cooed. Oh, right, of course he would've heard _that._ Kate looked down at him and let him talk, expecting him to give all the answers without hesitation. I glared at her in chagrin, but gave Neal a hesitant smile. It wasn't his fault. He could barely think straight. His cooing didn't sound like the gentle coaxing Kate used on him. My sister sounded kind and maternal. Neal came across as admiring and mind-numbingly affectionate. "She kept shushing me whenever I tried talking about her."

Kate's face said she was about to scold me, so I skipped that step and went straight to holding my shoulders up guiltily. She just sighed.

"Yell if you need me," she informed me, and then looked down at Neal. Sympathetically, she leaned over him and gave a quick kiss to his soft dark hair, then stood up and plucked her phone from the coffee table. Kate left for the stairs pretty quickly, eager to get to bed.

I was probably going to have to buy her something and be extra nice to make up for this.

I finally took the blanket I'd set down and unfolded it, then draped it over Neal's body. It was one of my favorites – fleece so whisperingly soft that it didn't even irritate a sunburn. "You comfortable?" I asked, yanking it down a couple of inches so it covered his feet instead of his face.

He giggled. "No, this couch isn't big enough." To prove the point, he kicked his legs out straight, twisting the blanket around and letting his ankles hang off the edge of the couch. "My feet are off the edge," he told me earnestly. " _Goo-oo-ood-"_

"Sh, sh," I quieted, hushing him just like I had in the car. Dropping to my knees in front of him let me reach to his throat and feel his pulse. It was a little bit faster than normal, but not alarming. "It's time to get some sleep," I dramatically stage-whispered, hoping he would cotton on and start mimicking me.

"I wanna sing," he replied, looking sadly doe-eyed. He didn't stage-whisper after me. There wasn't even petulance in his objection, just resigned disappointment. "I'm thinking too fast to sleep. Singing makes it slow down."

 _Overstimulation?_ If whatever he'd been given doubled as a stimulant or an upper, then I shouldn't have been surprised that he needed something grounding. Frankly, I should've guessed sooner. I questioned if the ultra-soft fleece was even the right choice of blanket – all the fine threads and the plush fluff touching his skin with varying pressures might be worse than simple, slightly rougher fabric.

I couldn't help but feel horrible for my sweetheart for what he must be going through. To my knowledge, Neal's never experimented with drugs. I knew from experience how terrifying it could be to be given a shot against my will, especially without knowing what was in it. I'd been kidnapped and/or assaulted more than once, and drugs were a common means of subduing victims. He would probably feel lightheaded in the moment and helpless at enhanced sensory input, then a little sick and dizzy when he woke up again, but overall better. Hopefully.

"Don't go, Kenna." Mindful of his voice, Neal started to whisper. It wasn't a stage-whisper. I had to lean in closer to hear, putting my chin on the couch cushion by his arm. "Stay with me, please? I sleep better with you anyway."

It wasn't hard to convince me to stay with him, even when he was sober. It would be easy to watch after him if I was cuddled right up to him, and I wouldn't even consider leaving him alone to suffer the aftereffects of a drug trip. Lover or not, Neal didn't deserve that.

I sighed out of pretense but stood up and stripped some of my clothes off. I kicked off my shoes while I shucked my blazer off of my arms, then unbuttoned the cuffs on my sleeves individually and rolled them up to my elbows. The buttons on the top and bottom of my shirt were undone, leaving it pulled across my body but with a lot less confines. Reaching under my collar, I flipped up the piece and tugged at my tie, loosening the knot and sliding it off entirely. If we were in my room instead of the parlor, I'd have taken off my shirt. I was tempted to do so anyway, and go grab some gym shorts to sleep in, but after that heartfelt plea, I was loathe to leave him alone for even a moment.

Neal clumsily tried to sit up. I pulled his blanket back and sat down next to him alongside the edge of the couch, then laid down. The arm of the couch was uncomfortable at best, so I shifted so the pressure was more on my upper back than my neck, and held out my arms. Neal jumped forward, practically pressing into my body like warmth in Antarctica. My lips curled in a smile as I wrapped him up, one arm underneath his neck. He settled his head onto that arm and wound his arms eagerly around my midsection, laying his face on my shoulder and nuzzling into my neck unfalteringly.

If being high destroyed the filter between his heart and his actions, then what did it mean that when he was overwhelmed, he wanted to immerse his senses in _me_? He kicked one leg over both of mine, tossing the blanket off of his calves almost entirely, just for the sake of putting more weight against me and being as flush to me as he could possibly get.

* * *

The clock over the television was what I kept my eyes on. Moonlight and streetlights filtered in from the windows, and Katie had left on one of the lights in the hallway so that I could see what was around me once my eyes adjusted. Neal seemed completely oblivious to the silence that was stretching onwards, instead occupying himself either mentally or physically.

Nine minutes after Kate went upstairs with a final "goodnight" and well wishes for Neal, who I doubt was paying enough attention to realize she'd even left, he started to hum again. This time, he was off of Marianas Trench and onto Frank Sinatra tunes. He kept the volume down, but there was no way I couldn't not hear it – not only was he right next to me, but I could feel the vibrations running through his throat.

Eleven minutes after, and he wriggled around. I asked what he thought he was doing and he answered by singing the lyrics of a phrase in the song before he went back to humming, and he wrapped both arms tighter around me and held on fast. Tipping my head up to the ceiling, I rolled my eyes.

Seventeen, and the artist had bent his knees and was pressing cold feet to my warm legs. I sighed and dealt with it. Neal turned his head slightly, hiding his face against my throat, and I reached my hand up to his hair, tenderly dragging my fingers through soft brown hair that curled around my fingers.

It was hard to be annoyed when he was being so cuddly. It was even harder when, four minutes later, after about thirty seconds of no humming, he very quietly complained that he couldn't think straight. Knowing that he prided himself on his intellect, likely more than on anything else, it must've been hell to be thrown so far up into the clouds against his will. While he was up there he seemed pretty happy, but there were moments when he would shiver and hold closer or sigh tiredly. He was on the final stretch of the drugs and what he should really do was sleep it off so he didn't have to be conscious while his body went through that transition.

 _How do I put him to sleep?_ I wondered. It was relatively dark. I was warm enough, and he was leeching up my body heat like a parasite. An adorable parasite, but a parasite nonetheless. It was quiet when he wasn't running his mouth, so what else would help?

 _The music._ He started to hum again after uncomfortably shifting, trying to resettle his legs on the couch that was already too small for one person, let alone two. Right after he could hear his own voice, he physically calmed. I passed off the time it took to make the connection as me being tired. The music was calming him down, but continuing to sing was keeping him awake.

"You don't understand how this whole 'quiet' thing works, do you?" I murmured. His humming stopped so that he could listen to me. No matter how little sense it made, I was pleased that hearing what I was saying was that important. I slung the arm hanging off the side of the couch over his shoulder and scooted up on the sofa, moving far enough to kiss his forehead, sweaty from drugs and the heat of the room. I took a breath and began to sing so that he wouldn't have to.

_"_ _Oh, thinking about all our younger years-"_

Excitedly, Neal pawed at the couch to try to sit up. I laced my fingers together and effectively trapped him within my arms. He gave up and collapsed back down, head on my shoulder.

"I know this one!" He proclaimed with the utmost pride.

A small smile graced my lips while I looked down to him. Craning his neck up to look at me, Neal was grinning dazedly, eyes fixed with admiration. I raked my hands through his short hair again. "It's one of my favorites," I told him, then decided to go for it. "Do you want to sing with me, Neal?"

I thought being indulgent would help. He could only keep this up for so long. He hid deeper between the side of my body and the back of the couch, breath rushing out over my chest when he exhaled, light fingertips dancing in asymmetrical designs through thick cotton. I was taking care of him, and it felt strangely nice.

"Mm," he agreed happily, and joined in, picking up the song where I had been interrupted at. _"There was only you and me, we were young and wild and free."_

Neal's voice was gorgeous, but he was off in pitch and a little lopsided on the melody. Closing my eyes, I kept singing with him, turning the Bryan Adams tune into a duet.

_"_ _Now, nothing can take you away from me… we've been down that road before, but that's over now. You keep me comin' back for more."_

If Kate hadn't been asleep already, she would've been woken up from the edge by our singing downstairs. Neal, his activity encouraged, got louder, even while I stayed soft. His timing fixed itself with someone else to sing with, yet his tonal quality still left elements to be desired. I'd heard him singing and knew he sounded like an angel, so it was just being so loopy that was putting him off, but singing with him in the car had never seemed as honest as it did now, and not just because of the soft, loving lyrics. I thought that I could ask him anything I wanted to know, and he would tell me.

 _"_ _Baby, you're all that I want when you're lying here in my arms."_ In time, Neal squeezed tighter around my abdomen. It was cute. _"I'm finding it hard to believe we're in heaven. And love is all that I need, and I found it there in your heart, it isn't too hard to see we're in heaven."_

If I were into taking advantage of people's lowered inhibitions when drugged and drunk, I might've actually asked something, but that was making a huge assumption that I'd know what to ask. _Are you lying to me about anything? Are you using me, manipulating me? Did you really use carrier pigeons? Am I your heaven?_

My conman was oblivious to the deeper thoughts I was thinking while I sang along with him. I'd listened to it so many times that I could sing it while totally checking out mentally. Then I thought of other fairly slow-paced "lullabies" for my precious soulmate that he would know, too, and led him through a couple of those. It wasn't long at all until he was drifting off, carrying notes too short and letting his head loll against my chest. I transitioned smoothly to a song with lyrics he wouldn't know so that he didn't sing, just listened, and by the time I was starting the bridge, he was out cold.

I stopped where I was, abandoning the last chorus. I kept hearing the lyrics in my head as I revisited the lines that stuck with me. More importantly, I felt Neal's chest rising and falling steadily, heard the soft snoring as he drifted off, and curled around him as much as possible with my back to the outside world, surrounding and protecting the man who hopefully wouldn't remember most of the last few hours' events, because I really didn't want to have to make good on my promise to talk about feelings.

That was a conversation I was just _dying_ to have. How could I possibly tell him I think I'm doing the stupidest thing possible and falling in love? Was I supposed to tell him that kissing Melissa felt like I was cheating, even after insisting we're not committed? What was I supposed to tell him if he asked what I wanted from him, what would he expect me to do if he repeated that the world stood still when we kissed?

_You're barely waking, and I'm tangled up in you. Even the best fall down sometimes, even the wrong words seem to rhyme. Out of the doubt that fills my mind, I somehow find you and I collide. … I've found I'm scared to know I'm always on your mind. Even the best fall down sometimes, even the stars refuse to shine. Out of the back you fall in time, I somehow find you and I collide._

* * *

I felt like I'd only been asleep for a few minutes when I was waking up again, light bleeding through my eyelids and a shifting mass over most of my body, a limb pushing into my side below my ribs and a hip shifting my thigh a little closer to the edge of the couch. I turned my head to look towards the back of the sofa, but it didn't do much about the light situation.

 _"_ _Oooh,"_ Neal moaned, leaning his head back into my chest. At some point, he had not only gotten so we were touching even more, but he had literally gotten on top of me, pushing my legs open and lying between my thighs, back to my front, head on my shoulder, soft wisps of hair pushing into my throat and tickling. I must've been pretty down with it while I was out, because I was contently cuddling him, right leg picked up and draped over his, both of my arms loosely together over his stomach. "My head is _killing_ me."

Something rattled in a glass. "Yeah, that's not really surprising." Katie was there, too, then. I resisted opening my eyes for a little longer. My sister wasn't going to slice my throat while my head was back, so it was cool. "You kept falling over whenever you walked on your own, you were so high. Would you like more ice?"

His head moved while Neal nodded slowly and pathetically, something cold brushing on my ear.

Katie hummed affectionately. Air moved in front of my face as she reached over my shoulder to stroke his arm and take the ice pack from his forehead. "Alright. I'll get some for you." When she took it away from him, Neal let his arm fall back down and twined his fingers through mine, still thinking I was asleep.

My chest warmed as he sighed tiredly and wiggled around. He twisted in a way that probably wasn't the most comfortable for his neck just to push his forehead against my throat, breathing out along my collarbone, pecking my chest with his lips quickly before he settled in, holding my hand and happily keeping our legs tangled.

Kate came back just as Neal was comfortable and I was appreciating the attention. I liked feigning my sleep and was glad I hadn't let on that I was conscious. There was something unexplainably sweet about the blue-eyed man cuddling up to me when I wasn't even awake for him to be asking for something or convincing me of anything. He was just doing it because he liked snuggling.

The coolness returned, radiating from an ice pack that Neal had to let go of my hand to hold. "Is McKenna awake yet?" Kate asked, not whispering, but not as loud as she usually was, and I hadn't registered before that they were both being quiet.

All good things had to come to an end. "She is now," I complained, tightening my arms subtly.

Blinking blearily, I brought the ceiling back into focus and raised a hand along Neal's side, up to the obstruction of his arm. He moved his elbow from the back of the couch so that I could get my whole arm free and I took the ice pack from him, holding it where he had it resting on his forehead, flattening down some of his hair. He let go with a content sigh and sank deeper into my hold. _Interesting._ Now that I had the very concrete proof that he enjoyed being held, I was going to have to implement that move more often. I liked being held but there was no reason I couldn't do the holding, too.

My throat was dry so I swallowed a few times. "I hope your excursion was productive."

"Oh, it was," Neal promised cheekily, missing the memo where he was supposed to act at least a little bit ashamed that he broke the rules. He could have gotten hurt. He was damn lucky that I didn't know what I'd do without him.

"Be a little more humble towards the person holding a big bag of ice, especially when they are in an ideal position to hold you down and beat you with it."

Neal laughed, his body cringing when he shook with the motion. Sympathetically, I tightened my hold on his hand over his abdomen. He squeezed back. "I saw a list full of wealthy clients, all of them willing to pay a lot of money for organs if the time comes."

 _You mean you allegedly saw,_ I revised in my head, but didn't quite have the motivation to get into technicalities so early in the morning. "Now, if only you'd obtained this information legally so that we could proceed." I let my eyes slide shut sleepily, tightening my right leg over his and dragging his knee lower to the couch so I could be a little less like a pretzel without having to unwind from him.

"Maybe we still can." Neal was just as lethargic as I was and made no move to get up. "There was another list, too, with hundreds of names… and blood types."

Paper rustled. I turned my head to the side as little as possible to bury my nose into Neal's hair, short enough not to tangle but long enough to be a soft cushion. Kate's voice interrupted my attempt at drifting off again. "That must be what your fax was supposed to be."

"Supposed to be?" Neal echoed. The paper sound came closer, Kate holding it up so that he could see without moving. "No, I guess it wouldn't have gone through." It made sense to him that it had been interrupted, but he still sounded disappointed. "They must be the donors Powell's been targeting. Only four names came through?"

"That's enough," I rumbled, raising both of our hands to his chest and sighing. I could feel his heartbeat through his buttoned shirt. If we'd had extras of his clothes around, I'd have at least gotten him into a wife beater. He was gonna whine about needing to iron his clothes now. "We can talk to them."

Neal's body tensed, the first warning that he was about to move. I tightened my leg around his and pushed down on his chest. He chuffed fondly. "You have to let go."

"I don't have to do jack," I retorted, not bothering to open my eyes. I didn't have to do that, either. He relaxed again. "It's five in the morning."

"Actually, it's five thirty," Katie interrupted. She sounded like she was smiling at us.

"Big fucking difference," I grumbled, pressing my lips to Neal's temple while they both giggled.

* * *

Once Neal's headache had subsided enough for him to only give me the puppy dog eyes and ask for a kiss, I had cupped his face, looked into his eyes dramatically… and then anticlimactically pecked his cheek, giggling at how put out he looked, like he'd been drugged for nothing.

Katie had to leave for work before Neal and I were even out the door, and then I took him by June's so that he could get clean clothes and have access to his own toiletries. After the half-hour detour, we went to the office, looked for my agents, grabbed Derek, learned that Diana had called in sick, and secluded ourselves in the conference room after grabbing the folders on Powell and the Hearts Wide Open investigation from my office desk.

"Powell doesn't get his donors from overseas like he's supposed to," I accused, Neal and Derek both sitting down on either side of me. There was no point in standing to brief if I could talk closely enough with everyone involved. I missed Diana and wished she was there, but we couldn't put off cases until she was better and we couldn't command her to come to work while she was hung up with a cold. I spun my chair so it was facing more towards Derek and looked over the open papers with him. "He finds them through the charity cases for Hearts Wide Open. I contacted four of the donors that Powell identified and opened his clinics to for various medical reasons. Aspects of their medical information were then placed on a master list, which Powell has been using to find organs whenever a wealthier patient comes along wanting a transplant."

Obviously, there was no proof, and we had no such master list in evidence. Those four names had come from the attempted fax before security caught up with Neal and took the copy out of the machine. Derek wisely didn't ask how we knew this, nor how I had come into the peoples' information, no doubt realizing that it was less than condonable means.

"What's his connection to DGI?" The agent asked instead of questioning our methods. "Why make so many trips to India?"

I twisted my chair around a little to meet Neal's eyes. He nodded with ease and certainty, so I operated on that the information Powell allegedly fed him had actually been legit. "The big deal is that he has nephrosis and only one working kidney," I explained to Derek. He didn't have a medical background and I wasn't sure if he would know how serious that diagnosis was, so I clarified, "He won't survive without a zero-mismatch transplant."

Neal leaned over the table, one of his forearms sliding over the wood as he leaned out further than I was to see Derek around me. "Powell's been taking money from his charity scheme in order to travel the world looking for biological compatibilities," he concluded, scrunching his nose up cutely in distaste for the ethics.

"The kidney donors you managed to find – not gonna ask how you did that," Derek established, confirming my guess. I apologetically blinked at him but said nothing aloud. "How much were they offered the first time?"

"Ten thousand," I answered promptly, my voice synchronously echoed by Neal. Both of us knew this with almost firsthand experience – thanks to the charity's daring to approach June, _our_ friend.

Derek looked at Neal curiously at the unusually agitated look at his face. It reminded me that we had never really told Derek or Diana the full story of how we came by this case. The omission wasn't for any particular reason; there was nothing wrong with both of us knowing June well enough to talk about something like the offer for Samantha. It was just that it hadn't really come up explicitly and so it hadn't been said.

"And then the second time?"

"Two _hundred_ thousand," I emphasized with a roll of my eyes. That was one hell of an inflation. "Or the deal was suddenly off." And, of course, everyone who _did_ have that much money put it forwards out of desperation to save their loved ones. It may be a practical scheme, but it was repulsive and disgusting that someone could do this to another human being.

Quickly, Derek grew to match Neal's expression of revulsion. "Well," he said slowly, his fingers curling in and moving his hands away from the papers.

"Yeah," I agreed flatly. If all three of us were pissed, then we were probably going to get off topic. "There aren't really words." I thought I'd seen the worst of humanity with the rapists and murderers, but it turned out that in some ways, white collar criminals were just as bad or worse – not my Neal, though, which was a deep comfort in itself. "And on top of that, the donors won't testify because they still have ties to the charity and might want the association in the future." I felt a little sick for having flirted with Melissa anyway, but now it was even worse. How many times had she assured scared, frightened families with the lips I'd kissed, tenderly and convincingly?

My stomach still flipped. It had felt so _wrong_ to be making out with her in that tent. It was even worse to think that there were most likely still the discolored suck marks on her throat from _my_ mouth when the only person I wanted to bear _my_ marks was right next to me, and very decidedly not female or cruelly manipulative.

Neal put his arm up in the air suddenly and waved his hand excitedly, wiggling in his seat with palpable enthusiasm. Given his previous sour mood, I was concerned at what could have flipped him into such a feeling so swiftly, and I eyed him warily. Neal just smiled brighter, upper lip pulling up to show a glint of teeth, stretching his arm higher up.

"I'm nervous, but I'm still going to let you talk," I decided, eyeing him carefully.

He brought down his arm promptly but sat straighter. "We can bring him down if we could trace any of the money he's made from his sales, right?"

I was proud of my consultant for learning the legal methods of getting what he wanted. "Yes," I confirmed, nodding patiently. With the question came an implication that he had an idea that would be bureau-approved, so I was less wary and more interested in his thought process.

Neal's smile widened and his eyes darkened, turning his expression into a conniving smirk. "So let's make him spend that money," he suggested decisively.

Derek and I both looked at each other. Derek looked at Neal appraisingly and then nodded sideways to me as if commending the innovativeness of the criminal I'd wrangled as my own. "That's a lot of money," he told Neal, pushing him to elaborate on a plan before it was considered a feasible advancement. "What do you think you can make him spend it on?"

The conman raised his eyebrows in the challenging way he got with Mozzie when they were planning something. I knew the look as soon as it settled into his posture and leaned onto the table with my elbow, propping my head up with my fist.

"The thing he wants most," Neal proposed as if it was obvious.

_And the thing he wants most… is a zero-mismatch kidney to prolong his life._

There was no possible way to get him to spend the money on something as serious as that without convincing him that he needed one badly enough to give up on his careful steps implemented to keep himself framed as innocent. That in mind, I got the feeling I knew what the cunning smirk was for and almost wished Moz was present; he'd have enjoyed concocting a con like this.

"I have the feeling this will be sketchy and mean…" My words said _no_ but my voice absolutely said _yes._ I looked at Derek to see what he thought and he was giving me the same reluctant face that he gave me before I convinced him to take a toboggan with me and Kate down the steepest hill at the ski resort. Lifting my hands as I made my decision, I rubbed my palms together in anticipation. "Let's do it!"

* * *

Derek's laptop was closest, so we went ahead and used that. He pulled open the lid and typed in his password, shielding his moving hand from Neal and sending furtive glances over in the conman's direction, grinning widely as he did it. Derek thought he was a riot.

Neal had nothing good to say about that joke, so he pretended that he didn't see it happening. What would have been nice was if Neal could tell what the password was anyway, just to prove to Derek that he was being a jerk and make him look dumb. Neal rocked back. He really liked to lounge in the conference room chairs, thanks to their spinning and reclining properties.

"What are the symptoms of kidney failure?" He asked, cocking his head to the side, putting himself in the right mood to scheme.

"Death," I answered bluntly.

While Derek opened up his internet, Neal looked at me blankly over the table. I met his eyes and picked up my shoulders sassily. Could he really tell me that I was _wrong?_ Kidney failure could be fatal. That was the entire point of Powell's disgusting charity ruse. Neal didn't think I was funny.

"What are the symptoms that aren't quite so dramatic?" He specified while our eyes were locked with equal attitude.

Derek cleared his throat. " _Web MD_ says that the major symptoms inclu-"

"You're trusting _Web MD?"_ Neal scrunched up his nose and leaned further away from Derek, losing trust in the agent's resourcefulness. "That website gave Haversham hypochondria," he told me over Derek's shoulder, hand on the table directing the chair to rotate towards Derek and then back so his legs were under the table. Then he repeated.

Derek held one of his hands up protectively and the other balanced his laptop on his lap. "It's the first thing that popped up, okay?" He said, giving Neal an offended glare. Neal smiled brightly. I got the feeling that was his idea of payback for the password thing. Slowly, he turned his frown back to his monitor. "Um, we can… fake headaches by switching out his glasses. The wrong prescription will strain his eyes."

I had never known if Derek had worn glasses, but I guess I had my answer. "No, trust me, he would notice," I advised. It was easy to tell when a lens prescription was fucked with. It had to be more subtle. "Wouldn't weight loss be a symptom?" I was searching back for that info I had started digging up to play a doctor for Melissa's interests. "And, um, skin irritation around the kidneys?"

"They're on the list," Derek nodded after scrolling down.

"Well, if _Web MD_ says so, then that _must_ be true," Neal snarkily agreed.

I started to giggle and looked down at the table. _Ah… I wish Diana were here to keep our boys in line._ "So we screw with his clothes," I suggested, trying to sound a lot less excited than I felt.

Neal drummed his fingers on the table while he swiveled in and out. "According to his file, he dropped off a suit to have it dry cleaned for an event this Tuesday night. The day before Powell's due in, we'll pick up his clothes and swap them out with a larger size," he offered craftily. "He'll think he's dropped a few pounds."

I nodded, already approving that one. It was harmless, just a little mean – like taking in someone's clothes behind their back, except aiming for the opposite result. I pointed at Derek to give us another option. We would need more than one incidental "symptom" to sufficiently freak out the doctor.

Derek started to shrug when he was put on the spot. "Um… before we plant the new clothes, we can spray them down to induce the rash?"

Fascinated, Neal turned to look at Derek with wide eyes, hungry to learn more. "You've got an itching spray?" He asked, stunned by the extents of our neat little tools and toys. One day he was going to get it through his head that there was a _reason_ the FBI had caught up with him. It wasn't just a fluke.

"We have a lot of toys you don't know of," I promised, with no intention of giving him a comprehensive list.

"Wow," he said dryly, which could have become a remark on my childishness, until he took a good look at my face and saw the wide, cunning grin. He started to smile in earnest, his lips turning and eyes brightening. "You're enjoying this," he accused, yet clearly not thinking it was a bad thing.

I saw no shame in admitting it. My job got to be fun sometimes. Neal got to enjoy a good trick, so why couldn't I? Powell deserved this one if anyone ever did. "Oh, yeah, I really am." I looked back to Derek and pointed him out again. "Alright, third thing." I let him escape the practical development this time.

"Will only three be enough?" He scanned the page with concern. "We've got easily half a dozen we could pull off from this list alone."

"A guy this worried, three will be enough," Neal assured.

I tapped my chin and rocked back, taking a cue from Neal and relaxing. We weren't being graded on our childishness, just our efficiency. I just wished Diana were there to experience this one – she'd have loved it. "Most of the other symptoms we can't actually induce without drugging him, and that's off the table. Legal problems and all that." Also the medical concerns. I had my limits, and while there were a few people I wouldn't mind stabbing with whatever upper they'd given Neal, Powell wasn't one of them. He may have had it coming, but he also had a kidney ready to fail if it underwent too much strain. A rough drug trip did not equal a life-threatening risk.

Derek sighed and went back to the list, rereading them. "Fatigue, fever…" I tried to consider them. Fatigue could be done with drugs, but that posed the same problem. He had a glasses prescription, but that would be too obvious, as we'd already discussed. "Oh. Um, that's not pretty." Looking reluctant to even say it aloud, Derek added quietly, "Blood in the urine."

We all felt a little uncomfortable.

"How do we fake any of those without using drugs?" I wondered. "Even _I_ have lines. I don't want to roofie a guy whose kidney might _actually_ fail any time."

"Well, there are compounds." Neal was careful with how he said 'compounds,' knowing that he was getting close to a line and wanting to phrase it in the least objectionable way possible. Derek started to protest, and Neal held out a hand. "Not drugs, so much as… food coloring, for the body."

Food dye was harmless. I liked using it in water sometimes for displays, and I liked to mix it into vanilla and cream cheese frostings to decorate cakes. As long as I stayed away from really dark colors, like black, I couldn't taste a difference in the flavor. Red was one of the ones that was tasteless in the necessary quantity.

"How do we get him to take it?" I prompted.

Neal sat up straight and then leaned over, elbows on his knees, the chair's back up behind him. "He has his groceries delivered, right?"

Derek bobbed his head. My brother had really done his homework on this guy. None of us wanted to see him walk. All it would take was one unplanned plane ticket, and he would be out of our jurisdiction for who knew how long. "Every few days, he has someone deliver them from a service ordered online."

It was ironic that he stayed home and avoided stress for his own health, when the steps he took to do so were going to make it easier for us to convince him that he was close to dying. Poetically ironic. I liked it.

"He was drinking cranberry juice at the tennis event," Neal told me, holding a hand out excitedly. Derek opened his mouth, probably to ask what the hell we were talking about that had to do with tennis, and Neal quickly moved on. "Red dye wouldn't be noticeable."

Jumping on the bandwagon of not explaining how we had sort of conned our way into an exclusive DGI club meeting, I followed that up on my own. "Okay. That's our plan then." I patted Derek's back solidly as a job well done. Skeptically, he let go of the tennis thing. "I'll handle tampering with the clothes, Derek can get someone to stick a syringe into his groceries before they get to him."

He breathed out loudly. "This feels wrong, but I'm all for it," he declared, shutting his laptop lid.

Neal chuckled. "Welcome to the dark side, my friend."

Derek looked out at the hand outstretched in welcome and then just blatantly ignored it, swiveling to face me again. "One more thing. We want him to think he's in a hospital in India. How do we convince him he lost all that time?"

I paused. _Good question._ Convincing him he blacked out while standing up was going to be almost impossible. "We have to knock him out cold…" I murmured, trying to think of a way to do it that wouldn't constitute undue harm.

"That won't be a problem. He takes sleeping pills on his way to the airport to sleep through long flights." Neal confidently said, with a pleased smile as everything seemed to come together. Both Derek and I squinted at him cynically. I didn't really think he'd lie to get an excuse to drug Powell in revenge, but it was still awfully convenient. Luck didn't usually swing that way for us. "He told me," Neal promised, a little huffy that he'd had to clarify.

* * *

We took a white surveillance van to the dry cleaner's so there was less transport of the clothes. Derek took it off of the hanger and both of us spread out the clothes down on the floor over a thick blanket that could be washed, keeping the spray from getting on the floor of the vehicle we would likely be using again soon.

I figured that having a rash everywhere would be pretty extreme, and considering that it was his kidney that was supposedly failing on him, I used my gloves to hold the shirt up to Derek's chest before I put anything on it. I undid the buttons while he held it up and then laid it out, marking the area I wanted to hit with the chemicals with a pen on the blanket by the shirt's edge. I did the same with the jacket, then got onto my knees, taking the top off of the can.

I looked up at Derek, who covered his mouth with one hand and gave me the thumbs-up with another. I drew in a deep breath and held it while I sprayed, just as an extra safety measure not to inhale the fumes. I went over the fabric quickly a couple of times with untimed sweeps of my hand. I didn't want the rash perfectly uniform or it wouldn't look too realistic to Powell, and he would notice that since he was an actual doctor.

After doing the shirt, I waved at the fumes that lingered in the air. Derek went to the back doors of the van and popped one of them open towards the dry cleaner's to let the air circulate before I went on and gave the jacket the same treatment, just to be extra helpful.

Mozzie could get all that he wanted from the Russian Military Surplus; I just hoped he didn't find out about all of the wonderful toys _I_ had access to, because the whining might be hard to stop.

* * *

I hung up my phone and put the landline back on top of its charger in the kitchen before I joined Neal and Kate in the living room. I had just been checking up on Diana to make sure she was okay. She said that her cold was at the high point, but she really thought it was just that and she should be fit to come back to work in a couple days. I promised I'd stop by with some of the usual comforts.

In front of the TV, Kate had dominated an entire half of the sofa, her legs up on the cushion and her toes curled in cold. Her laptop was balanced on the arm of the chair and supported by her hands while she played a Cake Mania computer game and went back and forth between watching a romance dramedy that she had pulled up on Netflix, and Neal was loosening his tie from around his throat and settling in to watch it with her.

I started trying to mentally take inventory in our kitchen to see if there was anything to actually make. Usually when it was this late in the evening, Katie and I would just feed ourselves separately; microwaveable dinners or snacks in excess were our preferences, but if Neal was staying much longer then it would just make more sense to feed all of us at once.

"The symptoms?" Neal asked, arching his back and stretching to look over the edge of the couch.

"Consider them all induced," I snickered, walking closer and putting a hand on both of their shoulders. Kate dropped her right arm down so my hand had a more comfortable perch. Neal leaned his head to the side to rest his cheek on my hand. "Figure it'll take at most a day, but then he'll have to get in to see a doctor." Which put it at two or three days of a pause – not only for him to notice his "symptoms" of renal failure, but to get a consultation. We shouldn't wait more than that, or else he would get lab results back and learn that he was completely fine. "After that, he'll probably panic and go curl into a corner with desperate catatonia… or something like that… and that is when we need to implement the second part of the plan."

Kate's screen flashed in celebration as she met the goal after picking up the tips of virtual customers from the counter, then the colors dimmed and a summary of her level's completion came down from the top. She left her hand hovering over the mousepad and looked at Neal and I unhappily. "I'm pretty sure you realize that I'm all for catching the bad guys, but is it really necessary to make him think he's going to die?" She looked sympathetic, but not to us.

It was sweet. Really, it was – sweet and precious that while I just wanted to make Powell hurt, Kate only wanted to do so within her set parameters of ethical rightness. She believed in jail time, not in emotional trauma. I hoped it took her quite a while longer of exposure to my world before she realized that real crimes don't work like that. You can't always afford to wait for your antagonist to mess up and make a traceable error. In this case, in particular, other innocent _families_ can't afford for us to wait.

Neal shrugged his shoulders. As a moral person, he didn't like it very much on principle, but as someone whose friend had been an attempted target of the scam, he was all on board. "What else would make him panic enough to give us a money trail?" He inquired, prepared to hear out any other ideas.

"Katie, I love you." I squeezed my fingers into her shoulder with soft pressure. "But the law is like a traffic light." I got the metaphor from the TV because the main leads were stuck in a car in the rain waiting for the light to turn – _well, that reminds me uncomfortably of something that actually happened._ "When it's green, you're fine." I took my hand off of Neal and motioned between he and I. We had the official go-ahead, so our unethical actions were permitted. "When it's red, you stop or you get hurt." I paused. "By law enforcement," I clarified. "In whatever means necessary to force you to pay the fine."

"It's almost exactly what he's been doing to dozens of people all over the world," Neal debated peacefully. Kate put her hand up in surrender and looked back at her computer. She wasn't going to disagree when we were so dead-set on something, especially when she wasn't involved in the investigation. She knew that sometimes I left things out to shelter her a little bit, and for all she knew, I was still doing it. "Get hold of them when they're desperate and shake them down for all they've got. It's a taste of his own medicine." Neal reached for my hand and interlaced our fingers. I let him pull our hands both back over to his side, leaning away from Kate and over the back of the couch to put my chin on his hair. "How are you with Hindi?"

"Um, I have the internet. I can look up a few things." Languages have always been a talent of mine. Memorization, too. It was the pronunciation that would get me if I didn't listen to it being spoken before I tried. I turned my head to look at Kate while setting my cheek over silky brown hair and made a content noise at her. "There's nothing quite like police-sanctioned terrorizing of first-class douchebags." I sighed dreamily.

"What's better is non-sanctioned terrorizing of first-class douchebags," Neal quipped. "There's adrenaline to it then." I picked up my cheek from his hair and stared down at him disapprovingly. He didn't even have to look to see my expression to realize that he should amend himself. "Or so I've been told. I wouldn't know from experience, of course."

"Of course not," Kate agreed sarcastically, buying absolutely none of it even if she didn't know about Neal's rap sheet.

I smiled as Neal halfheartedly defended himself for his _alleged_ crimes and Katie kept up a swift repartee of single-sentence comebacks to show that she didn't believe for a second that he was as innocent as he claimed. _My two favorite people in one of my first favorite places._ I brought my hand back to Neal's shoulder and watched the two characters on the television as they argued over whether or not being soulmates meant that he had to give up the girlfriend he'd had before they'd even met.

Yeah, this was definitely Katie's choice of television.

* * *

Two days went by with constant surveillance on Powell, but as Tuesday came and went, I reluctantly assigned my CI and I a cut-and-dry accounting fraud case to look at, just for the purpose of appearing like we were being productive in the time that it took for our plan to go into action. He picked up his dry cleaning as planned and Derek got a guy to inject his cranberry juice with red dye, but we'd have to wait for the spray to irritate his skin noticeably and for the dye to run through his system. I gave it until Wednesday night before he had an appointment, and Thursday morning, as I was stretched out on the sofa, feet in Neal's lap while I scanned a statement from the accountant who was looking like he might actually be able to get out of prison time, my phone pinged.

I laid down the papers face-down on my stomach and picked up my phone from the arm of the couch near my head. Looking at my text, I smirked. "Okay, we've got the green light," I declared, straining my abs to do a sit-up. Neal edged my feet off of his lap and reached for his own cell phone on the coffee table. "He's seen a doctor."

"Sweet." Neal grinned and licked his lips, anxious to get Powell away from where he could harm any more people. "Sticking to the script?"

"Only a five percent deviation rate permitted," I confirmed, staring at him meaningfully to impress that I _meant_ exactly what I _said,_ and it would be best for everyone involved if he would try to remember that.

Powell had given Neal his phone number when he made friends with Neal's alias at the tennis club, and Neal had saved it to his contacts for just this moment. The dial tone went dully between us, both of us leaning forward on the edge of the couch while we listened. The artist smiled at me cheekily as if asking when he ever took liberties with my instructions.

Before I could warn him out of doing something he knew he shouldn't, the phone was answered. The dial cut itself off. The other side of the phone connection was quiet but for the shaky breathing of someone barely able to hold themselves together.

 _"_ _H-Hello?"_ The doctor's voice cracked roughly.

Neal covered his other ear with his free hand and raised his voice like he was in a busy hospital. "Dr. Powell, can you hear me?" Enunciating clearly, he looked back to me and winked. "It's Dr. Parker. From DGI, remember?"

The mark hesitated. He didn't sound like he was in good shape. I don't suppose I would have been, but I could say with certainty that I wouldn't have become a grubby and skeevy bastard who used a supposedly nonprofit charity as a front for extortion and exploitation. _"I remember."_

"Good, good," Neal nodded to himself thoughtfully and intensely went on. "Listen, I'm in India, and I've got good news for you." He let the corner of his mouth start to smirk.

It was impossible to know what Powell was doing at that exact moment. The scrutiny wasn't _that_ intense; we just knew where he was, and we knew he'd gone into a doctor's office for long enough to have had an appointment. He sounded like he scrambled. His voice became low, secretive, and raspy.

_"_ _Are you – are you saying that you have something for me?"_

Neal outright grinned. Powell was falling for it _hard._ "I'm saying you should buy a plane ticket right away," he advised, ending the call swiftly before any more questions could be asked. Cell service was kind of spotty in India, I guessed.

My boy looked really delighted with himself. I sat back on the sofa, crossed my ankles, and pointed out mildly, "Telling him to buy a ticket wasn't part of the script."

"It's not like he can't afford it. It'll barely put a dent in his pocket." Neal justified, his grin not sliding off of his face. I rolled my eyes and leaned back, but had already decided to let it go. After everything, Powell deserved a little bit of petty revenge from us, personally. We may be arresting him as the bureau, but we were making him suffer as June's friends.

* * *

In a building undergoing renovation, Neal and I wore hospital scrubs and had two curtains, a red one with bronze mandalas and a pure dark red silk one, dragged across a door-free front of a room which had yet to be completed. Neal pulled his pants up high past his hips and draped a stethoscope around his neck while I bundled my hair up behind my head and picked up the rough paper mask with elastic bands behind my ears, lifting it over my mouth. Neal got the blue scrubs, but mine were white like a nurse's.

Neal and I were just outside the curtains, playing rock paper scissors to kill the time until Powell woke up and our con started. We were practically fifth-graders in costume waiting for their turn in the play. I was winning (finally, something I could beat him at) when we heard a moan and what sounded like panicking breathing. The beeping of the old, out-of-service dialysis machine continued, as did the tape playing the pre-recorded sounds of scattered Indian dialects and hospital chatter, the wheels of gurneys and mechanical noises of other medical equipment.

I smacked my fist gently over his hand as he made the 'scissors' sign and turned around, throwing the curtains to the side and letting them flutter shut behind me. A fluorescent lamp stood in the corner of the room to make everything visible, but the window that would have let him see into New York was blocked off with a yellow opaque curtain. Light still forced its way through, but not colors or shapes. The building was still in the process of being renovated, so the walls looked dirty and unfinished, and the floors were rough, cold cement that I didn't feel through my shoes.

Powell laid on a rickety cot, mattress only a few inches thin and the pillow behind his head hand sewn. A plastic white chair and crutches were in the darkest corner of the room, a steel stool was to the right of his bed, and a two-hangar IV rack had its wheels locked at the head of the bed in between the cot and the table holding the old dialysis machine we requisitioned from New York General. It was no longer working efficiently so they didn't have a use for it, so we'd tampered with it to make it run without feeding anything through it. The attached IV lines were red, but it was just coloring. There was no actual blood in the machine, just like there were no needles actually in the doctor. A cross hung over the bed that he hadn't noticed.

He shoved himself up on his elbows, glasses still off and on the table on top of the dialysis machine. Powell panted and tried to sit up. I stalked over, all business, and tapped my foot. _"Rahana!"_ I snapped in a Manipur dialect, pointing insistently at the bed.

Shocked by suddenly waking up in medical care, Powell looked up at me with narrowed eyes, squinting and trying to see without his prescription. Maybe he thought he was just seeing me distortedly and I was actually his taxi driver (Derek)? _No such luck for you._ He didn't try any harder to move.

I bent my knees and waist, hunching down to eye-level with him. _"Kya aap mujhe samajh sakate hain?"_ I asked with strong pronunciation, as much for my sake as for his.

"Huh?" He looked at me like I was just speaking nonsense. "What's happening?" Growing more aware, he looked at the plain white medical tape wrapped around his arm and reached for the dyed IV tubes.

I slapped at his hands before he could touch them and realize that they weren't actually feeding into his veins. _"Chalana band karen!"_ I instructed, waving a finger in his face authoritatively as I scolded. Powell turned his head slowly to the other arm and the drip that was to the IV rack rather than the dialysis. I started raising my voice to startle him out of touching them. _"Are, moorkh, main tumhen rokane ke lie kaha tha!"_

The dialysis machine sputtered unexpectedly. Powell jumped. I bit my tongue on an English swear and stomped over to the table, giving the side of the machine a hard smack, making it fall back in line. It wasn't good for use anyway, so I doubted the hospital would care much if we treated it roughly.

Hitting something supposed to keep its patient alive freaked out Powell. "Don't touch that!" The doctor yelled. He lunged over the edge of the bed reaching for me to shove me away from it.

I grabbed his left wrist in a vice. He did _not_ have my permission to touch me, and if he came any further from the rack, the line taped to his elbow was going to lose slack. _"Mat karo,"_ I growled, pushing him back onto the bed by his shoulders. _"Mat karo."_

"I…"

Neal heard things getting testy and chose to come in through the curtains, opening the two in the middle just far enough to slip in sideways and let them swing shut gently behind him. "Please don't touch that," Neal cut in while Powell was still trying to fight me. It was a good thing, too, because I was prepared to chain him to the bed. After all, he'd had no problem getting his staff to do it to Neal.

The extortionist stilled. I let go of him and crossed my arms, looking between Neal and Powell. The outfit I had to wear was made of thin material and it itched where it pulled over my shoulder blades and my arms, so I was not thrilled with Powell's disobedience on top of everything else. My character decided that the doctor had everything under control and, clucking her tongue at Powell rudely, strode past Neal and walked through the curtains, leaving the room.

Once out, I turned immediately to the right and pressed myself to the wall, feet just out of the way of the curtains. I wanted to listen in, and there wasn't anything else that needed to be attended to, except for maybe the old FM radio and tape player on the floor.

"The equipment here is very temperamental… not unlike her," Neal couldn't resist explaining. I uncrossed my arms and narrowed my eyes at the faint silhouette of his back through the curtains. He was pushing it.

Someone else who spoke English calmed Powell down. The familiar face helped, too. He wasn't making the metal springs creak and tantrum while he moved to get up or find his glasses. "What happened?" He asked fearfully.

"You went into renal failure during your flight." Neal lied smoothly, without a hitch, not a catch in his breath or a change in his tone, just the grave notes of a doctor telling his patient there was nothing else they could do to forestall. "You landed in Manipur. We had to remove your kidney and place you on dialysis, but… your body isn't tolerating it." Powell gasped quietly. Neal grimly made the point clearer by adding, "It's… your blood pressure's dropping."

"Is the donor here?" Powell grasped for any sort of hope, somehow not realizing that there wasn't any soreness from an alleged surgery. Couldn't he tell that his head was too clear for him to be on painkillers strong enough to dull the pain that much?

"He is," Neal confirmed, standing right by the curtains, distancing himself away from the other man. With a new strange, hard-to-place kind of tone, Neal hinted none-too-subtly that the donor wasn't going to volunteer for free. "And he's curious about what kind of charitable contributions you can make to our clinic."

I tensed without making the conscious decision to. Neal sounded completely apathetic. I knew he had feelings, I knew he was the _opposite_ of apathetic, but hearing him sound so dissociated and cold was frightening regardless. I hugged myself loosely and couldn't wait to get this con over with so we'd have our guy in custody and so Neal would stop playing the character of a heartless bastard. His characters were unbelievably realistic. He brought them to life in a way that made it hard to trust that they were entirely fictional.

"Well, that's not- that's not going to be a problem. I can get you a hundred thousand by tomorrow," the actual doctor pledged quickly, urgent to get the care he needed to save his life. If it were me, I'd have been pissed that my doctor was trying to extort me. At least he wasn't that much of a hypocrite.

I nodded. _Good._ A hundred thousand wasn't his entire account, but if he gave us the right information, then we would get him on tracing the money anyway. I doubted he'd have a hundred grand lying around in his normal checking account. _Get him, Neal. Reel him in._

"Well, I was thinking more along the lines of thirty million," he casually told our criminal, silkily smooth and level.

I almost choked. _Thirty million?!_ Thirty million was a lot more than a hundred thousand! Was it even safe to assume Powell had that much? I supposed that there was a degree of inevitability that Powell would give all the money he had to pay for his prolonged life – it was what he'd gone to all of the trouble for to begin with – but that was one _hell_ of a bark.

"Thirty million?!" Powell practically shrieked, then promptly coughed and hacked from a dry throat. I winced. His throat sounded raw. "Are you insane?!"

I watched the shadows through the curtains and caught a flash of blue from the long pant sleeves covering Neal's shoes towards the floor. Neal cocked his head and he simplified it so the man fully understood what was at stake; calling him on a bluff, getting his revenge, holding him accountable for his actions – no matter what it was that he was trying to do, he hadn't run it by me first, probably knowing that I didn't hate Powell the way I hated Fowler, I wouldn't be driven to hit as far below the belt as possible, just enough to get a win.

"How much is your life worth to you, Doctor?" Neal questioned coolly.

Shuddering, I looked down at the cement. Neal, warmhearted and sensitive Neal, could have convinced me he was a monster if it weren't for knowing him beforehand. Completely true to what he was saying, he sounded like a psychopath with no regard for Powell's life as long as he could exploit it for his own gain. I had heard similar statements, similar rhetorical questions asked by the more complex psychotics I used to take pleasure in capturing. My eyes stung. I _never_ wanted to associate Neal with _them_ , with people like Køhler, whom Neal was so cautiously wanting to defend me from.

In that moment, he sounded exactly the way I had been paralyzed with horror that he _might_ have been, were my soulmate to fulfill the instilled nightmares that they would be everything in a person that I loathed.

I _wanted_ to trust Neal with my feelings. He wanted to take me on a date. My practical reasons for turning him down still stood. Our relationship was illegal. However, there were always ways around that. We could have movie nights as usual but turn them into date nights with some kissing or snuggling, general emotional closeness and permitted social intimacy.

It was way past time that I stopped lying to myself about how I felt. I _wanted_ that. I wanted Neal and I wanted him to want me, and it seemed like he did, but how could I trust that when he could stand here and play rock paper scissors with me and just as easily throw himself into a selfish and vicious personality a minute later? How could I trust that he was a reliable significant other, a safe person to be involved with and feel for, when he could tell Powell that he was dying without any indication of guilt or discomfort?

If it was so easy, so effortless, for him to tell someone convincingly that they were dying, then how hard would it really be to say or do something that conveyed _I love you?_

"You're shaking me down?" Stunned and betrayed, Powell's cot creaked as he moved, but not enough for me to worry that he was going to stand up and rip away from the tape and intravenous lines.

"I'm asking a question," Neal countered. _Yeah, but there's a heavy implication behind it, Neal… don't mince words or play with semantics and technicalities… not now, please…_

Powell had nothing to say. I thought he was debating with himself and I almost snorted. Really? He made himself into a despicable being for one reason, and wasn't going to bite now that he was being told it was time?

It turned out that he was just trying to figure out how to satisfy Neal. "I – I can't – I don't know, I can get you, um, two million?" I could hear the nerves and the pain in his voice. Was he feeling psychosomatic pain? Hopefully. He deserved it.

 _How are you going to get that much money together from your accounts in India?_ He probably had contacts, disguised accounts that the bureau wasn't even aware existed. Maybe even Melissa didn't know.

Neal exhaled contemptuously and shook his head. "This _isn't_ a negotiation." He firmly stated, sounding mockingly disappointed. He turned around, shoes padding around and coming back to the curtains. He brushed them back, sought me out, and did a complete one-eighty in behavior. "This machine should be free in the next few hours," he told me, intentionally letting Powell hear, and he grinned at me, having _fun,_ rolling his eyes at the doctor simultaneously.

 _Having fun._ I swallowed and tried to tell myself that he was having the same kind of fun I had when going undercover, getting to be someone I wasn't. Elaborate acting.

"Whoa, wait, wait, wait!" Powell panicked inside the room. "Wait!" Giving me another look like _this is it_ , Neal leaned back into the room to go back to handling the confrontation. "I have an account," Powell desperately confessed. "There's not thirty million in there, but it's close! Right, and I can have that money transferred anywhere you want."

Neal sighed, shaking his head. "No, that'll raise flags."

"No, no," the doctor promised urgently, acting like Neal would just walk away if he didn't get it out fast enough… and if Neal wasn't just screwing with him, then he actually would have.

The strongest power anyone can ever have in a lie is when they are prepared to walk away from it. Leonard Parker wanted thirty million in exchange for the small service of an organ transplant (well, not really small service, but relatively speaking). He was also prepared to turn his back on it and move to another option. Exactly what Powell had been doing to the families who couldn't or wouldn't pay him the money that he demanded… and knowing that he was for real and serious was what convinced some of them to be loyal, had them refusing to testify.

"This account, this is – it is _completely_ secure." Neal must've looked sufficiently skeptical. Powell sighed shakily as he played his last cards. "Alright… you know, it was set up so I could siphon money from my charity. It was designed to be untraceable. It's at New Reserve; seven-seven-four-one-nine-six-B, password is "cranberry.""

I could hear the growing triumph in his voice. "Then I have what I want." His smile came back. Friendly and promising, Neal walked backwards out of the curtains while saying, "Let's see how quickly we can get you healthy again."

I tapped out the numbers on my phone in a text message. _Seven-seven-four-one-nine-six-B._ It looked right. I was glad it was shorter than a normal bank account number. I added in "cranberry" as the password and sent the text to my brother outside by a computer.

I looked up to Neal as he walked over to me, walking quietly so Powell didn't hear that his footsteps just stopped a few feet away. Neal pulled at both ends of the stethoscope with a beaming face, showing off his success for me to acknowledge.

The blue scrubs really brought out his eyes.

Neal held out his arm in offer. I looked at it and hesitated. I'd just heard him convince someone they were dying so that he could get his hands on his fortune under threat of leaving him to die otherwise… could I truly afford to tentatively rely on Neal not to play me with the same thoughtless, apathetic, dispassionate treatment?

I looked back towards Powell. Powell was a mean, mean person. Neal had brought this to me, risked his life and his freedom in the Howser, all those liberties he had gained back… he was willing to give them all up just to get that man behind the curtains in a position where he would lose the privileges he abused, and he did it for the sake of his friend. June.

It was ridiculous to consider Neal ever backstabbing June, even with his capacity for becoming a completely different person with one spin of his behavior or a blink of an eye. And he and I were closer than he and June were. She knew him as a friend and a roommate (albeit their room was actually a manor in upstate Manhattan), but I knew him as a partner, in a lot more ways than one.

I looked back at his bright eyes, bit my lip, and then gave him a hushed giggle and a mischievous smirk, picking up my leg and kicking at the power cord plugged into the wall. The charger came out of the outlet and fell on the floor. The steady machinery humming of the dialysis machine, and its steady, rhythmic bleeping, lowered pitch and then died.

Neal didn't know it, but when I pushed my arm up in the space between his and his side, hooking our elbows together, I was giving him a lot more than just my companionship on the walk outside.

"Hey, Dr. Parker, the machine stopped working!" Powell's terrified shout followed us as we left our miniature, EPCOT: Hospital Version of India. "Nurse!"

I didn't think it would be long before he got up to try to fix it himself, and then he was in for a really nasty surprise.

Neal and I both looked at each other at the same time and we both quietly snickered, tightening our arms and closing the gap between our bodies. I gripped his forearm with my other hand and held tight. I was not willing to let him go, in any way that I had him.

* * *

We didn't have long to wait before panic sent Powell running out of his falsified little Indian hospital. Turning off the dialysis machine might have been mean of me, but how did he _not_ notice that the needle against his arm wasn't actually piercing through his skin? The entire setting was staged very well, but if anything was going to give away that it was an act, I would have expected it to be the IV of saline, marked in Hindi script, with the needle only taped over his inner elbow. I was all for sticking him with it, but there were restrictions we had to follow, and according to the law, that would be crossing a line.

As if Powell didn't have it coming to him after what he'd done to _dozens,_ if not _hundreds,_ of people, all of whom had been too terrified for themselves or their families to come forward, even if they knew that it was suspicious, that something was _wrong._

Derek gave us a thumbs-up as he came running from the van along the curb, parked alongside the street in front of the building we had temporarily claimed in the middle of a long, busy city block, bustling with civilians who were none the wiser to the operation being run mere yards away from them, sounds of Manhattan like a familiar homecoming melody in my ears. The information fed back to the technicians had checked out; we had access, and we had a confession to his money laundering on tape.

Neal and I turned back around to the front of the building, only halfway down the stone steps. Both of us were eager to see the expression on the man's face when he realized he had been well and truly screwed over by the FBI. I had pulled my paper mask down and the strap kept it hanging around my neck.

Derek and a couple of uniformed agents jogged up to either side of Neal and I, surrounding us. Derek had probably instructed them to do that. We were in clear view of Powell, but if he decided to get violent, he couldn't possibly get at either of us while we were unarmed without being attacked in turn by three vested and tough officers.

Less than two minutes after I'd unplugged the machine, Powell found his own way out, still wearing the hospital gown but with his brown leather coat over his shoulders, unzipped and not fully adjusted, hanging loosely on one of his arms and pulled up with the collar pressed close to his neck on the other side. He pushed open the thick black doors, looked at the painted iron beams running up the height, and looked around.

Baffled by the New York scene, he covered his mouth with his hand, looking first at the cars and the people on the street before he raked his eyes over the skyscrapers and colorfully-decorated businesses reaching up towards the stratosphere. He turned in a full circle, stumbling over shoelaces he hadn't even taken the time to tie, before he saw Neal and I on the steps maybe ten feet away, still fully costumed. His shoulders fell and the dawning horror on his face made the scratchy elastic in the waistband of the scrubs worth it.

Neal linked arms with me warmly. I smiled up at him as he grinned triumphantly. He was terrifying in the building, but in the familiar setting of a Manhattan street with my arm hooked through his, it was easier to pretend I knew the difference between his acting and his sincerity.

"Welcome to New York, Dr. Powell!" I taunted, shouting over traffic and holding up my official, government-issued badge. With his free arm, Neal produced the shiny silver sheriff's badge from my and Katie's cereal box. "How was India?" I added mockingly. Neal chuckled and I leaned into him, waving my badge and pretending not to notice Neal's chosen credentials.

_He has an actual consultant's badge, and he goes with a plastic toy._

That was Neal, alright – the shining and attention-grabbing, the lighthearted and joyful over the solemn, serious, dark, and dull realisms.

* * *

A girls' community soccer game wasn't professional hockey, and no one was getting beaten up for the sake of the game, but knowing that the brown-haired girl chasing after the ball and nudging it closer and closer to the other side of the field was Samantha made it interesting. Not only was she the granddaughter of a friend, but she was the reason I'd taken the case against Hearts Wide Open.

A short-haired ginger girl stepped in front of Samantha, legs spread to balance and move with agility to either side. Samantha feigned left and kicked right, sending the soccer ball flying into the other team's goal net.

 _"_ _Whoo!"_ I cheered with the other parents, clapping my hands above my head. The kids' enthusiasm was rubbing off on me.

Neal and June both stood in the shade of a gazebo at the edge of the field, watching the game with passive interest while they talked. I was actively engaged, cheering on both teams and refraining from jeering when the other team won a score. The players were in elementary school, not the NHL. Samantha's was just starting to pull out in the lead after a long stint at having about the same score.

"We got to the founder of Hearts Wide Open. We found a way to tie him to the charity's account, and once we had that, the rest of his operation came tumbling down around his ears. He confessed to everything for a deal with the prosecution."

Normally I would've been doing that explanation, but I had decided to let Neal have this one. I considered June a friend, but it was pointless to say that I was closer to her than Neal was. They did live together, no matter how much space they had in that damn mansion. June was very patient and very kind to Neal and I thought he might like to repay her by being the one to explain how the charity that tried to exploit her granddaughter and extort her for more money than the outrageous amount they'd already asked had been disbanded. Not everyone had been in on it, but Melissa and Powell were both going to have some serious people to answer to, and those that had been cleared were making some sort of plan to salvage the organization, but change the name to rid themselves of the reputational damage.

"Thank you." June rubbed at her eyes surreptitiously and reached for Neal's hand. He opened his palm to her and laced their fingers.

"Oh, that's not even the best part." Neal raised his voice a little to carry over to me. "Kenna?"

I lowered my arms from where my hands where clasped over my chest and moved back into the shade, walking up the gazebo steps. The inclusion was appreciated. "I called the children's hospital and explained the charity scam," I said, glossing over the part where I had spent hours making sure everything was in order and proving to the hospital that Samantha had been used as a mark. "Thanks to the illegitimate offers, the registry chose to reexamine their position." Partly. There was also that I had a lawyer called and found a way to press charges for negligence of their patients – dropping Samantha the way they had wasn't justified by her medical case and although I wasn't told why it had happened, they were not going to do it again with an FBI agent looking after her. June didn't need to know any of the extra. It wasn't important, and I didn't want her to think she owed me. "She's back on the list, and in her original place, too."

June smiled, laughed with relief, and held out her arms. Neal let go of her hand while the woman moved to me quickly, wrapping her arms around my neck. I chuckled at her happiness and rubbed her back. Neal took the opportunity to see how the soccer match was going.

"She's pretty good!" He commented as Samantha raced over, her team dismissed from a time-out.

Letting me go, June touched her cheek and nodded, watching Samantha come sprinting with love in her eyes. "She loves soccer."

"I got a score!" Samantha shrieked in a delighted, excited squeal, jumping up the stairs to the gazebo in one leap. "Did you see, Grandma?!" Samantha looked like all of the other kids out there – gym shorts, a light-colored and loose undershirt, and a loose green jersey with white trim thrown on over top. Her hair was held back with a headband, but the corkscrew strands were short enough to not be getting absolutely everywhere and sticking to her face. Her skin was flushed and she was panting from a nice workout.

"I saw!" June enthusiastically indulged the kid with the same gentle and light tone that most people used when talking to people under the age of fourteen. "You're doing so well, sweetheart!" Lowering a hand to Samantha's shoulder, she turned the girl halfway around to look at Neal and I. "Sam, there's someone I want you to meet."

Samantha looked at me for a second, but her eyes saw Neal and she was immediately taken. "Hi, Mr. Caffrey!" She piped up, giving him an adorable, toothy grin and waving.

"Hey, sport!" He said back with the same easy, childish enthusiasm. So June wasn't the _only_ Ellington that Neal had managed to charm.

June pointed me out specifically, since turning Sam in my general direction evidently wasn't specific enough for her to notice the right person. "This is Agent McKenna." I smiled kindly at the little girl. "She's in the FBI. She helped me fix everything with the hospital." I wondered if Samantha knew the full story – sans Hearts Wide Open, of course. I couldn't see June concerning the kid with that.

Automatically, Samantha replied, "Thank you Agent McKenna!" She sounded like it was an ingrained response to this kind of introduction. The gleam in her eye and the redness of her cheeks made my chest feel warm.

"No problem, kiddo," I said softly, watching her bounce where she stood, eager to get back out and finish the game.

The coach blew the whistle and the break ended. All of the kids from both teams started pooling back out onto the field, away from the blankets, gazebos, and picnic benches that their parents were all staying near while they watched. Samantha gave June a tight hug, standing on her toes (she was under four feet tall) and then shouted a goodbye to Neal as she hopped down the steps and raced.

"I really hate to rush," I said truthfully, staring wistfully out at the teams. "But you'll have to tell me how the game ends."

"Oh, you aren't going to stay?" June asked, slightly surprised and a little disappointed.

"I owe Katie a time-specific favor," I explained with a grimace. I owed her lunch out at a restaurant during her lunch hour, and I was paying to make up for that she'd had to deal with Neal and I singing in the middle of the night while she was trying to sleep. June nodded understandingly and seemed appeased. I touched Neal's elbow as I went past him. "I'll call you later."

* * *

Another case, come and gone; another date night without the date part come and in progress for me to enjoy. The lightweight white sheet was dragged up over both of us, but the bedding was cool and crisp and I spread my legs to stretch, half on top of Neal. My left leg was spread out over both of his and I was pulled up to his chest, using his shoulder as a heated pillow while his hands were on me, one crossing my ribs and the other holding my arm.

 _This is nice._ I was tired and I was relaxed and I felt safe. Køhler didn't get to intrude on my very private time with Neal. The conman pushed his nose into my hair and breathed in, his eyes shutting blissfully.

So I still hadn't lived out my fantasy. I had gotten some parts of it, but the most important aspects, the ones that made it such a beautiful daydream for me, were lacking. If I got to have that someday, then that would be great… but forcing it would ruin it. In the meantime, I was content to stick to what came easily and comfortably, not what got me off when I was alone but was too stressful to consider with my partner.

I sighed deeply and rubbed my left hand over Neal's abs, able to feel the defined muscles while I dragged the lacy cloth of my glove against his body. His breath caught like I was tickling him with it. I pressed a little bit harder in the motions so it wasn't as teasing.

"What are you thinking about?" He asked me, mouthing the words into my temple. His mouth smiled against the side of my head. The conman's voice was low and quiet, but rough with strain from previous activities, and simultaneously soft and gentle, accepting and hospitable and with a silent promise of a judgment-free discussion if we talked.

I hummed. _Riding you in the dark while you hold my face and make out with me._ If I'd said it out loud, some version of it probably would've happened, so I fibbed slightly. "Just that I like you enough to steal a security tape for you," I languidly replied.

Neal laughed. I joined in since it was just so contagious. We were both very tired, left worn down from the case's stresses, and more than I wanted to talk, I thought we should just both go to sleep for as long as we could. We deserved the rest and recuperation time. My consultant stroked his hand from my ribs down to my waistline, caressing my tummy with firm touches and splayed fingers.

He stopped his hand over a scar. Which would have been okay. There were several scars and it was stupid to ask him to go out of his way to avoid touching any of them. It was just what he did after that bothered me – he started to run him thumb along the line that the scar tissue followed.

"And that," I admitted. Now I was thinking about that. And I had something to say about it. Not that it wasn't excellent to feel like my lover not only didn't mind my imperfections, but treated them with kindness and sensitivity, it was just that it was a little distracting when coupled with how much effort he'd been putting forth to moderate the situation related to them, and that wasn't his battle to be concerned with.

He stilled his hand instantly and lessened the pressure, prepared to stop touching entirely if I told him to. His hand raised the sheet. "This?"

I slipped my hand in between his and my abdomen and let his palm rest on the back of mine. "Look. Neal. I appreciate what you've been trying to do." Trying to protect someone wasn't the most romantic thing, from my perspective, but it did mean _something._ "But you can't keep doing it," I said slowly, bracing myself for a protest or an argument. Once Neal got it into his head that someone needed help… well, it was getting closer and closer to a year, and he still showed no signs of getting any less obsessed with rescuing his sister that didn't want or need to be rescued. "It's my baggage, not yours. And, honestly, I would rather face it alone than have you involved if he _does_ come back."

If Neal thought people like Dorsett were dangerous, then he had no idea about how bad Køhler really was. My tormentor was much worse. At least Dorsett had given people the chance to pay up, and he had never set out to torture with the explicit intention of brutal harm. I didn't even like Neal getting close to Patrick Aimes, and he hadn't even killed anyone! What did he _think_ my reaction would be to him trying to push his way into a case I wasn't permitted to be on, in the off chance that it would haunt me? I'd rather suffer on my own and possibly lose my life or undergo another round of hospitalization, medication, physical therapy, and career demotion than have to take on the responsibilities and guilt of anyone else being hurt because of someone's vendetta against me, _especially_ if "anyone else" turned out to be someone close to me, like Neal or Katie.

"I don't want you to be alone. You should _never_ have to be alone, Kenna," he argued predictably. His bedroom was a safe space, though, and he was careful to keep his voice from sounding angry or very upset so that it would _stay_ calm and uninvaded. "Especially not after what you've been through."

 _What I've been through?_ He didn't have to say it like that. I hadn't been pulled into a dark alley and mugged or beaten to within an inch of my life. I was a victim, but not a completely hapless one, and the truth of the matter was that I had always known that, to some degree, the risk of being a victim of violent crime was higher when I started targeting those kinds of perpetrators. As much as they got onto my lists, I got onto theirs.

That bastard had done a real number on me, and I would probably never completely recover from the emotional trauma. Certainly, the scars would never go away and I would never forget it had happened… but I could live with that. The shadow that would hang over my career didn't define me, and anyone competent enough for me to tolerate working with was also capable of looking into the details and finding that none of it was something I had brought on to myself.

"There's a _reason_ it took me so long to tell you," I sighed. I had trusted Neal enough for him to know I'd been attacked for a long time. If I hadn't, then I don't think I ever would have granted him the opportunity to see the physical evidence. It was what happened _after_ , the repercussions that everyone seemed to think had made me somehow damaged or fragile. "If I had my way, you still wouldn't know. You're treating me differently because of it when it had already been over before you even knew me. I mean – what if I started treating you differently because you spent all that time in prison?"

I didn't like talking seriously about his time in jail, but it was the closest thing I could think of to impressing my justification. Even so, I gripped my hand loosely on the curve of his hip, possessive and protective. It wasn't the motion that was bothersome, it was the cause, which was something Neal needed to understand. I could touch him as much as I wanted in this room, because that was a boundary we had established. That didn't mean I had the right to treat him with any less respect or dignity than I did in the bureau or on the streets. He was entitled to the same rights, and so was I. He wouldn't cover my injuries or treat me like I needed help taking care of myself around anyone else, so why compromise my feelings of security with him over something that he shouldn't be doing anyway?

"I'm not naïve, I know you were probably harassed at some point and it didn't necessarily show up in your records." Neal wouldn't have reported it unless he knew it offered him safety, and if there was the chance that any aggressors in a super-max would have the chance to corner him again… no, he would rather suck it up and handle it himself than go for help from authorities, and that was assuming the authorities would take any measures to actively assist. I sadly dragged my thumb over the hard edge of his hipbone. "What if I started getting paranoid and overprotective? Wouldn't it bother you?"

I knew it would. Neal didn't like to be seen as vulnerable and even when he was scared half to death in Avery's vault, the first thing he'd done hadn't been any sort of negative reaction. First he'd looked around, seen the other agents, and then taken steps to hide from them in the means available, putting me in between himself and them and hiding his face in my clothes. Letting anyone see vulnerability was how a con could go downhill. I understood that. I just didn't like that it was such an enforced habit that Neal didn't feel safe crying after being almost murdered until he was as distanced from other people as he could be.

He sighed quietly, grudging to admit to anything, yet he was a reasonable person and I knew that if my logic failed, then the implied appeal to my emotions would. I was sad, I sounded sad, and if nothing else then he would agree just so the subject was dropped. It might've come up again later but it would have been after he could formulate a more efficient defense.

"I… I guess it would," he admitted eventually, covering my hand. "I just want to take care of you. You've done so much for me already, I…" Neal sounded like he was about to be overwhelmed. _So it's a reciprocity thing._ Okay, I could work with that. If that was even a little bit what was going on, I could tackle it. Neal had always seemed to have some idea of reciprocity, and if I applied that line of thinking to every out-of-the-norm incident we'd encountered together, I could more often than not find some link.

Kindly, I softened my voice coaxingly. "Then repay me by being safe, not by intentionally stepping into what you suspect might be a dangerous situation. And, you know, the honesty thing. Keep that up." Lazily, I made the thumbs-up sign with my hand, but since our arms were all under the sheets, he probably couldn't tell. "I like the good communication we've got going." I didn't like to talk, but I felt much better about what we had discussed.

He turned his head, retreating from my hair. I couldn't see his face but I imagined it was contemplative. "Alright," he assented. "I can do that." _Good._ "Starting here." _Wait, what?_ Neal cleared his throat for attention, though it sounded a little bit nervous, too. "Have I been too indirect?"

"What?" I questioned, glad that we weren't facing each other. My face was heating up. I had a worried sensation that I knew where he was steering us back to, and it was a direction I had worked pretty hard to avoid going in for the last nine months.

Neal knew I was perfectly aware of what he meant. Still, he was soft spoken. For what was legitimately the first time, I had the thought that maybe he had some of the same trepidations I did. It was frightening to open yourself up to a professional liar… but it wasn't _not_ frightening to open yourself up to anyone, period, no matter their profession, and he had been doing a lot of one-sided feeling-sharing lately. I was never going to pick on someone for a crush on me, but that still left a person vulnerable, even when they were swept under the rug and politely ignored.

"You said I could ask you when I could talk without slurring," he reminded me, bravely persistent that this was a Need-To-Discuss topic. I wasn't going to get out of it this time unless I walked out on him, which was something I was trying not to do. Even when I left for an actual reason and not just an emotional guilt trip on myself, I usually woke him up to tell him I was going.

 _Honesty might work for me here,_ I thought, pitifully hopeful in that I did not intend to use truthfulness to resolve the issue. In fact, I wanted to use truthfulness to avoid talking about it. "I didn't think you'd actually remember…" Meaning I wasn't ready to talk, I didn't want to, or it could even be interpreted as just one of those things you say without intending to really follow through, like the classic _I'll tell you when you're older_ when a kid demands what's funny about a sex joke.

No such luck. Neal was going to take advantage of the fact that he _did_ remember, and hold me to the promise I hadn't thought through well enough. "I've _tried_ the normal things," he started to say with increasing frustration, though it wasn't directed straight at me.

 _What normal things?!_ Neal was not a normal person! He made me origami when he was bored in a stakeout and complained about my palate, so he took me to dine-in restaurants that he thought I would like. Katie did that for me, too.

… But Katie didn't buy me specifically-crafted flower bouquets, lift things from my desk and say he found my missing insert-object-here as many times as he could before I caught on that he was doing it on purpose. She didn't try to take me to couples' restaurants or bring me coffee just because, since she thought I was too reliant. She didn't volunteer to personally take me to a women's clothing boutique in the Garment District when I complained absently about needing new boots, or persuade me into going to the cinema when new movies I wanted to see came out.

Katie was content to let me do my thing and add her input, sometimes when it was requested, sometimes when it wasn't. Mostly, she didn't try to insert herself into my activities unless I invited her. She just trusted me not to do something superbly dumb. Neal, on the other hand, never seemed satisfied with hearing my interests and just leaving them unmet, regardless of how little focus I meant for them to be taken with. That wasn't just a friend thing. That was a crush thing, wanting attention, proving that he wanted to be around me and valued my desires.

"I could go complicated, but there's always the chance that that would end badly, especially if they were complex enough to require Mozzie." What did Neal consider a complicated gesture? _Why would a romantic gesture require Mozzie?!_ "Strangely enough, he doesn't think it's my best idea."

I giggled. Much as I didn't like the idea of Mozzie being the awkward party standing in a corner with a fake moustache and terrible Italian accent in a _Lady and the Tramp_ scenario, it was undeniably funny to picture him throwing a miniature tantrum and ranting about all the ways something could go terribly wrong while obediently setting out wine glasses.

Neal's chest vibrated as he chuckled. "I know," he agreed. "Wonder why, right?"

The dominating soundtrack became our breathing. Neal had said what he wanted to say and left me at my turn. The problem was that I didn't even know where to begin. How did I articulate everything relevant when part of the problem was that I didn't feel like I could to begin with? Even leaving out all of the soulmark information, there was a lot going on that I was unsure of, that I had only just started to get a grip on myself.

Honesty… I talked a big game about what I wanted from Neal but I couldn't give it myself. That had to change, if only because I cared too much about him to be _that_ much of a hypocrite. He was taking a risk, and it had been close to six months; if the infatuation from our affair hadn't gone away yet, then maybe there really was more to it than getting carried away.

My breathing paused for a moment, and then sighed on a deep exhale. Neal didn't move. "You were really convincing in our fake India," I fought to say, praying that I wouldn't have to fully spell it out. I wasn't sure how, and I definitely didn't want to. I hated seeming insecure, even when that was what I was.

"And?" He patiently pushed me in the direction of explanations.

I swallowed and had to be somewhat grateful that he wasn't shoving for everything at once. "You're frighteningly good at lying," I murmured, letting my fingers dance idly over his hip, stroking curved lines over the tautly-pulled tendons and flesh.

"I'm a conman," he reminded. I flinched. _Not helping._ He pressed his cheek over my hair and wrapped both arms around me, spooning me to his chest, discouraging me from giving up and going. "It comes with the territory. Of course I can lie, but I don't lie to _you_." I refrained from pointing out that he had lied to me when he stole the Haustenberg from Dorsett, but there was no stopping my mind from going there. Neal squeezed tighter as he remembered the same thing. "Instead I do awkward deflections and hesitations. You know when I'm being dishonest." He nuzzled behind my ear.

"Only because you let me," I debated back weakly. If Neal had no intention of informing me in some way when he was being dishonest…

He hummed, thoughtfully trying to work out something to say to reassure me. Even he knew that he wasn't going to win the former argument.

"You do more for me than I ever thought you would." He stated near my ear. The words were for me only – heartfelt, imploring, begging for trust and acceptance. "You lie and cover for me, steal evidence to protect me." A hint of sadness crept in – possibly sad that I was ever in a position where I had that choice to make. "Where the law is concerned, there's not much more you _could_ do.

"And look at where we are now," he laughed, albeit with some nerves. He unwrapped his right arm and patted the bed. "The only practical reason for wanting more is because I genuinely want to be part of your life. Do you have a reason to refute that?"

 _Well… no…_ He was getting everything he might feasibly manipulate me to get, including a bedmate, so… I supposed… what would have been the point of repeatedly bringing up this same subject?

Point being, I couldn't deny what he was saying without departing from sense and reason. I just stayed silent, and Neal waited. When I searched my mind for the words and nothing came up in the suggestions, I went blank. My artist took it as a sort of answer or unwillingness to consider and pulled away from me, putting space between us as he shifted to one side of the mattress. I rolled onto my back and sat up with him. Neal leaned on the headboard, the sheets falling down to his waist. I gathered up a bunch in my fist and held them over my chest, holding myself up with my other arm, turned to face him.

Neal was bracing himself for something and took down the masks of his composure. His expression was bare and open and it was unusual. It put a sort of pressure on me – he trusted me enough to let me see inside the costume, and he was doing it because he wanted something from me… but what he wanted was my honesty, wasn't it? Not a strict outcome, just honesty, and an end to this heart-wrenching yes/no game.

I looked from his face down to his chest, away from everything I was seeing. Neal shifted over and reached for my face, sliding his palm down my cheek and cupping my chin. He lifted my head so I looked at him and held my chin up while he locked our eyes together, touching with the utmost gentleness that made me tremble.

"If you can look me in the eyes and tell me all you want from me is pleasure, I can do that." The corners of his mouth turned down, but he said it without a hint of doubt. Neal knew what he wanted, but he didn't want it if it was contingent on only _his_ desires. "Tell me to back off and I'll do it. I'll stop asking for more than you want, I swear." I felt a little bit safer and started to lean into his touch; the promise that I had the power to end the situation let me have some control. His eyes were dark. "But if you think there's even a chance you could be happy with me…" Anxiously, Neal darted his tongue out and licked his lips. I understood before he finished, but he saw it through. "Please give us the chance," he concluded, his expression belying the weight resting on this.

So that was the choice I had to make. Neal was tired of trying for something I kept dodging and I couldn't fault him for that, not one bit. Yes or no. I had avoided making that choice for a much longer time than I should have.

 _If there's even a chance… there's more than a chance._ I bit the inside of my cheek. Neal waited patiently, but a fidget belied his discomfort of being left hanging. There were things that would have to be worked around… the anklet and the bureau, for one… Fowler for another. For as long as he was on his deal, we would have to be incredibly careful. Was it really more dangerous to be a couple than it was to be sex buddies? The soulmark would be a problem, I'd still have to watch my gloves, make sure they stayed on, but I'd have to get around to that sometime, lovers or not…

I thought it had been so mean and treacherous to offer all those kindnesses and suggestions in the Howser that I would never be able to have, treating them as though they would be more than just willingly, but _happily, enthusiastically_ given, and all I had to do was ask – maybe, just once, it _was_ that easy.

"Okay," I said, surprising even myself with the eagerness of the answer. I nodded quickly, reaching up for Neal's wrist, covering his hand under my chin. "Yes," I clarified, feeling breathless.

Neal's response was breathtakingly beautiful, so I didn't question why it was hard to breathe. His grin spread ear-to-ear, cheeks lifting, eyes lightening. He laughed with relief and reached for me. I giggled contagiously and dropped the sheet I held, hurrying into his side, hugging him around his neck and eagerly hiding my face, breathing in and kissing over his jugular. The artist ran his hands over my back, pulling me down to his body, yanking me flush to him.

I hadn't seen him so thrilled since we saw Kate Moreau at Grand Central. Being the cause of that – seeing that I actually _was_ able to invoke such a powerful feeling of want and delight that it shone through every fiber of his being – made my heart feel light. Enthusiastically, Neal threaded his hand through my hair and pulled my head back from his throat, peppering playful and eager kisses over my face. Laughter bubbled out of my mouth without me even realizing I thought anything was funny and I started kissing him as many times as I could, getting his cheek while he got mine and pecking the corner of his mouth after he kissed the tip of my nose. I tightened my arms and captured his mouth, claiming him as _mine_.

It felt like finally coming home.

* * *

**I've been eating lunch with my Italian tutor every day for almost a month now. Well, I say 'tutor,' but what really happens is I help her with her homework and slip her some money every Friday, and she helps me with my Italian. Sometimes we just talk, sometimes she helps me understand how to use words specific to certain disciplines (biological terminology, for example).**

**Whatever the relationship is, it works for both of us, because she's raised her grade from a B to an A and I have an easier time following along in my science class now. Turns out I'm not the only one learning – she's picked up a little bit of French from me. Not much, but some conversational phrases that she will probably want if she ever goes to a French-speaking country. I guess she considers us friends now. I'm not sure I'd call her my friend, but then, I'm used to shifting, moving around, not having lasting relationships. Dad seems to think we'll be here at least until I finish secondary school, so hopefully Italy will be the last place I involuntarily move, but still, old habits die hard.**

**She's nice, though, and sweet, so I talk when she wants to talk, usually about whatever she wants to talk about. She doesn't speak French, English, Spanish, or any other language I didn't just start learning last year, so I** **_have_ ** **to converse in Italian, which gives me more variety in practice, if nothing else. Today it was about her boyfriend. She's unsure she wants to kiss him, so she asked what my thoughts were when I'd been in her position.**

**It took me a minute to even remember where my first kiss** **_was,_ ** **that's how important mine was. The first boy I kissed was the son of a man my father was working with at the time. I'd just gotten old enough to stop thinking that kissing was weird and I was curious and we were left unsupervised, so we tried it. It wasn't magical. It was kind of awkward, really, and so afterwards, we shrugged – admitted we'd both expected it to be more dramatic – and went back to talking about our parents.**

**My firsts are spread out over the years and with different people. This girl's experiencing most of hers with this same boyfriend that she's known since she was thirteen. To her, everything is new and exciting. I'm almost envious. If I'd been older when I first kissed someone or held hands in public or hugged someone who wasn't a caretaker, maybe my firsts would've meant more to me. As it is, the most I can offer is advice on being safe and reasonable in her decisions. If I could do my firsts over again, I don't think I would. I'm okay with learning things quickly. It means I'm more prepared for what's expected of me now. But… I don't know, I mean, it seems like it would suck to have my firsts with someone else simultaneously having** **_their_ ** **firsts, because neither of us would know what we were doing. At the same time, I can see how maybe it would be special to share the experiences with** **_the one._ **

**It's probably worth mentioning that the girl's boyfriend is her soulmate.**


	23. Believing Lies You Told Me, Thinking I'm Your Only

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A home invasion stirs up old feelings in McKenna, while one of Neal's former flames threatens their tentative new relationship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Lucy Hale's "That's What I Call Crazy."

**_Chapter Twenty-Three - Believing Lies You Told Me, Thinking I'm Your Only_ **

We took our turn in the van starting at noon and were supposed to stay there until eight, but once the clock hit seven, it was like circadian rhythm had decided to move up the times that we were supposed to fall asleep and we were the ones paying for it. The lack of color in the van and the lack of excitement in surveillance had us all ready to punch a wall just to be entertained, but when that failed, we started trying to go to sleep.

Or, at least, our bodies were trying to without our minds' permission. Especially Derek and Diana, who didn't have texts from a sister half-dying inside at her kids' poor efforts at identifying shapes that were more complicated than "square," "circle," and "triangle." She was trying to prepare them for school; she was losing more and more faith that it was a battle she could win, but she was still trying.

A glimpse at Diana showed that her chair was facing the doors at the back of the van and her head was against the wall, arms loosely across her chest. Derek had his elbows shoved on the table in the space that wasn't being taken up by our recording equipment, head in his hands, staring dully at the pieces, eyes drooping. The only savior was that we didn't have to wear stuffy headphones this time, instead listening straight from a speaker.

I threw myself back in my chair, raising my arms above my head and stretching my fingers up as high as I could reach. "Look alive, people!" I shouted, making Diana actually jump, arms uncrossing and coming up defensively before she remembered where she was. "We have another half hour before we switch shifts and get to caffeinate." _And go home. And sleep._

Derek glared at me for startling him out of his position. I thought he should be thanking me – he didn't look like he had been comfortable in the least. "Nothing's happened in the last six hours, and I feel like my muscles have started to atrophy," he whined.

I should have told him that if his muscles were atrophying, then he should be at a doctor and getting help for that, not planning to take Katie out for a cute date next Friday night, but that wouldn't have been as funny, and I couldn't help but relate his eagerness to be with Kate to my relationship with Neal. I _wished_ we could go out on cute dates or hold hands in public when it wasn't an undercover operation. Instead, the only dates we could have consisted of June's penthouse.

 _Three years and four months,_ I thought to myself, biting my lip to keep from saying it out loud. I'd never not been acutely aware of how long he'd have to wear the anklet. At first it was a "this is how long I have to be responsible for another human being" thing, but now it was much more like a "this is how long I have to wait before we can stop being a secret."

I just kept holding onto that. Three years, four months, until the anklet came off and we were free of fear of retribution. Realistically we should wait longer so it was less obvious that we'd just been waiting, but all I could think of was clipping the strap without having to get another as back-up, or having our legs tangled together without feeling the anklet scraping against me, or not having a repeat of the notable incident in which Neal's trousers had caught on the anklet and he'd tripped over while trying to get dressed and woken me up with the loud yelp.

"Then get up and do some stretches," I told Derek, instead of griping about his plans with Kate. "As long as we listen, we can exercise. Come on, do jumping jacks with me." I got out of my chair, showing my own initiative. "I need to move!" I emphasized by jumping, spreading my legs, and throwing my arms up. My jacket pulled up to the bottom of my ribs and I started to do jumping jacks like I'd suggested.

"He's probably in for a while." Diana stared at me like I was being cute – not in the manner that people were cute when they smiled, but cute as in a dumb puppy, with a gentle curve to her lips and a tilt to her head. "That pretty blonde he had on his arm probably has quite a bit more stamina than he expected."

Derek, easily the most prone to making sex jokes, shot her a look of reprimand. "That's crude," he chided. "Maybe it's true love."

Diana burst out laughing. I covered my mouth and stared at him cynically. He sounded like Valentine's Day Hallmark cards had replaced his vernacular. "He's at least twenty years older than her!" Diana choked.

"You're just all flowery and romantic because you're in love with Katie," I told him, giving him a light cuff on his shoulder while I sat back down. I had done enough van-exercises to be energetic. Any more and I'd start feeling foolish, which was something I'd rather avoid.

Diana leaned forward and grinned at Derek. "Are we invited to the wedding?" She teased.

It wasn't really that funny, but then Derek started to _blush._ His cheeks started flushing pink and he intentionally stared away at us and at the equipment on the table. Seeing this big, tough guy with no shame humbled down to the level of blushing by such an innocent joke was hilarious, and it sent Diana and I into giggles.

Well, if the sweet stuff was what made him blush, then there was more where that came from. I opened my mouth to ask about his ideal honeymoon vacation when a loud _bang_ echoed through the van, interspersed with static from the recording.

"Hang on, was that just on a tape?" I asked in alarm, immediately transitioning from jokes to seriousness. That sounded like a gunshot – there was a subtle difference between gunshots and car backfires, and considering where we were and what we were doing, the former seemed far more likely.

"That was live," Derek reported, grabbing his gun off of the table and fastening it to the holster at his waist, standing up and awaiting orders.

I bent over the edge of my old chair and grabbed up a walkie, depressing the button on the side. "Shots fired. Shots fired," I repeated for the sake of clarity. "Requesting immediate backup. Moving in." I waved at Derek and he pushed open the van doors. "Move in, go Derek. Diana, call it in."

* * *

We stormed through the suspect's house at top speed. While someone dangerous could have come to target us, someone else could need immediate medical attention. We were trained for it. The house opened into a wide first floor, with a grand staircase right in front of the front door. Derek took the right side, Diana the left, and I went up to the staircase.

"FBI!" I yelled up while I stepped up the first few. Once the ceiling was no longer covering my head, I turned around to look at the top, gun up and ready to fire at someone looking over the banister. No one was there, just the dark golden railing that covered the drop to the stairs from someone particularly clumsy on the second floor.

"Clear!" Diana yelled to make sure we both heard her. Derek echoed her sentiments a moment later as they established that no gun-toting maniac was going to open a firefight with them.

I stalked up the staircase sideways, glancing over my shoulder every few seconds. I could see the top of the stairs, the overlooking banister, and both sides if I checked often enough to prevent anyone from creeping up on me, but I made it to the top and no one came. I turned my gun down the hallway across from the stairs, then circled around to check the open parlor with the staircase built into the center. I wasn't going to question the layout. It worked; there was enough space on all sides, thanks to the size of the house. I stepped on carpet right away from the top of the landing, so my footsteps were padded.

It did make me aware that I might not hear anyone coming up behind me. I checked the hallway again, saw no one there, and edged to the left, walking around the side of the banister with my body out of the way of the hallway. I wished I had some cover, just out of paranoia, but I'd done this frequently for several years and the worst I'd ever gotten out of it was a concussion. That could've easily changed with one well-timed gunshot, but I couldn't hear anyone or any clicking from cocking firearms.

Either way, my priorities and comfort with raiding someone's house were dropped from question when I got close enough past the stairs to see over the top of the balcony and saw the chest of a man lying face-up on the carpet. The carpentry was a snowy white color, which meant it was probably a bitch to clean, but it only made the dirt and blood on the ground more evident. Spots of footsteps going from one side of the room towards the body lying still were tracked in mud and dirt, picking up again near the other side of the room towards wide windows with trellises underneath, while red bloomed out from underneath the left side of our suspect's body like a carnation.

"Upstairs!" I shouted for my companions to come up to meet me. I kept my gun out but dropped down to my knees, avoiding stepping into the soggy carpet where the scarlet was soaking in. I didn't want to disturb evidence, but my primary duty lied with seeing if he was alive.

His throat was still warm to the touch, but there wasn't even the slightest flutter of a pulse, even when I changed to the other side of his neck and felt along the carotid artery.

My colleagues' footsteps came fairly running up the steps. They still had their weapons when they reached the top, but they'd assumed I needed them quickly, and had there been a pulse, then they wouldn't've been wrong. Since I'd summoned, they made the quick assumption that there wasn't immediately-detectable danger, and both of them took different sides of the staircase to come around to the parlor area behind the railing.

"It's Grey," I reported, seeing the still face already paling, mouth open but breathless and eyes half-lidded and unfocused. "He's dead, no pulse." Derek holstered his weapon at his waist and sighed, rubbing his cheek and pressing the heel of his palm into his jaw. Diana sighed and looked around again. Both of them trusted me to be able to find vital signs. It'd been a necessity in my former line of work. "Gunshot wound to the chest," I diagnosed. "We need ballistics…"

A sob made all three of us jump up. I leapt to my feet like there were springs in my shoes. Diana trained her gun in the direction of the cry – a sofa on the far right wall, pressed almost to the corner. It was shoved out of the corner a few feet, and I slowly advanced, staying out of the way in case Diana needed to take the shot.

"Hey, come on, out from behind the couch," I called, not wanting to be _too_ mean. There had been another person in this house, and the sob sounded like one of distress. "Hands above your head, no sudden moves, and no one gets hurt."

Feminine hands became visible over the edge of the couch as the hidden person did as she was asked. I came closer to the sofa and bent down to get a better look at her. A slim woman with platinum blonde hair, wearing a form-fitting black dress, was folded up in the little hiding place, her knees to her chest and her hands up, golden bracelets falling further down her arm with gravity. Her face was streaked with red tear trails, and bruises were already standing out in color against her arms, especially her forearms. Scratch marks had drawn some blood on her left arm.

_Defensive wounds._

She looked at me. Her eyes were blue. I had yet to meet anyone whose blue eyes could be compared to Neal's, but hers did look surprisingly like mine, with the cool hue of light eyes with a shade of grey. She moved her wrist slowly, just pointing towards the windows further down the wall.

"He – he ran out th-that window," she sobbed. I pursed my lips. She must've lost her cool once she heard me confirm that Grey had been murdered. "Right over there-"

Derek looked over it while I kept my eyes on the woman. It wouldn't have been the first time that a killer tried to pass themselves off as a witness, although I didn't think that the crying woman was tough enough to have shot someone in the chest if she was crying like this. Then there were the defensive wounds. It's hard to give yourself defensive injuries, and if she'd had the gun to shoot Grey with and no one else was involved, then there wouldn't have been a point of fist fighting before pulling the weapon.

"Footprints agree with her," Derek reported.

"Okay," I said, keeping eye contact with her. Her watery eyes didn't seem to want to look away, though she turned her head a little to the side to rub under her nose. She hiccupped, lean shoulders trembling violently. "Just keep your hands where I can see them, alright?" I instructed kindly.

Diana holstered her gun away. The girl was older than Diana, but where Diana was all fight, this one didn't look like she had a combat-trained bone in her body, except for one of her fingers, which was bleeding from a split fingernail. I cringed when I saw. That was going to hurt.

"NYPD should be here in minutes," Diana informed me lowly, touching my shoulder.

"Check out the third floor," I returned, holding out a hand to the blonde. Her hair was so light that it was almost more silver than yellow. Her features looked Germanic. "I'll stay with our witness. Tell NYPD to be on the lookout for an armed and dangerous male suspect." I had caught onto the pronouns the scared one used.

She slowly put her hands down, one all the way to the floor so that she could lower her knees and scoot out from the little wedge of the corner. The other she reached towards my hand. I was careful not to bump against the broken nail and gave her arm a gentle tug, reaching for her with my other arm too in case she stumbled and fell. Her slim but strong build was like a swimmer or gymnast, and she straightened up without any help from me and with very little assistance from the hand on the floor.

I led her out with small, shuffling steps. Derek took pity on her, his eyes clouding with concern, and took off his jacket, handing it to me, and then went to go investigate the highest level of the house. She turned around and I draped the blazer over her shoulders. She held the front lapels together while she pushed her arms through one at a time, her shivering becoming more sporadic.

"Hands back, please," I requested, taking the cuffs off of my belt. She held her arms back stiffly like they were hurting. They probably were. "The handcuffs are purely precautionary," I promised. "You're safe. Come sit down over here." The couch looked like it had been left untouched by whatever struggle left her with so many marks. I led her over and sat her down on the cushions, lowering myself down next to her. "My name is McKenna. What's your name?"

I stuck to the simple questions, at least to begin with. She was already shocked. I didn't want to make it worse, though my motives weren't entirely selfless; the more in touch she stayed with the world, the faster I could inquire about any information she had for us.

"Pierce," she said after a beat, her lip trembling.

"Can you tell me what happened here, Pierce?" I asked. She kept her head turned to her left, looking at me rather than the body a few feet away on the bloody carpet. It wasn't the best place to ask her to relax, but I wasn't going to move her to another part of the house until some things were cleared up.

She swallowed and touched her right hand to her face, feeling the dry tracks on her cheeks with surprise. She dragged her fingernail carefully down from her eye to her lips. "Um… he was hiding in the room when we came inside," she pressed her fingernail into her lip anxiously, as if biting her nails was a bad habit she was just talking to stall against doing. "Then the, the gun fired, it happened so quickly-"

Pierce was breathing faster. I reached for her back and touched her through the dress. "And he went out the window," I finished for her, already intending to have the trellises outside swept for evidence of DNA. "It's okay, it's okay… remember, deep breaths."

Derek came back into the room with speed and purpose. "Upstairs is clear," he reported, checking out Pierce again, curiosity winning over worry now that he could see her in full.

I nodded to my brother in lieu of a 'good job' and held out my other hand towards Diana, keeping the first on Pierce's back. She looked at the agent I was indicating with nerves clear on her face.

"Pierce, this is Agent Diana Berrigan," I introduced slowly. "She's going to take you to the hospital to make sure you're okay, and then I want you to speak to NYPD officers and tell them what you told me."

As I told her what was going to happen, I was also asking her with the tone of my voice if she was going to be okay to handle that. In answer, she started nodding before I was even done talking, and then kept doing so while she nursed the shudders out, crossing her arms over her torso and holding her elbows.

I looked up at Derek and Diana both. Diana was nodding at me in her assent and promise to do what I had volunteered her for, and she subtly fixed her blazer so that the hem covered up the gun she didn't want Pierce to be freaked out by. I coerced her to stand up, and Diana offered her arm to help her balance.

Making a quick gesture got Derek and I alone a few wide paces away while Diana assisted the witness. "Someone go get the staff all in one room and keep an eye on them," I commanded Derek, looking after the two other women in brief worry. _They'll be fine._ "I'm calling Neal," I added to Derek as an afterthought. He looked unsurprised, but he also seemed to be happy at the possibility of seeing the conman again so soon after last time.

It was nice that they got along… in fact, Neal got along better with my friends than I got along with Mozzie. Well, except Diana. Neal and Diana weren't always the best mix. After leaving them alone for a touch too long, I'd come back to find Neal holding his hands tucked under his upper arms protectively and with his chair rotated away from Diana, both quiet, Diana relaxed and Neal unnerved. I still had no idea what she'd said to him.

* * *

I kept looking over the railing to see if my favorite CI had arrived yet, so it was inevitable that one of the times when I checked, he would be coming up. He was already donning white latex gloves given to him by the crime scene team, stretching them out over his fingers and rotating his wrists against the snug, confining material. I'd had to take off my normal gloves and just yanked the latex up higher on my right wrist to keep my mark covered.

"Morning, sweetheart," Neal called optimistically, having a good day as he came off of the steps from the wide grand staircase.

I waved and then pointed to the opposite direction of the stairs, around to the other side of the wide rooms where the victim's body was remaining while the scene was thoroughly catalogued by people who knew what they were doing.

"Morning, Caffrey," I greeted, using his last name to nominalize the overly friendly way he addressed me. We were still in public. "Come on in, there's not that much of a mess."

I followed him around. Neal was looking around, enthusiastic and inquisitive, and seemed to be quickly taken with the decorations before anything else. The flash of a Polaroid camera drew his eyes away from a gold-framed painting over a dresser table and to the body lying near the back wall, blood staining the white carpets pink and scarlet.

He stopped dead in his tracks. "That's a dead body," he said, pointing with one hand and looking to me as he complained. He stood rigidly like he'd walked into a wall and physically could not advance any closer to the corpse.

I applauded him sarcastically. "Ten out of ten for observation," I praised sassily. "Boy, it's a good thing I called you in. I don't think I could've figured that out on my own!" So we normally had more limitations than Neal when pursuing an investigation. We still had _eyes._ He could at least _assume_ we noticed when someone died.

Neal took a step back with one leg and started leaning back to go the other way. Like looking at a car accident, he couldn't look away from the prone body on the floor in spite of how revolted he was by the crime scene.

"This doesn't really fall into… my area of expertise," he said, making a face and a sort of circle with his hands, illustrating his 'area of expertise' and how far outside of it that this murder was. "Murder isn't an intellectual pursuit, and I'm not really a dead guy kind of guy, so I'm just gonna… go."

He picked his other foot up and spun around on his heel to leave. I rolled my eyes. I got that he didn't like blue-collar cases, but Neal knew what he was signing up for from the get-go, when the book dealer had been murdered on his first day on the job.

"I'm pretty sure you don't get the luxury of choosing which cases you're assigned to," I called to his back. Neal stilled, sighed loudly, and turned back around, his shoulders and head down uneasily. I would've reached out to pat his back if I wasn't wearing gloves that were supposed to stop evidence from meeting other particulates. It defeated the purpose if I touched a bunch of other things, such as Neal's jacket. "This is – was – Aldys Christopher Grey." Neal flinched when I corrected my grammar, like I was rubbing it into his face that it was a murder. "Ever heard of him?"

"Yeah, he's a stock trader who made a killing in derivatives right before the crash. He has quite the art collection, according to the rumor." Neal looked over at the art hanging on the walls instead of the body and his spirit seemed lightened. "Maybe this _is_ my area of expertise," he reconsidered.

"Don't look quite so excited," I chided. If he could find a place balanced halfway between wanting to run away and wanting to lift the art from the walls, that would be a better attitude to start the case with. "He came into the house forty minutes before he was killed with a blonde girl. We're not sure who she is to him yet; she was really shaken up, so I sent her to the hospital. By the time we got back up from the van, he was dead and the killer was gone, the witness hiding out behind the couch and bawling her eyes out, poor thing." Neal frowned empathetically. "She won't be getting over this too quickly."

He pointed at himself. "So what am _I_ doing here?"

I cocked my head and said simply, "We're partners."

Learning that my sole real reason for dragging him into a crime scene that involved a dead person was that we were partners, Neal dropped both of his arms and stared at me dully. He did not condone that decision. I smiled cheekily and mouthed 'I missed you!' to which he shook his head. Nope. That wasn't a good enough reason, either.

I sank my shoulder in a pout. He could at least pretend to be flattered. "Where's the witness?" He asked, looking around the room.

"Same girl who went to the hospital," I muttered, glaring at the side of his face. "She was all bruised. I figured she might have head trauma or cuts."

The conman took a breath, lifted his shoulders high, and walked past the invisible line he'd drawn onto the carpet, picking his shoes up high from the carpet and veering sharply to the left, towards that dresser with the art above it, to avoid the body and the blood.

"Walk me through it, Kenna," he instructed, injecting some eagerness into his voice. I appreciated the effort.

I held up my hand and pulled back one finger with the other, ticking the highlights off as I understood them. "Girl states that the killer was already in the room and waiting for Grey to enter-"

Neal cut me off. "Is this the girl's purse?" He asked, pointing directly down at a red handbag sitting slouched over on the dresser.

I shrugged. I didn't think it was a really big deal. "Probably." But I also didn't see the stout cadaver accessorizing with bright, sparkling red purses, either. "She didn't have it on her; probably too busy hiding in terror," I hinted subtly that he was focusing on the wrong thing.

Neal ignored me and opened up the purse, reaching inside up to his wrists and laying his head down on his shoulder, peering inside as he rummaged around. I exhaled and decided just to continue. Neal thought he was onto something. If he was, excellent. If not, then I could always chew him out for not paying enough attention if it turned out that he didn't listen well enough to me.

I ticked off a second finger. "She said she was banged up by fighting off the suspect." Then I pushed back a third. "She said that the front door slamming open – which was us, by the way – startled him and he ran."

Neal took a cream and tan wallet out of the gaudy purse and turned it over, then flipped it open. The clasp was magnetic, and just required a little bit of force to pop open. The contents were sparse. Change in a zipper pouch clattered. Neal turned it over and took one of the cards out of its slot, put the wallet down next to the purse, and held up the card by the edges, squinting at it.

"What _I_ can't figure out is why he would waste time hand-fighting her when he had a gun." I indicated the body that Neal was pointedly avoiding reevaluating. It was fairly obvious that there had been a gun present. "If he wanted to hurt her, that's a pretty effective way to do it."

Neal lowered his hands. "Her ID is a fake," he declared proudly.

I gave him my full attention, though I was a little bit disappointed that he had managed to find a lead while _not_ doing what I had wanted him to do. _Would've been nice if I could've been the smart one for a change._ "How so?"

Neal carried it back to me, getting further away from the corpse being photographed and documented, and he turned the card around. He held the top and bottom edges with his fingertips, touching the front as little as possible. It was a driver's license, with the blonde's photograph as she smiled against a plain backdrop.

"The ink hasn't had time to dry yet, but it's high-end work." I took the card and held it the way he modeled, then tipped it backwards to find the right angle to let the overhead lighting bounce off of the ink for my eyes to see. "You can't just get this off the street."

When I held it right, the colors did a glinting thing like markers, looking a touch too bright and sparkling, like they could've started running if they were just a little less thin. It looked real at first glance, but no real IDs ever had that effect.

"Derek!" I yelled, handing the license back to Neal to keep track of. I turned around and looked for my brother.

He stood at attention and saluted me like a Marine. "Yes, ma'am!" He reported.

I pointed at him imperatively. "Have the name Pierce Spelman run. I want to know if it's an alias or a real name." On that note, she still had her FBI-issued escort with her. There was no promise she would cooperate, but maybe she would, just so she didn't look as bad. "Call Diana while you're at it to have her ask."

Neal had retreated back to the carpet and was looking at the stains against the white – the brown and black spotting, not the blood. He stepped carefully over one of the footprints, giving it a wide berth. His own shoes were clean and left no marks.

"They didn't step around a lot for someone who got in a fistfight," he noticed suspiciously.

I turned my head and considered them. "No, they didn't." But you didn't always move around a lot when you were fighting. Maybe it had been quick, and some of her injuries had come from being flipped onto the floor, where it was her back and not her shoes that would've left a sign on the floor.

Still, for the sake of being careful, I mimicked the prince from _The Princess Bride_ and went to one of them, stepping parallel to it and hopping forward the distance to the next one. It was a hop, not a small, condensed, and balanced stride taken while staying upright in combat. And my second step didn't match up with the first; it was a reflection, in fact, with the toes pointed towards the other footprint's.

"Wait a minute," I said, holding a hand out to Neal. I stepped back, then moved forward again, this time comparing the second print to my left shoe instead of the right. That was closer to a match. "They're all made by one shoe." The footprints were all condensed, heading away from the edge of the carpet near the wall. No one would've hopped like that, they would've looked dumb and it would've been time consuming, which meant – I looked for an abandoned shoe, but the only ones not being worn by anyone from or with law enforcement were on the dead body. A pile of dirt was collected under one of Grey's feet. I pointed it out with a tug on Neal's arm. "His left shoe has dirt all over it. Damn."

"She shot him and used his shoe to make it look like a third person ran through the soil from the flowers." There was a potted plant with a collection of orange and yellow marigolds brightening up the room. The soil looked uneven, but I hadn't thought much of it. Who took the time to perfectly smooth down the soil in their potted plants? It was close to where the prints started. "And then put the shoe back on," Neal finished with distaste.

I bumped his arm. He could have at least tried to sound more disapproving of the homicide part of the crime rather than the utilization and replacement of the dead man's shoe. "Not classy enough for you, I take it. She isn't a witness, she's the killer."

Derek came jogging up, phone still open and call still engaged. "Mick, I told a guy to run the name, but Diana said she got away." He looked at me and chewed on his lip, having overheard my discussion with Neal and not knowing what to do next. He awaited orders.

I huffed. _Fantastic!_ Exactly how was the pretty little liar supposed to have gotten away in such a public place? She clearly hadn't shot Diana, otherwise the agent wouldn't've picked up the phone! "What did she do, overpower the agent with a gun while in handcuffs?!"

"She was un-cuffed so she could change clothes for a private exam. She slipped right out of the back without any of the doctors realizing," Derek explicated breathlessly, painting an image for me of a gun-toting actress peeking out the sides of a curtain and then slipping away into the midst of an incoming emergency room crowd.

While I swore without restraint and covered my eyes, trying to send the image away, Neal looked around the room and took a step closer to me, unsettled still by the body. Derek picked his phone back up to instruct Diana on putting out an APB. Neal tried to take my hand, but I shook him off. I'd been conned – and it wasn't by the one person I'd been worried would con me.

* * *

"Are we any closer to finding our missing little femme fatale?" I asked tiredly, wiping my brow with the back of my hand. My office was hot and the AC didn't run as high afterhours to save energy. Most of the people had left the building, but myself and my small little team of white-collar specialists were the exceptions.

"We really don't have too much to go on, just a fake name." Diana's tone was more aggravated than she had cause to be at any of us. Neal looked at her with slightly narrowed eyes and a worried tip of his head, but she ignored the visible concern. "We took prints that don't match Grey's, and are probably hers, but there isn't a match for them in any of our indexes."

The agent looked angered, but at herself. The two of us had a lot more in common than just being the only women officially on my team. Something that not even Derek would be able to understand was what it was like, growing up the daughter of wealthy parents involved in foreign diplomacy. Diana grew up with the example that words didn't fix things, but actions solved problems. I could tell her not to beat herself up all I wanted, or remind her that I was at fault, too, until my tongue was sore; but none of that would make her feel better, and the only way that she would forgive herself was if we brought Pierce in and saw to her conviction. Regardless of her behavior tonight, she'd be raring to go tomorrow after she'd had some time to sleep on it and get some perspective on exactly how little she was to blame.

I caught Neal's eyes and shook my head a little, glancing at Diana intently. _Don't ask._ No matter how kind he meant his concern to be, Diana would only take it as an indication that she wasn't able to maintain her professionalism, especially in the context.

"All we have is her purse, but we'll be getting that from ETR soon enough." Derek was looking at Diana a little less, not wanting to make the accidental error of letting her feel like she was being given more attention than usual from her mistake. Neal looked a little dubious, but he followed my lead and acted like he didn't catch onto the woman's nerves.

"Okay." I rubbed my hands together and raised them to my mouth, yawning into my palms. "We get on that first thing in the morning. Got it?" I looked at both of them. Derek nodded casually, but Diana agreed with a stony look in her eyes and a determined lift of her shoulders.

It was really a good thing for Neal's sake that Diana had never been on his case before he was my consultant; I'd be terrified if she had been. She would've pressed harder than Peter had cared to once he was incarcerated, and she would have tried to get him sentenced to a lot longer than four years for the trouble he caused.

I reached out and bumped Neal's arm with a closed fist. "C'mon," I invited. "I'll give you a ride home." I picked up my phone from the top of my desk and leaned to my brother, giving him a platonic kiss on the cheek, and patted Diana's shoulder as I went by her. Knowing that Pierce could have attacked either of them and taken them totally off guard bothered me, too, and if it weren't for her unwillingness to be approached by a worried friend, I'd have given Diana the same farewell that I gave Derek. Neal followed, murmuring goodnights to both of them.

* * *

I had been hoping against it, but I'd had a rough morning.

It could have been worse. It could have been a lot worse. It could have been like the first morning after I woke up and Neal had been back in prison, one of my nightmares literally coming true. It could have been like when I woke up in Neal's arms, comforted by what I couldn't have until I remembered that I was only there for necessity, and I had nowhere else to go. It could have been like the first day I spent the night back in my home after Fowler was chased out of town the second time, where I half-expected him to have come crawling back to Katie with lies that didn't even make sense to weasel back into my home.

So it could have been worse. No matter how many times I reminded myself of that, though, it didn't change the fact that _I had a rough morning._

First was the alarm. Oh, that damn alarm. It was supposed to have gone off two hours earlier to give me time to prepare, but either it failed or I'm the reason I woke up to it buzzing on the floor, vibration muffled by carpet. Admittedly, the latter was the more likely explanation. Then there was the coffee. I couldn't have coffee. The coffee machine broke. And by the time I remembered that my clock wasn't going to be working, I realized that it was almost twenty minutes past the time I was supposed to be at work. As if the rest wasn't traumatic enough, the Manhattan traffic was _hell,_ and I couldn't go on foot because I had my duffel back in the car.

I may have told Neal that we would pick up our work bright and early, but I had made myself into a liar with that promise. I came trudging in, only half-awake, thankfully with the sense to have left my bag out in the car so no one was asking if I had been evicted or something.

Neal, my boyfriend – which still sent a shiver up my spine and made a delighted little giggle want to try to escape my throat, both from wishes fulfilled and the thrill of a secret – was the first to notice that I was off my game, but it wasn't that hard to tell when I was walking like a zombie. Also like a zombie, I had held up a hand at him when he started to get up from his desk, pointed at him stonily with one finger to stay put, and then huffed my way to the kitchenette. The coffee wasn't the French vanilla that I liked, because we'd run out and I had to settle for the disgusting Chai tea blend, and I questioned if it was even worth it, but some habits are just too painful to break.

I left the kitchenette with fewer zombie-esque attributes, but I was still very disgruntled and kept making faces every time I drank the damn tea. _Who the fuck uses tea to wake up? Did the British invade our kitchenette?!_

When I came out, Neal, Derek, and Diana were all visible through the open door in the conference room over the mezzanine. I stood by the stairs for a few moments, practiced breathing evenly, and played a game with myself – _Pretend I'm Neal and Act Like Everything's Perfect._ It wasn't catching on, but I was trying admirably, inhaling the steam from my tea deeply and rolling my shoulders, tipping my head back into the imagined pressure of deft fingers working into the taut muscles by my throat.

 _I bet Neal at least got to have coffee today._ Usually I hated his impeccable clothes because they weren't as easy to get off of him as they could have been. In the moment, I just hated them because he looked gorgeous and probably didn't even have an alarm clock malfunction that let him sleep in too late.

Being bitter at other people for being responsible wasn't going to get me anywhere and I realized that, but something in my immediate vicinity had to be bitter, and obviously it wasn't going to be my coffee, since I had none of that, so the job fell to me.

"Is everything okay?" Neal asked when I strode into the conference room, tea sloshing in my mug. I put it down like I couldn't get rid of it fast enough and I thought of various things to try to wake up instead.

 _The shooter who got away and could have easily attacked Diana before she made her escape. The OPR agents who might even now be looking into every move I make on every case I take._ No, thinking about work wasn't helping; it was just making me more frustrated. _Okay, um, Katie and Derek, the happy couple. Nice picnics, Kate finally enjoying a date with someone who isn't a complete douchebag. Okay._ That actually worked. I felt a little better.

"Um… yeah?" It took me entirely too long to answer, I realized, when not only was the compulsively-attentive conman staring at me in open concern, but Derek's jaw had gone slack and Diana looked almost ready to tell me to sit down and take a nap. Self-consciously, I reached back to a strand of my hair that had escaped the hastily-made ponytail. "Why, do I look not-okay?"

"You're late," Neal said slowly, a little bit suspicious. Not as in his suspicious _I-think-you-took-my-sister_ voice, but more like his _you're-not-telling-the-full-truth-and-I-will-get-it-out-of-you-even-if-it-means-taking-advantage-of-sex_ voice. Was it worrisome that I knew what either of those particular tones sounded like? "You're never late."

Now that was just a huge lie. I didn't usually intend to be late, but I ran a few minutes late pretty often, most noticeably when I spent the night with him in privacy or stayed out late with he, Mozzie, and/or June. So clearly, Neal wasn't just saying it was weird that I was late. He was subtly asking why, because I hadn't been with him the night before.

"I had to load up a lot of things into my car is all," I answered a little bit sheepishly, feigning apology at being late without forewarning. "That's why it took longer than usual." Diana nodded in understanding and Derek rolled his eyes at my lack of preparedness, but neither of my federal partners seemed to care to interrogate me on the specifics.

"Oh." And, for a blissful second, I thought maybe I had escaped the Spanish Inquisition from Neal, too. "Did Katie kick you out again?"

"No, of course not," I assured him briskly, catching Derek's eye and asking almost pleadingly for him to get on with whatever he'd gotten out of the purse that he'd taken back this morning before I'd gotten in. The box that the purse was in was even in one of the chairs.

"Then why the bags?" Neal went after it persistently. Diana got a wicked gleam in her eye when she realized that Neal had no idea what was going on, and since she thought it was funny anyway, she decided to flaunt my request of her right in front of him.

"Your options," she said, _sounding_ compassionate enough, as she set a few printed-out online brochures down onto the table, facing up and, conveniently, facing Neal.

_You little…_

"Thanks," I said, swiftly snatching them up from the table and bending the thin stack in the process. I was just trying to get to them before Neal could really read them, but I was probably too late. "I'd have done it myself, but apparently it's inadvisable to internet surf while driving."

"Hotel rooms…" Neal was wincing empathetically while I shut my eyes and swore under my breath. There was a reason I'd been avoiding telling him that this was coming up. "Jeez, Kenna, what have you _done?"_

I held out my hands incredulously, ceasing to care about whether or not he saw the papers now. I was going to have to get back at Diana for that. "Will you stop assuming I did something wrong?!" I exclaimed, insulted. Really, you attack your sister's boyfriend with a dish towel _once_ and it's held over your head forever. "We're having TV upgraded for surround sound and HD. At the same time, we're also listening to your friend and having our wiring system sorted out, because hearing him say we lived in a fire trap made Katie nervous."

I stared at Neal, intent on conveying the message that it was all Mozzie's fault, but not really. It was the way you blame someone for not waking you up when you all know there was no way they could have. Mozzie may not have been the most tactful when he expressed his concerns, but he was sincere enough in his paranoia that an electrical shortage could have burned our house down.

_I have really odd friends…_

Derek leaned on the table, not impatient, just not really invested in the conversation. He was letting Neal and I have it anyway, which I resented. It very clearly wasn't a discussion that I wanted to have. "Katie's staying with me for the duration," he told Neal helpfully. "And of course, there's space that Mick is always welcome to, but…"

"But I'm throwing condoms at them and letting them have their bonding time," I told Neal sardonically. That was not the way that Derek had intended for that sentence to end. Neal looked a little startled, but he chuckled. "Oh, speaking of."

I took a box of condoms ( _ribbed for her pleasure!,_ the box boasted) and threw them over across the table at Derek. He scrambled to catch them so they wouldn't hit him, despite the light weight. Thinking about my sister having sex wasn't something any older sibling wanted to do, but she was an adult, and my job was just to make sure she knew she had the resources to be safe about it. I wondered if Kate had found the box I'd snuck into her purse yet – they were bubblegum flavored. Years ago, we'd found a video that had people tasting different flavored condoms and saying how they actually tasted. Most of them were reportedly just disgusting artificial flavors, or were strongly reminiscent of rubber or latex, but the bubblegum boxes were highly approved. Out of curiosity, I got some to try sucking on and we agreed, so that was the preferred kind for blowjobs now. At least, it was for me, and since I was the one doing the work and the flavor didn't affect Neal, I got that veto power.

"Well, how long is it going to be out?" Neal asked, politely letting Derek hurriedly stuff the condoms away in his pocket, where there was very obviously a box in his slacks but it was no longer as apparent what he had on his person.

"A few days," I said with an annoyed sigh, "Which is why we can't live in it in the meantime." I waved the papers. "Hence, hotels."

Diana leaned over onto the table, resting on her crossed elbows with her legs straight and waist bent. "The Thompson hotel is nice," she suggested, finally doing something kind. "They have the biggest TV, at least – according to Christy, that is, and I don't know how many hotels she's stayed at in New York." Diana's long-time girlfriend shared an apartment with Diana. Christy and I were friends, but only out of convenience, not because we had much in common other than an affection for Diana.

"How much?" I asked. Interestingly, the price wasn't on that brochure, and Diana, knowing me and my taste for creature comforts, had lain that one on the top of the pile.

"Eight hundred and twenty-five dollars a night, _with_ our government discount," she popped my bubble with a smirk.

In the corner of my eye, I noted that Neal was acting somewhat uncharacteristically. Derek choked at the cost and I turned exasperated eyes on my probie, who was apparently taking today as her day to misbehave and be a thorn in my side. She pinched her tongue between her teeth and grinned at me cheekily. While they were partaking positively in the discussion, now that my personal problems had become introduced to the workplace, Neal was standing to the side demurely, almost sulking. If I didn't know better, I would have said that he was jealous – well, fuck, I _do_ know better. I know _Neal._ And I know that he's got a problem with me staying at a hotel for some reason.

"Oh, I didn't realize they also offered free medical care, airplanes, and Rihanna concerts," I snidely deadpanned Diana, and this just sent her and Derek into fits of giggles. Shaking my head in mock annoyance but smiling slightly nonetheless, I took the top page from the stack and moved it to the bottom.

Neal reached out to my shoulder and stepped half-behind me, half to my side, his palm landing open on my upper back. "Kenna, it's ridiculous for you to live in a hotel. There is _more_ than enough room at June's," he implored, looking soulfully at my eyes. It took all of my willpower not to melt right then and agree to stay with him.

The problem was, that was exactly what I didn't want to do. An angry voice in the back of my head snapped at him that he actually meant to say there was more than enough room in his bed – the kinder, gentler voice that wanted the love and affection that he promised told me I should suck up my pride and stay with my boyfriend. The one with the insecurities and anger management issues was obviously stronger.

"I'll be fine," I promised, not willing to give in, not this time. No matter how comfortable and fun it sounded. Having entire _days_ where I didn't need a work-related excuse to stay with Neal, where I was actually expected to stay all night with him because the alternative was to sleep in a house with no power, where I could stay in his penthouse and not feel like I should be scolded for it… Then I deliberately redirected to the hotel ads. "Hey, this one's got a swimming pool! That could be fun."

"Four hundred twenty-five a night," Diana sang.

I glared at her again, then sighed in almost defeat. If I didn't try very hard to keep my inappropriate affair with Neal a secret from even these two, then I would have sworn that Diana was intentionally trying to push away my resolve.

"Okay, why did you even include these?" I asked her, finally done. There was only so much I could take. A bad morning, relationship drama I did nothing to deserve (except for having an illegal relationship, but whatever) and being picked on by my partners? "I am in a good place, but not so good that I can throw out thousands of dollars on a hotel room that doesn't even include free concerts."

Through this, Neal kept his hand on my back. Sneakily, while Derek and Diana couldn't see, he inched his fingertips up to the back of my neck and pressed in, just enough to feel the pressure and the give of my own flesh, the temptation of a careful and tender massage.

Finally, Diana decided to take pity on me and play nicely. "There's a fifty-nine-dollar-a-night hotel at the bottom," she confessed.

I might have muttered a thank you if I wasn't so strung out, and I counted from the bottom up to find the page that had initially been on the bottom before I'd started swiping the ones off of the top. Then I pulled it up and rolled my eyes. It looked like I was going to be camping in my car tonight, or at least finding a chain out of the city like Days Inn.

"Isn't that the one you booked Neal in when he was first released?" Derek queried unhelpfully, looking in revulsion at the tattered front picture of the building I had been happy to take Neal into and even happier to get myself out of.

Neal's fingers stilled at my throat. "They have an interesting "no heat" policy," he forewarned sarcastically with a bit of a bite. I sighed again, trying to put myself in his place to understand. Say June was having renovations done and Neal needed temporary lodging elsewhere. I wouldn't want him to go to a hotel; I would want his first place to be somewhere I trusted to be safe – somewhere like… my home. And I would certainly be offended if my hospitality was rejected in favor of a place like this disgusting, health-code-violating motel stuck on a street corner.

Okay, so _maybe_ it was a little bit unreasonable to go to the extents of finding a hotel when Neal was offering completely adequate shelter elsewhere. It's not like I wasn't comfortable at the prospect of living with him; it was just… the thought of being asked to stay for more than a night at a time felt like more of a commitment than we'd ever made, save for the huge step that came from both of us directly admitting that we wanted to be each other's, not just lovers whenever it was convenient.

So was that what it was? Was I skittish because I was afraid of having the rug swept out from under me? Or was I worried that he might change his mind about what he wants, about wanting me, if he spent too much time with me at once? It's not like he was going to decide to kick me out if that was the case – we were friends first and foremost – and anyway, it wasn't a huge relationship step to spend a couple nights in a row with each other with it planned ahead. I wasn't going to be adopting a dog or moving in with him as a result.

Either way, it seemed silly in retrospect. Stupid conclusion to make. Even dumber decision to refuse the luxurious lodging of a mansion's penthouse suite with a man who was beautiful inside and out and who actually wanted me there to take care of me.

"Ha," I said, internally resolving to find a way to loop the situation back to Neal without agreeing from a sudden epiphany. How would I explain this epiphany to Derek or Diana? _I put myself in my boyfriend's shoes and realized that he's trying to be a kind and considerate significant other?_ I could always go to Neal later. "I would rather sleep in my car." I looked meaningfully at the motel on the picture to make my point. A vehicle would be better than that dump.

"This one needs amenities to survive," Derek said to Neal like he was sharing a secret, rolling his eyes.

"I have a laptop and a phone," I declared defensively. "If I have a bed and hot water, then I'm good!"

"Oh, please," Derek scoffed, taking his revenge for the condom thing. "You don't know how to live without them."

"So not true," I denied, glowering and taking on a bit of heat into my stare. Derek caught the change from friendly banter to more serious aggravation and he nodded once, looking down and giving it up. He was coming too close to information I didn't want divulged, and regardless of embarrassing him with a box of contraception, he still wouldn't betray my trust like that.

Neal cleared his throat and took on the soothing voice he had perfected. "Really, Kenna, mi casa es su casa." He was riding a thin line between the kind of suave, smooth voice that he took on when persuading a mark to take his bait and the soft, sexy purr against my neck that usually led to a trail of gentle sucks down my throat or the warm, open-mouthed kisses trailing down under my shirt.

Thankfully, enough space remained between us that we could just be friends who happened to be touching friendlily while one offered friendly shelter out of friendly concern.

"Su casa isn't even su casa," I retorted childishly, a little tart since he was making it hard to resist and I already intended to come back to him apologetically with my proverbial tail between my legs and give us both a ride home for the night once it was time to clock out. I licked my lips. "Look, thanks, but I can't live with my consultant. It's unprofessional." I twisted around to look at him, hoping he understood with that excuse why I was still unwilling to give in.

Derek hummed. We all looked over at him. When he sounded pensive, we didn't want to miss whatever it was that he was thinking about saying aloud. "I don't think it could hurt, actually," he advised wisely. "I mean, if the situation were back when you were fresh out of orange, yeah, I'd hesitate, but you're part of our team now; even Hughes looks out for you." Derek addressed that to Neal and I got the odd feeling that it was his version of a _you're trusted with my baby girl, don't screw this up_ speech. But that was ridiculous, right? "The three of us never think twice about crashing at each other's houses. What can it really hurt?" He looked at me smartly. "He's offering you a penthouse suite and his company."

I pursed my lips and pretended to think about it for a moment. "Well… okay then," I sighed. Derek and Diana looked at each other like they were dealing with the world's biggest drama queen. I should have snapped at them to knock it off. Those looks they kept sharing were starting to get unnerving. "Guess I don't need these." I folded up the thin stack of hotel advertisements into halves and then dropped them into the blue recycling bin by the window.

After that was decided and Neal looked a little too excited, for which I cleared my throat meaningfully at him, we got to work on the case that we should've started to look at in review almost an hour ago. Derek pulled the cardboard evidence box up onto the table and started taking out the contents of Pierce's handbag. He took the driver's license that Neal had smudged with the water and opened up his laptop, while the rest of us looked at other things. Neal took the cash from her wallet and held it to his face to sniff at, trying to tell if it was counterfeit.

"The name on the ID is fake," Derek said, scowling unhappily at the computer for giving him results that he didn't want to read. I couldn't say I was surprised, but it would have been a lucky break. "There's no record of a Pierce Spelman anywhere, and no record of her prints. The gun was stuffed in the fireplace behind the wood. It wasn't ever in the fire, but the serial number was scratched out and the entire gun was wiped down."

"Whoever she is, she's good," Neal acknowledged, not batting an eye at the mention of the murder weapon. One day I would learn why these things that he could talk about in safe, enclosed offices bothered him so much in the field – what had happened to make him so leery of weaponry?

Diana unfolded a crinkled piece of white paper. It wasn't lined and had no margins, but the handwriting was legible. She pressed it against the table and dragged her hand over it firmly, trying to straighten it out. She tilted her head.

"That looks like a to-do list in gibberish," she announced, no happier with her finding than Derek was with his.

 _Verify Pie._ I bit my lip to keep from saying something smartass about dessert foods. None of the terms on the list made any rational sense. It was some to-do list, if Diana was right about that being its use. _Spike RN._

"Well, those are…" Derek searched for the right word for almost a solid five seconds. "… Interesting…"

"It's a code," Neal murmured thoughtfully, taking the edge of the paper and pulling it towards him, turning it so it was facing him and bracing himself along the table's edge on either side.

"You don't say?" Diana commented with sarcasm. Neal didn't respond, almost immediately immersed in the kind of challenge that he enjoyed.

"Okay." I patted Neal's shoulder to get his attention back from wherever it had slipped off to. "Neal, make a photocopy for yourself to look at and give that to a crypt analyst." I liked to give Neal the chance to work out the code on his own, because it kept his admittedly sometimes useful skills sharp and it gave him something to do that hopefully helped curb the tempting thoughts of unnecessary cons.

Neal looked up at me quickly when I said 'crypt analyst,' eyes lighting up in curiosity and intrigue.

"Yes, we have those," I answered the unasked question with wry humor. There was a lot about the bureau that Neal didn't know. He would excel in that field if he tried – I adore having him as my partner, but sometimes I think that the criminal world would be a much tamer place if Neal Caffrey's renowned name had circled as a threat rather than a legacy.

* * *

I had no strict plans for the evening, but I figured that if nothing else, I could take advantage of being expected to stay overnight and share his bed. Taking him out of his radius for a while seemed appealing, also; I liked to do that when I could, not just because it kept me endeared to him, but because I couldn't imagine being confined to a set limit of coordinates and enjoyed giving him a pass to more activities.

Especially arts and crafts-related activities. I _loved_ taking him to galleries. I was bored out of my socks most of the time, but Neal's face lit up and he scrutinized every painting, every artwork, like it was the God damn _Mona Lisa_ and suddenly I was his favorite person, being carted around by my wrist and showed everything. He talked to me in complete seriousness as he explained the inspirations that it drew from and the artistic styles used, and I nodded along like I knew what he was talking about while I admired that breathtaking smile and the beautiful laugh.

I'd been texting Katie to let her know I'd gotten to June's safely and to tell her to have fun with Derek, but had to stop outside the door to put my phone away and free a hand to knock. In the few seconds it took, I luckily picked up on a voice through the door that I hadn't expected to hear.

 _"_ _Why the sudden curiosity about the music box?"_ A woman who was definitely not June inquired from inside the penthouse suite. I stopped, swallowed, and stood stationary outside the door, cocking my head and staring as if I could just look through and see what was happening inside.

 _"_ _I couldn't look for it in prison, but I'm out now."_ Neal's voice replied reasonably. I gathered it was about the music box that we needed to find to get rid of Fowler, but didn't know who would've been talking to him about it, and why he wouldn't have told me he was meeting with her. _"… And I was starting to miss you."_

I inhaled sharply and leaned back, blinking. My feelings were hurt. Neal sounded sweet, romantic. He was speaking to another person while he used _that_ tone; the voice that he used when he called me 'beautiful' and promised me that he didn't lie to me. I bit my tongue and felt my eyes pricking, irrationally upset. I touched my eyes and wiped away the tears before they fell and left trails. I'd thought that voice was special to _me_ , but apparently it didn't mean as much as I'd thought.

The woman inside snorted. She wasn't buying it. Maybe there was nothing to buy; maybe he was _sincere._ After all, I was just a fed. Why _wouldn't_ he endear himself to me? I made his life easier when I was happy with him.

 _"_ _Nice try,"_ she accused.

He feigned confusion. _"What do you mean?"_

I pictured him holding glasses of wine in his hands, the top of his shirt unbuttoned, hem untucked from his pants. Eyes sultry, lights low, stalking close to her sensually… _no, he wouldn't do that, he wouldn't cheat on me._ I brought back how pissed he'd gotten at Dorsett for implying he was a cheater and latched onto that. He'd nearly blown his cover in front of a man who would've killed him; he wouldn't have faked being angry in that context. Neal was _loyal._ Regardless of how much he _missed_ this girl he snuck into his home, he wouldn't betray my trust in him. He wouldn't sleep with another person, not without breaking up with me first, and given how long and how hard he'd been working to convince me to give him a chance, he wasn't going to call it off that fast.

 _"_ _You think I'm blind now, or just stupid?"_ The nameless, faceless female in _my_ boyfriend's company sounded aggressive and insulted. At least an angry and offended woman wasn't as likely to throw herself at him. She could just keep her hands off. _"Half a dozen things in this room point to another woman being here. Let's start with the coffee. You don't like the creamer you have in your fridge, yet it's at the front, which means someone else uses it – and frequently. The sweater over the back of the couch is a woman's sweater. There are extra toiletries in your bathroom."_

She listed them off angrily, ticked that he'd been trying to con some information out of her with his pretty face and kind voice. He gave in, flustered and defeated. _"Alright, Alex, you've made your point,"_ he stated, back in his normal tone. I relaxed significantly. _Good. Don't flirt with her when you're mine. "I did miss my partner-in-crime, though."_

I felt my teeth with my tongue. He'd sounded so genuine. My insecurities about his truthfulness came rushing back. Evidently it was easy for him to sound infatuated. It explained why I wasn't told that she was coming by, at least. Alex, whoever she was, was likely his _literal_ partner in crime, which explained a bit. Neal would have to have some way of getting her information without telling her about Fowler, and flirting was the easiest way for him to do so. His used his model-esque looks to his advantage. It was additionally possible that Alex hadn't even told him when she would come by; or maybe she had refused to come to him while he was with someone else, for her own security.

At least he stopped telling her that he _missed_ her the same way he told me that he _wanted_ me. One thing stuck with me that I couldn't quite shake away: she'd called him out on it on the basis that there was another woman's things in his residence, not on a lack of feelings. Did they have a history? God, I hoped not. I had only just grown comfortable enough kissing him good morning. I was in no position to be meeting his exes.

 _"_ _I wish that were a sentiment I could return,"_ Alex responded regretfully. _"I really do."_ They were both quiet. I contemplated interrupting but opted against it until I heard more. It didn't take long for the second criminal to steer back to the reason she was there. _"I tracked down the fence who gave me this. He says there's been a sudden interest in the box."_

I grimaced and wished I could see inside and know what it was she'd been given and how it related to the music box.

 _"_ _Does he know who has it?"_

 _"_ _He still won't tell me how he got_ _ **this**_."

Neal sighed. His volume changed like he was walking away, pacing with stress away from his former ally. Current ally. Whatever. I didn't know if I was cool with her being a current contact until I knew more about her and what she specialized in, not just whether or not she had a personal interest in him. I wouldn't want him hanging around with a blue-collar woman.

 _"_ _We have to find it before someone else does,"_ he said with determination.

Alex exasperatedly groaned. _"What's going on?"_ She demanded crossly. _"This isn't_ _ **just**_ _about the box."_ She stated knowingly.

That was enough. They were meeting about the music box and Alex was someone who shouldn't be there. It was enough for me to go on. The longer I waited, the more anxious I got to join in and meet the girl for myself, to insert myself as Neal's _current_ partner who he was going to include.

I knocked on the door, ignoring that I had a text response from Katie. She could wait a few minutes. I had more pressing matters to attend to, and I was not going to be pushed to the side while Neal conspired with this Alex person.

My knocking set Alex on alert. _"You get a lot of late visitors?"_ She asked Neal suspiciously.

 _"_ _It's probably just my landlady,"_ he replied to her, sounding apologetic that they were being interrupted. I narrowed my eyes. I was _not_ going to pretend to be his landlady. I was going to be his _girlfriend._ So I was a little jealous. Alex could just fucking deal with it. She wasn't falling for the trick anyway, so it wouldn't hurt Neal to be outed as a committed man. _"Who is it?"_

"It's Kenna," I responded mutinously, crossing my arms with my duffel bag pulling down heavily on my elbow. I stared at about Neal's eye level on the door, waiting for someone to pull it open and talk to me.

Alex was the first to say something next. She giggled. _"I've got it,"_ she told Neal, not realizing that their voices weren't low enough for me to not hear through the door.

Neal sounded a little bit panicked in response to whatever it was she was amused by. _"What are you doing?"_

 _"_ _Why else would I be here?"_ She asked rhetorically. Shoes clicked on their way towards the door – heels, by the sound of them – and the woman came to let me in and see what I wanted.

My boyfriend tried talking her out of it. _"Don't. Please, don't,"_ he pleaded, raising his voice anxiously as the doorknob turned. _"That is really_ _ **not**_ _the impression I want to give-!"_

The door opened, ignoring Neal's protests. The woman on the other side was half undressed. Yeah. Now I got what she thought was funny. Alex was shockingly beautiful, fitting the conventional standards of a model. She wore a black shirt with a neckline cut that had one side crossing over the other in between her supple, firm breasts, pushed up by her bra. Her hair was silky and light brown and waved down the sides of her face, falling in cascades down her shoulders and back, thick and voluminous and mussed up like Neal's hands had been in it. I presumed it had been her own instead. Her lips were plump and her complexion creamy. I looked past her hazel eyes and to her legs. Her shirt was just long enough to hide her underwear, but left very little of her toned and tanned legs to the imagination. Her skirt was over the back of one of the kitchen chairs, but her shoes were still on, strapped around her ankles, stilettos forcing her heels up inches off of the floor.

She giggled seductively. "Are you a friend of Neal's?" Alex asked, running her tongue over her upper lip and standing with her thighs pressed together modestly.

I leaned in over the threshold and looked for Neal. He stood by the couch, to the left of Alex, his face in his hands. His clothes, I was glad to see, were as professional and put together as ever. His hair was untouched, the combed curls loosening from their style in a way that made me want to touch, but definitely hadn't already been pulled through. His face was its normal coloring, not flushed or rosy. Alex hadn't been getting any unless she'd been giving it to herself.

"Yeah, I am," I said to her flatly, unimpressed. I wondered how long it would take her to realize that I was the woman whose belongings were scattered in Neal's suite, and exactly how remorseful she'd be when she learned that she'd tried to lead Neal's girlfriend to believe he'd cheated on her. "And so are you. Listen, honey, I've been outside that door for the last couple of minutes so I know you're not exactly legal, so I get the cover, but I'm really not all that into it." Alex dropped the façade, smile dropping to a guarded and neutral stare as she looked me over. "Also, I know what he looks like when he's getting lucky, and he is _way_ too put together." I would know, because I liked watching him lose his cool in that way. "Let me in, please."

As I all but told her that I personally saw to Neal's physical needs, her eyes widened and her mouth opened. She gasped. "Oh, gosh." She doubled back to look at Neal guiltily, now knowing why he'd tried to stop her from shimmying out of her skirt. "Kenna is the woman… I'm sorry." She reached for the back on my arm to take the handles of my bag. I moved my elbow further away. "Come on, let me get your-"

"I've got it," I promised, smiling thinly to appear gracious. "However, I'm not the only person who may come by here, as he _does_ have a landlady who likes to be friendly, so you might want to put your skirt back on."

I phrased it as a suggestion, but the stony look I was giving her was definitely more of an order. I didn't think I could be less pleased with her for what she'd done. It was very Bela Talbot of her; clever on the surface, but infuriating to me. Neal was _mine._ I gave myself to him and I did _not_ appreciate being led to think that he had given himself to someone else in turn. What was worse was that if he'd been in the shower, where I couldn't see that he wasn't turned on or making out, I might've believed it. She could've put a wedge in between me and my boyfriend, and I had only just gotten to call him mine.

She sheepishly walked over to the table, picking up her skirt and holding her shirt hem down to cover her rear. She turned around to face us as she bent over to pull the flowy satin back up her legs, bending over for the reflection in the sliding door but maintaining some of her dignity.

"How do you two know each other?" She asked me to make conversation, uncomfortably tucking her shirt down into the front of her skirt, hiking it up over her midriff. The black color matched her top, and once it was on correctly, it trailed just past her knees.

While Alex was focused on me, Neal wiped his forehead and made a subtle motion of slashing his throat with his other hand. I didn't glance at him, just watched in my periphery, and I took the hint. I expected a very good explanation later, but I trusted him a lot more than I trusted this woman whom I already disliked.

"We met while he was moping and I was trying not to punch a wall," I explained, dropping my duffel carefully to the floor while I locked the door, giving the three of us some more privacy to continue the lucrative discussion about the music box. I wasn't lying to her, strictly speaking, but I was withholding key aspects. "He had a wine bottle and I was at a standstill, so things went on from there."

Alex nodded and ran her hands through her hair, fluffing it out and bringing it back under control. "Interesting," she remarked, looking over at Neal for confirmation. He smiled and nodded his agreement, then sent me an adoring look.

I pursed my lips and looked down, inviting a blush to rise to my cheeks. So that was how we were going to perform for her. Alright. "What about you two?" I asked, returning the favor with an excuse other than just being nosy.

"She's like Moz," Neal filled in before she could. I looked over at him to listen and took note of how he said Mozzie's nickname openly. Alex probably knew the third member of our conspiring trio already, then. "My friend, who would prefer to remain discreet."

I made an 'oh' with my mouth and gave him a thumbs-up, which I then turned to show Alex. "Got it." I mimed zipping my lips. Alex hovered by the table, unsure of her welcome to come closer, and picked at the game pieces of a Scrabble set. It looked like she and Neal had been playing before I'd come inside. I paid attention to the letters she was lining up, almost right at the bottom right corner of the board. "Well, keep talking about sketchy things if you like, but if it's about the music box, I want to be filled in later, and I fully expect to be."

I aimed the last half more towards Neal than to Alex. Even without knowing my status as a federal agent, I didn't expect her to trust me. I didn't need her to. I just needed Neal to hold himself accountable to his promises and commitments. He nodded, solemnly vowing that he would. Alex, on the other hand, looked shocked that I was on board with what they'd been plotting about, and even more thrown that Neal was fully agreeing to share with me.

Picking up my duffel and shouldering it to carry it back to Neal's bedroom, I waved over to Alex to assuage her skittishness to whatever degree that I could. "Yeah, yeah, I know what he gets up to, and honestly I don't give a damn, I just want a hot shower." I tipped an imaginary hat to her. "I know where to put my things," I added to Neal.

Both of the cons watched me as I padded away, keeping their eyes on me attentively. I could feel their concentration on my back until I was at the foot of Neal's bed. I turned on the lamp switch and placed my bag down on the floor by the dresser, pulled a small Ziploc bag out of the front of my duffel, then put my hands on my hips and observed the mattress, comforter turned down evenly.

It was nice to look at the bed and think to myself that Alex had no place there, yet I was a regular guest underneath his sheets. _I_ was who he wanted, not her. I didn't think I'd really have to fight her on that, but it was nice to reaffirm for myself that I was his chosen.

I slipped back out of the alcove, leaving my bag where it was, and took out my phone to check my messages. Katie had just told me to have fun. I debated telling her about Alex, but since that would've left a trace in my phone history, I chose not to. Alex was a criminal friend like Mozzie. I didn't need to get her arrested. I just needed to find out who she _was_ and if she was safe for Neal.

The duo in the main room had recommenced their conversation. "That's McKenna," Neal was saying in means of explanation. I slunk down the hall slowly to listen. In my experience, I could get a better feel for how people felt about me when they didn't know I was within earshot. "She's my girlfriend."

My stomach fluttered and my chest warmed. _Yes, I'm his._

"She's… interesting," Alex settled on, with a note of indecisiveness on how to react. "Didn't you try to keep Kate out of your adventures?"

I balked. _Excuse me, I'm his girlfriend, not his traitorous sister!_

"McKenna's not Kate," Neal corrected Alex firmly without hesitating.

I stuffed the little bag that doubled as an evidence bag into my back pocket while Alex bowed her head and accepted that Neal held me in high esteem. I held myself a little more proudly. "No, she's not," Alex agreed. "And you should remember that." Her voice turned cautionary. "She doesn't seem like your typical girl."

"She's not," Neal confirmed, and without missing a beat, added, "And I prefer it that way. I think she's incredible just the way she is."

Alex strengthened her voice. "Girlfriend or not, I'm not talking to her about the box." She declared stubbornly. That was the tone she'd been using when she'd gotten pissed at Neal trying to manipulate her. It was mean, but I was glad she wasn't happy with him. It made her less likely to return the flirting. "If you want to, then be my guest, but just because you trust her doesn't mean I do. I don't know if you remember, but it can be very dangerous to have ties to anything _you_ do. _Especially_ when you're playing fed."

So she knew about his association with the bureau, but didn't know that I was his handler. Alright. I could work with that. There was no need for her to know who I was any more specifically than that Neal was off limits.

I came strutting back out, confident and at home in the penthouse, and went straight to the table. Inconspicuously, I checked out the Scrabble board more closely. The only word near where Alex had touched was a set of letters that said _later._ She may have made nice to me, but she wasn't going to have anything to do with me. As a cover for getting close to the game, I kept going to the window and drew the curtains past the glass door.

"Don't leave on my account," I invited Alex to stay graciously. It felt okay to do that when I knew she wasn't going to take me up on it. "By all means, finish your game." I stood over the table and pushed out my hip, leaning onto the furniture. "Like I said, I just want a shower."

"No, no." Alex sent Neal a cold look that I wasn't supposed to pay attention to. "We're done here."

Other than her _clothes,_ Alex hadn't brought anything with her, and she had a fast way to leave. Neal dragged his fingers through his thick hair and saw her to the door, holding it open for her while she marched out with her head high, and closed it. While he was distracted, I yanked the evidence bag out of my pocket and plucked up one of the tiles she'd touched, dropping the 'T' tile into the bag. I sealed it and shoved it back into my pants while Neal twisted the deadbolt.

Neal turned back to look at me, licking and biting his lower lip nervously. He tried to smile at me to convey his apologies and his earnestness from the door.

I swallowed. "She's gorgeous," I stated offhandedly about Alex.

Neal crossed the room in long strides, coming to my side by the table. He didn't notice the missing game piece. "She's an old friend from a long time ago." He told me, reaching out his arms from a few feet away. Putting the Scrabble tile's abduction out of my mind, I moved right into his open embrace and touched my hands to his hips. "I asked her not to do that thing, but she…"

I snorted. I had heard him ask her not to myself, but it was hard not to feel bitter. I was constantly second-guessing his sincerity and whether or not he truly cared, and then here came a sexy woman who stripped out of her skirt right in front of him to try to make me go away.

"Old habits die hard, right?" I asked sarcastically, head turned to the side to hold my cheek to his shoulder.

Neal raised a hand to the back of my head. "They died hard and fast a long time ago, and not just because of prison," he vowed levelly. I sighed softly and let him drag my head back by my hair to look up at him. He lowered his head to touch his lips to the tip of my nose, then kissed my lips with a nibble of teeth. "You're the only girl I have eyes for," he mumbled against my mouth.

I arched my back and tightened my hands on his hips, gripping his sides possessively. With a tight press of my fingers into his lower back, I pulled his waist towards mine. He curled his toes. "I don't care if you make eyes at other girls as long as you don't touch," I declared purposefully, pressing a hand over his pectoral. "Or let _them_ touch _you."_

Neal's mouth curled into a smirk. "Why, Kenna, are you jealous?" He teased.

"Damn right I am!" I answered loudly, rubbing his chest through his shirt and grinning playfully. I wasn't really mad to begin with, but I felt a bit better after clearing the air. I couldn't be pissed if he'd had Alex as a former partner, so long as I was his only current lover.

Neal laughed heartily at my admission and pulled me tight to him. I let go of his hips and cradled his back with my arms, hands reaching all the way to his shoulders and holding him down to me, standing on my toes to press our cheeks together. Neal rubbed my lower back and set his chin on my shoulder. I started to stroke the back of his neck, catching the short hair and twining it around my fingers.

Over his shoulder, I could see the table underneath the clock and to the left of the dining table. It looked like it was originally just supposed to be a nightstand, or sit at one side of a sofa. It was small, like a bedtable, with three drawers on the front. A white cloth was draped several inches over the edges on all sides, a chessboard sitting on top with the pieces paused in the middle of a round.

"Who are you playing on that thing?" I asked over his shoulder, fingers stilling against the back of his head, playing with his hair like Alex should have if she'd wanted me to believe her ruse. Of course, if she valued her safety and security as a criminal running free, she should keep her hands well away from Neal in general, his hair included. "Mozzie?"

It took him a second to realize what I was talking about. "Er, no." Moment over, he lifted his head. I dragged my fingers down his upper back and let him step away, turning around to look over at it, too. "And not Alex, either," he said as an afterthought. I nodded. I hadn't thought so. "What kept you? I was starting to think you'd bailed out." He kept a hand on my back.

"I made a couple of calls to some of my own friends and asked the favor to have the shooter's fingerprints run through their databases, but they didn't have anything, either… which is starting to get really frustrating," I expressed, looking down with a scowl. It was really pissing me off that we didn't have anything on the blonde that lied and escaped. I should never have sent her off without first verifying who she was. Diana felt guilty, but most of the blame lied with me.

Making a sympathetic noise in his throat, Neal cupped the back of my neck in his hand and pressed his thumb into the pressure point. I sighed noiselessly and slumped to the side. He wrapped me up again, more tenderly than before, with every care to cradle my head and enclose me in warmth.

"You know, between the two of us, we seem to have friends in every venue," he mused to distract me.

"I've got it," I grinned, locking my hands around his back loosely. I let him distract me. I had an indefinite number of consecutive date nights in front of me; I could be unhappy at work while I was at work, as long as I took advantage of the free pass to spend my evenings with my soulmate. "We band our friends together, create a criminal network, and take over the world with white-collar crimes. Eh?"

"Sounds like the best date I'll ever go on," Neal smiled back at me, touching our foreheads at an angle that made it easy to close the gap between our lips. "Unfortunately, I don't think a home-cooked dinner will quite top that, but I've never learned when to give up."

The artist was good with his hands, and he was quite the culinary artist, as well. I wasn't going to object to letting him feed me. Gingerly, I nuzzled our noses in an Eskimo kiss. Neal's smile broadened, pleased by the positive reception, and he chuckled encouragingly.

"You're awesome, you know that?" I informed him adoringly, squeezing his waist in a hug as I planted my lips on his, leading him back against the table and working his lips open, simultaneously stroking his back with gentle hands.

* * *

Nothing woke me up. I got to rise on my own. I wasn't quite ready to shine, but I did feel the very present lack of a person either under or beside me, so I rolled onto my back and flung an arm out to search. _Ah! There._ I slapped Neal's leg and patted his knee as I found him. He was sitting up against the headboard, knees up under the sheets. Keeping my eyes closed, I continued to pet his leg.

Neal let me have a few seconds of mindless touching before he laughed and reached out. His balance changed and the dip in the bed shifted. Then his hand was on my forehead, pushing my messy hair out of my face. "Morning, Sleeping Beauty," he chuckled.

"Hey," I rasped, cleared my throat, and started again. "Hey, I was actually sleeping, not comatose."

Waking up next to Neal was nice. It always was, except for the times when I felt so in over my head that I had to rush to leave, but those were rarer and more infrequent as time wore on. There was something new to it more recently since we'd become an official couple, exchanging kisses in the mornings and staying wrapped up in each other while we mentally prepared to go and face the day.

I used my elbows to push myself into a sitting position, scooting my rear up the bed to be more even with Neal. He didn't wait for me to figure that out myself. Instead, he put down a piece of paper that crumped around his hand as he forced it into the mattress, turned his knees towards me, and wrapped both arms under mine in a bear hug, hefting me up and dragging me to his naked chest. He resettled me with my hip nestled just below his and cradled me to his front with a strong arm that held me up. I let myself be manhandled. Neal was very careful not to be too rough, and to be conscious of which limbs were where and how far a joint could bend before it got painful.

I laid down my head over his heart and listened to the thrumming beat through his ribs. "How'd you sleep?" He asked me, and I could hear his voice and feel the vibrations through his body, too.

"Really well, actually," I confided, pushing my left arm insistently between his back and the pillows he was using to prop himself up. He arched to make it easier, and then I resettled with a sideways hug. "Thanks."

Gingerly, I picked my head up and kissed his chest over his heart before I moved my ear back down to listen to the drumbeat. Very little was more soothing a lullaby than the proof of his continued health.

My eyes drifted shut again. I could've fallen asleep like that. I repositioned my legs and shoved them both underneath his bent knees, determined to let his strong legs warm mine. My foot bumped up against the anklet unthinkingly and I tried not to still immediately, but that was what my attention went back to.

The anklet itself wasn't a very big deal. It was hard and uncomfortable when I accidentally hit it, especially with the bony part of my ankle. What it represented was the reason I hated being reminded that Neal had to constantly wear it. He was a felon. I didn't care so much that he was an ex-con, because convicted or not, he was still _my Neal,_ but he was still a _current_ convict. The anklet reminded me that he was still in the process of serving a sentence, in prison or not, and it would be so easy to replace his Devore tags with letters across his back that read _Department of Corrections._

That current sentence he was still serving was such a pain in the ass. If it weren't for that term that he be my CI, then I wouldn't have to sneak around with him. I could wake up _every_ morning to be held close to his heart, force him to let me use his body as a space heater every day. I could play with his hands while we fell asleep without feeling guilty that my painted wrist was still something he had never seen. More and more, I wanted to show him, but I kept remembering vividly what would've happened if he knew. If anyone found out, he'd be taken away from me. Conflict of interest and all that… of course he'd be taken away. That was why I had to wait more than three years.

Knowing that Fowler had a serious bone to pick with both of us didn't help, either. That little box attached to Neal's leg gave him a lot of ammunition, and all he had to do was corrupt some of the data in the Marshals' computers. It wasn't hard for him to do, considering how easily he had corrupted himself already. That anklet only signified pain and fear.

I rubbed my foot against his leg, down to the sock keeping the strap from digging into his leg and back up to the inside of his knee. Neal relaxed slightly as I treated it like it didn't matter, ignoring the screaming in my head.

Neal seemed totally fine with just cuddling for a while instead of getting back to what he'd been doing when I woke up, but my brain begged me for a distraction, so I gave it what it wanted, looking past the artist to the little piece of notebook paper he'd left on the side of the bed. It was the weird list from the shooter's handbag.

"How long have you been working on that?" I asked, not picking my head up from his skin.

"A while," Neal answered carelessly with a shrug that suggested he didn't truly care how long it had been.

I yawned, my jaw stretching wide, and then snapped it shut quickly, nuzzling into him. "Why didn't you wake me up?" I complained quietly, having a hard time being annoyed when I had slept so well.

"You're really peaceful when you sleep," Neal answered with a look on his face like it was the obvious answer. His arm moved on my back so that his hand could reach my head, and he petted down my hair, brushing over my ear in the process.

With his other hand, he picked up the list and turned it so we could both look at it. I lazily kept my head where it was. I was comfortable. Neal's list looked very realistic. The ink looked smudged and the paper more crumpled up than Neal usually kept things. He hadn't woken me up folding paper, so the creases weren't from him.

"That doesn't look like a photocopy. You took the actual list." I scolded and flicked his nipple. Neal caught his breath. "We talked about this," I complained to him.

"I didn't steal it," Neal defended, going on to argue semantics. "I borrowed it. And I made a copy for you guys." I didn't buy it, but I liked the man too much to want to ruin the morning by going back and forth about technicalities and what did and did not count as theft. "I've tried key words, anagrams, Charlemagne cypher, Rohans – everything."

On another piece of paper on the bed that I hadn't noticed, which Neal had covered up inadvertently when he hastily set the list down to pay attention to me, was a collection of nonsense letters and phrases that he'd made, going down the list of his well-known codes and crossing them out as they didn't apply. The victim's name was at the top for comparison.

I frowned at it. "Well, that might be why," I pointed out the spelling. "There's supposed to be a Y there, not an I."

"What?" Neal picked it up and covered the I with his thumb, just looking at the other letters and comparing them to the list, seeing if there was an overlap that had come close but not quite fit with his inaccurate spelling.

"Hm." I was irrationally pleased that he'd been in need of a nice correction, courtesy of his humble girlfriend. "Maybe you should've woken me up after all, Romeo," I quipped.

Neal's fingers stroked over my shoulder while he mouthed letters, eyes darting over his page. I saw the wheels turning and the lights coming on and just looked up at him while he worked. He was so smart. Brainy really _was_ sexy. I wriggled up to kiss under his jaw.

"It's a shift code hidden in an anagram," Neal murmured, realizing, and straightened up. He dropped his arm from around me to use it as a prop to readjust himself, so with a disappointed scowl, I did the same. Neal used both free hands to compare the two lists side by side. "There are five items in the list. Shift the alphabet four by five letters, A becomes E, B becomes F, and so on. Reassemble, and this name becomes Aldys Grey."

Neal worked out the others. The first two, Spike RN and Verify Pie (still weird), came into some strange spelling that didn't look like anything important, but the second one gave me a first name that could have gone together. _Jon._ I tried to figure out the rest of it in my head while Neal focused on making a new list to the margin that went through the possibilities for the first. _Gale. Lega?_ There were a few other options with those four letters, but none were words.

"It's a list of names," I realized first, patting Neal's stomach excitedly.

Neal looked at it with a lot more concern than I had. "A hit list," he specified, eyebrows pulled down and catching his lower lip in between his teeth.

I nodded. The names were in code. What was the point, if there wasn't something malicious being plotted? We had taken her little list, but she probably had it memorized. "Looks like I wasn't too far off with me femme fatale joke," I said aloud, looking back to Neal's face and cupping his cheek in my hand. "Very clever," I praised.

* * *

I strode around the kitchen with purpose, filling up the percolator with tap water from the filter. I didn't have shoes on, so my feet were kind of chilly, but it was an acceptable coolness, bordering right between refreshing and uncomfortable. While I was getting the hot chocolate mix down, the door came open without knocking. I looked over with minimal alarm and relaxed again, wrestling the box of powder from the top cabinets.

"Good morning," I greeted Mozzie, letting it pass that he had just come on in without announcing himself. What if I'd been in a robe or something? Eh. It wasn't my house. When he started inviting himself into my place, _then_ I'd get on him about privacy. If Neal was cool with him treating the penthouse as his own, then any awkwardness from such an attitude could be blamed on the artist.

"Is it?" He asked, walking over to the counter regardless of his grouchy tone. "Is it _really_ a good morning, Suit?"

I barely withheld a sigh. "Well, I thought it was…?" It had been for me, at least; a nice break in the case and a hot shower put me in a pretty good mood, not to mention that I'd gotten to wake up leisurely. I trailed off into a question in case there was a reason he was there that made it a bad morning.

Mozzie made a suspicious noise as he stared at my back. I just took out some hot chocolate packets and retrieved some mugs, making the assumption that he wasn't too annoyed to say no to a hot drink. He could stare at me for a few minutes before I got self-conscious. It didn't come to that. He grunted tiredly. _Someone_ hadn't gotten to sleep in a nice bed curled up with their boyfriend. "Where's Neal?"

I indicated the hall. "He's showering," I informed, drawing his attention to the running water in the background noise. "I'm making cocoa. We figured out some evidence and we're going to go in to work once he's dressed." I didn't go into detail. Mozzie held the same distaste for violence that Neal did, thankfully, which was one of the main reasons I'd figured that he couldn't be too bad to start with. If he _really_ wanted to be involved in an FBI investigation, he'd ask for more details. It concerned me that I wouldn't have cared very much about sharing them with a non-affiliate. "Want some?"

Moz crossed his arms over the table and leaned into the counter, looking at the hot chocolate packets. He stared at them meanly. He was just going to have to accept that I was not a gourmet chef or beverage mixer, and I had lower standards than those professional thieves. "Only if I can watch you prepare it," he decided grudgingly, submitting himself to subpar hot chocolate.

"Um, sure, okay." I hadn't had any intention of _hiding_ while I made it. The two mugs were a good foresight. "I'd have thought by now you'd realize I'm not into murder, but, you know. Whatever." I poured the packets of mix into the mugs, ripping them open at the same time and tipping them in. I'd gotten good at making two mugs simultaneously, and trashed the empty papers.

Mozzie and I had an interesting relationship, I reflected. The odds were very slim that we'd have been friends if it weren't for Neal bringing us together. The conman was important to both of us, and we tolerated each other mostly so that we could still be around Neal without the other causing trouble or stress for anyone because of it. I didn't approve of Moz's lifestyle, but I had to respect him for his avoidance of hurting innocent people, and his compassion for the victims of crimes like charity fraud. He wasn't a big fan of my career, but he had an unspoken willingness to cooperate with me because I wasn't selectively blind to the good that came out of Neal's illicit schemes, and I worked seemingly tirelessly some days to keep him protected. At the end of the day, Mozzie and I both had Neal's interests in a higher priority than any arguments we might have with each other.

There had to be something else there, though; some unifying factor other than Neal, because just a devotion to his friend wouldn't have convinced Moz to slam a limousine into a suspect and stay long enough to talk to the fed on the scene. He'd been just as involved in the scam to get into a corrupt judge's office as Neal had been, and had worked long nights to find the evidence that Fowler was playing my sister like a game piece. Our friendship wasn't _entirely_ centered on Neal. In another universe, maybe one where Neal had never been a conman or had never come to New York, Mozzie and I might have made an interesting team; a fed with an unofficial CI, rather than a full-time consultant with an ankle monitor.

I got so lost in considerations of the guy behind me that I stopped paying as much attention to what I was doing. I turned my wrist so quickly as I poured boiling hot water from the percolator into the mug that a bunch splashed up over the rim of the cup and splattered on my wrist. My gloves were still on, as usual, but though the dark color obscured my soulmark, the material was thin and light for sleeping in, and the temperature seeped through almost before I even realized I'd gotten wet.

"Damn it!" I slammed the percolator down. More splashed up out of the divot around the top, but the bottom of the device was covered in rubber, so the counter was safe. I'd just have to wipe up the water. "Ah!" I waved my arm, but the water had already soaked through to my skin. Swearing some more, I grabbed at the edge of my glove and yanked it down, not thinking of anything but getting my wrist under cold water. I turned on the sink and threw my cover to the counter by the mugs, holding my arm under the tap. I leaned my hip against the sink and sighed with relief. It still stung and prickled, and my wrist was already pinked, but the cold water was drawing the heat out. "Oh, that hurt," I moaned.

 _Way to go, Anderson,_ I chided myself silently. _Very graceful. Very eloquent, too._

After a few more seconds, I took my hand out from under the water and held up my wrist. Other than the normally bright colors of my soulmark, the skin on the side of my wrist was still red, but it didn't look like it was burnt. I took up a dish towel from the side of the sink and rubbed up the water from my hand, but left the droplets on my arm. Couldn't hurt, I figured. One glove off, I went and used the towel to mop up the spilled water on the counter before it left damage, sighing.

After I quickly did that, I threw the cloth down and picked up one of the mugs that had gotten completely filled before I'd decided to be a klutz. I turned around and put it down on the counter in front of Mozzie, knowing he wouldn't want milk. "Anything else?" I asked casually, as if I hadn't just made a fool of myself.

Neal's friend didn't even realize that the drink was in front of him. His eyes were fixed on my wrist. I raised my eyebrows. Surely that wasn't the first time he'd seen someone splash themselves. I picked up my hand and his eyes followed while I snapped in front of his face.

"Earth to Moz. Anyone in there?" I put my hand back down, looked to make sure I hadn't missed any terrible blistering (but I was pretty sure I'd have noticed), and then I realized the full extent of what I'd done.

I'd taken my glove off, and then moved around enough for Mozzie to see the wing printed on my inner wrist. My hand jerked off of the counter like it was as hot as the water had been, and I held my hand behind my back anxiously, adrenaline spiking.

"Oh. Um, this." I clasped my left hand over my right wrist behind my back, conscious of all of the reflective surfaces there were to be found in a kitchen, especially one kept as clean and shiny as Neal's. "I can explain…"

 _How the fuck am I going to explain this?!_ I demanded of myself internally. Anyone else, and it would've been no big deal. No one else that knew me had ever seen Neal shirtless! Kate would know it was his because I'd told her, but she'd already promised to keep her mouth shut about it. Mozzie was the one person, other than me (and possibly June), who was around the artist when he was lounging indoors, and thus the only person who would've seen the soulmark on the small of his back.

Mozzie held up his hands to stop me before I stumbled through a made-up explanation on the spot, and probably saved me a lot of dumb stuttering in the process. "No need," he said peacefully, taking it gracefully and willingly, as though several things suddenly made more sense now that he had seen my wrist. "I feel like this has explained a lot on its own. No wonder Neal was so obsessed with winning you over."

 _Oh, why don't you just punch me?_ I thought miserably. If he'd known we were soulmates, he would have tried just as hard, if not harder, to get on my good side, and then continued to try admirably to make our relationship closer. He was so hung up on the prospect that I doubted a little thing such as _legality_ or _ethics_ would have stopped him.

I couldn't say any of this, but the room felt small and I felt like I was trapped in the kitchen by the weight of his presence, which really was lighter than when he'd come in, so it made no sense.

"It also explains his willingness to help you," Mozzie decreed, thinking back on several instances in which he'd been the go-to for assistance. "However, as his best friend, I am _outraged_ not to have been informed, and must exchange strong words with him."

"He's still in the shower," I blurted before Moz could get up. I was grasping at a straw and I knew it – the two of them had known each other too long, and Neal was too comfortable with his body, for Neal to refuse to listen to Mozzie just because he was bathing.

Mozzie sent me a look like I was just pointing out something obvious. I might as well have said what day it was. "And?" He asked, lifting his shoulders and waiting for an expansion.

I gaped for a second. Making excuses wasn't going to work, so… "You can't go talk to him about it!" _Panicky and loud it is, then!_ I fumed at myself and my poor handle on the situation, and checked to see if I could still hear the shower going. Luckily, I could. We didn't have an eavesdropper who would've heard.

The conman looked offended. "And why not?" He asked challengingly, just like me when I was told I couldn't do something and then immediately wanted to do _nothing but that thing._ "Did you agree not to tell me?" He questioned, and before I could tell him that that wasn't it (or say it was, I didn't know what I was going to do), he got huffy and agitated. "Was it a secret? Who else knows but me?"

"Katie, and that's all," I swore. It hit me then that the best option may have actually just been to tell the truth, so I forced myself not to lie. I leaned over the counter to get at eye level with him while he sat and looked into his eyes. "She and I are the _only_ people that know," I said firmly.

Moz raised his eyebrows and prompted me to continue. "… And Neal," he finished for me, looking over the top of his glasses suspiciously.

I didn't answer, just reached up to the back of my neck nervously and looked away, ashamed.

"Neal doesn't know," Mozzie interpreted correctly, sounding scandalized and shocked in equal measure. After all that preaching about being honest, I was keeping a huge secret from him. "Oh, that's just _cold_ , Suit," he declared, sounding revolted by me.

I covered my eyes and rubbed my face. "Neither of us are in a position for this to be a good thing," I pointed out to Mozzie, reminding him exactly what precarious position Neal was already in with the government. I had to argue my case, although I had my worries that Mozzie was going to side with Neal, no matter what.

"Surely you've picked up on how much he loves his soulmate, despite not knowing who it is! I mean, he _only_ says something about it _every time_ he gets a reminder." Biting my lip, I looked back up at the ceiling. Mozzie looked as blown away as Katie had been when I'd crept back home after finding out myself so many months ago. "Isn't the point of soulmates to share?"

It crossed my mind to ask exactly how much _he_ shared with _his_ soulmate, but stuffed that down before it came out of my mouth. I didn't know about Mozzie's personal life and that was a low and cruel way to hit. No way was that kind of response going to convince him to help me keep my secrets.

"Not in my world!" I hissed in response, looking past his shoulder to check to see that we were still alone. The shower was still running. Thank _God_ Neal chose to take a long time. "Look, look, look… you tell him, you hurt him." I oversimplified it. It was the only thing I could think of to _do._ For the time being, what he didn't know wasn't going to hurt him. Secrets were best kept by as few people as possible. All it would take for his work-release to dissolve was the wrong person hearing about my conflict of interest. Moz could hate me all he wanted for my choices, but he would rather hate me in private than see Neal be incarcerated again. "Okay? Is that what you want?!"

Mozzie stood up from the bar stool and forgot his cocoa entirely. "You've been lying to him," he accused, stomping his foot and pointing at my chest. I put my hands up and backed away, even though there was still an island between us. I didn't doubt that if he was mad enough, he would try to scale it to get to me. "You're in a very important relationship with him and you have been lying to him the whole time. Do you have _any_ idea how many times I had to listen to him moping about why you didn't want him?! I hope you're impressed, Suit, because it's going to hurt now no matter _who_ tells him!"

"What happens if he knows?" I asked desperately, gesturing vehemently for him to lower his voice. Neal could overhear even over the water if Moz got too loud. He could shut off the tap any moment. "Hm? If it ever comes into light, I'll lose custody of him! No one else in the division is going to be willing to take even half as much as I am from him, and he'll be back in jail at the slightest provocation."

Mozzie faltered, still looking infuriated on his best friend's behalf, but he had to scowl at me in silence while I explained what would happen. The bureau wouldn't trust me to keep my integrity while working with my soulmate, especially not if my soulmate was a convicted criminal. Which he was. A touch of anxiety flickered onto Moz's face. We both knew how dangerous prisons were, especially for nonviolent and attractive men like Neal.

"He has me because he wants me," I murmured softly, eyes stinging. I held my arm up to my chest, wrist turned in towards my heart defensively. Almost as important as keeping Neal safe was knowing the reasons why we were together, and ensuring that it wasn't because of some misplaced feeling of obligation to someone he shared a tattoo with. "He knows I'm with him because I _want_ to be. And I _do_ want him, Moz, I swear." I vowed despite knowing he probably wasn't going to hold my word in very high esteem. "Isn't that a much healthier foundation than some stupid tattoos?"

Moz snorted. "Don't let him hear you saying that," he warned.

"He already knows my opinion," I replied, just reinforcing my point. It wasn't some line I was just now coming up with to defend myself. "Don't tell him," I requested quietly.

Mozzie's conflict was clear. He could protect Neal by minimizing the likelihood of his physical harm by doing his part to maximize the potential for emotional harm. The thought made my heart clench. I _hated_ the situation. I couldn't change it, but I couldn't come clean. Neal might learn to hate me when he eventually did learn what I was hiding, but I could somehow learn to deal with his hatred if it meant that I never had to get a phone call from the prison that my CI had been attacked.

My lip trembled. I sank my teeth in to stop it.

"You know what," Mozzie said, breathing in deeply and preparing himself for something. I held my breath. Moz exhaled, long and slow and pained. "I'm cleaning my hands of this," he declared, looking down and holding his hands up, dusting them off. "If he comes crying to me, expect a fully frozen shoulder." I blinked and nodded. I didn't really expect him to be sympathetic to me. Wasn't sure I deserved it, either. "If he ever asks me, I'm not helping you perpetuate this web of lies."

 _If._ The implication should have let me calm down and feel like everything was a little bit more under control, but instead I just felt equally shameful and hurt.

"It's not a web," I debated weakly. "It's more like a small handful."

I kept my soulmark covered with my hand. I kept extra gloves in my car. I'd get some then. Or if Neal came out then I would just pull on the wet one no matter how much I didn't like how wet fabric felt.

"I'm not talking technicalities with you!" Mozzie snapped, sitting back down. He radiated upset and anger. I felt the room positively _thrum_ with it. It was no longer a welcoming environment.

I turned to the mug I'd prepared for myself and dumped it out into the sink. No way could I sit down and drink hot chocolate with Mozzie after _that._ My stomach was already threatening to twist around and be sick from nerves alone. I didn't want to be subjected to the hostility from someone whose friendship I valued, although I may have lost a great deal of the trust I'd earned. Only time would tell if I could earn it back, or how much of it had been destroyed. My motives were well-meaning, so I could cross my fingers, but I wasn't going to put much stock into the possibility.

"I have to go," I said, picking up my discarded glove and patting my pockets. Thankfully, I had previously gotten my badge, wallet, and phone.

"I thought you were making cocoa," Mozzie snipped tersely.

"Well, so did I, but then _this_ happened." I just indicated the entire room. Mozzie was the antagonist – or was he actually the protagonist? I shook my head – and now I just wanted to _leave._ When I came back in the evening, I wanted to feel like I was allowed to be there, not like I was being chased out by the memory of the morning and the displeased conman. "Just tell him something came up and I went to the car to make a phone call." I'd just wait outside for him.

Mozzie slammed his cup down on the island. I jumped. "Didn't I _just_ say I wouldn't help you lie to him?" He inquired icily.

Turning on him suddenly, my temper made a surprise guest appearance. I was hating myself enough already for the both of us, no matter what I told myself, and the last thing I needed was for Moz to treat me like dirt because I was protecting our friend. He didn't get to step on me or talk down to me just because he disagreed. Life sucked for all of us. I had to compromise myself and lie to my agency to keep my mate out of jail. Neal couldn't go more than two miles away from June's, or an entire FBI team and SWAT descended on him. Mozzie was the one preaching to me about moral relativity. He needed to listen to his own fucking lesson.

"How is that a lie?" I hissed, stalking up to the table and putting my fist down hard across from him. "Because this seems like a pretty big argument to me. It's definitely a _something._ I _am_ going to the car. And, yeah, I'm probably gonna make a phone call, too, because I have a life that extends outside this room. Shocker, that life is the reason I'm keeping things from him. Because most of the people I could call would send him back into his own living hell. Don't even _start_ thinking I'm not reliable. I may not be the most honest person, but I will _never_ do anything to harm Neal. This is the lesser of two evils, and there's not a third option."

I stormed out, seething, practically vibrating with rage, and just as the door slammed behind me, the water from the shower shut off.

* * *

"Welcome back!" In happier spirits, Diana was the first to notice when Neal and I strolled through the doors to the unit. I kept adjusting my glove over my wrist, having changed into a dry pair I kept in my glove compartment (pun absolutely intended). "The crypt analyst called up…" she started to say, jumping up from her desk to be on the ball and on top of things.

I held up a finger to stop her and filled in smugly. "Shift code hidden in an anagram," I predicted.

Diana covered her surprise. "She called you already?" She assumed, leaning on the side of her desk. Derek stood up from his to greet us after finishing whatever he'd been doing on his computer.

"Nope!" Neal answered brightly, holding his chin up high to Diana.

The probie sighed at having to commend Neal, but her glare at his smug satisfaction was mostly fond. "Very nice," she reluctantly praised, sitting back down.

I was making my way for the mezzanine and Neal was following, but we were intercepted by my brother, who jumped out at the last moment and grabbed my shoulders. He hooked his arm under my chin and pulled me around. I bent over at my waist and reached my hands up for his arm, halfheartedly scrabbling my nails against his muscles.

Most departments would be alarmed if their agents put each other in headlocks, but evidently ours was not that kind, because Neal was the only one who looked anything short of completely oblivious to the short tussle that followed as Derek kept his grip tight and I fidgeted to get loose, scraping at his arm instead of rearing back and breaking his nose or kicking at his legs.

"Hey, baby sis, how was casa de Caffrey?" The agent asked conversationally, occasionally stepping in one direction or the other so that I didn't unbalance him and knock him to the ground by my agitated steps.

"Probably more fun than casa de Look-We're-Soulmates-and-Now-We're-Going-to-Make-Eyes-at-Each-Other-and-Drive-Our-Sister insane!" I retorted with a huff, curious how long it would take for me to lose my patience and actually demand to be let up. Without actually injuring him or announcing defeat, it was hard to get out of the chokehold.

"Oh, definitely more fun," Neal agreed, bobbing his head enthusiastically. If I could still talk clearly, then I guess I wasn't being choked tight enough to be worth his concern. _That's sweet of him…_ "We have a big TV, and a swimming pool, and lots of champagne."

"Hey, Johnson," Diana remarked from her desk, not looking up again from her table while she made a mark on a post-it note and then stuck it by the phone receiver. "If you choke our boss, Hughes is going to have some serious questions for you."

Releasing me to stumble away and stand up straight, Derek laughed and gave my shoulder a shove. I rubbed my throat melodramatically. "Stick in the mud," he taunted Diana, sticking his tongue out at her.

Diana did the same to him, succumbing to the juvenility. Although they were their typical disagreeable selves, I was admittedly pleased that Diana was back to taking jabs at Derek. I'd been worried that she'd be externally bothered for the entire case. It was harder to operate as a fully-functional team if we were constantly concerned by our teammate's obvious distress.

"I have a board set up in the conference room," she told Neal while I stalked back to Derek and punched him in the arm to get back for the headlock.

"Sweet," he said casually, over the thing where he boasted about solving the puzzle before the crypt analyst, and the two of them headed up to the mezzanine to go check out Diana's collection of information.

Derek laughed heartily when I slugged his arm, but he had to rub at it and grimaced for a split second. He made like he was going to get me again and I hopped out of the way, only to fall back into step beside him when he turned around to go follow after the other half of our team. Adjusting to professionalism yet again, I straightened the sleeves of my blazer and smoothed the front down over my chest. The little bag in my breast pocket crinkled. I felt more than heard it.

I made up my mind quickly and put a hand out to catch Derek's arm, stopping where I was. He turned to me in question which then turned to worry. Looking up to the conference room, where Diana held the door for herself and then made Neal catch it before it hit him, to which he laughed sarcastically, I decided that they were unlikely to notice a short exchange.

I snuck the evidence bag out of my jacket and handed it to Derek, hands low and not attracting attention. "Do me a favor and run the prints on this?" My brother looked down to see what it was, and didn't see much importance in a Scrabble tile. "A couple partials will be mine, but there'll be another set, too. I want to know who they belong to."

As my secrecy dawned on him, he glanced over to the conference room door to make sure Neal wasn't watching. "Keep it quiet?" He presumed.

"Right," I confirmed, trying not to feel bad about keeping it under the table. "Have it sent to me only. Don't tag it to any cases; she didn't do anything wrong, I just want to know who she is, and I don't think she'll tell me herself." Or, if she did, it would probably be the same way that Mozzie told me who he was – through an alias that I couldn't trust, and with everything else going on, I wasn't sure I could afford the same amount of time and circumstance to shore up the same foundation as my limited trust in Mozzie.

Derek pocketed the bag. "So casa de Caffrey had an unexpected visitor last night."

"Yeah." Not only was she unexpected, but to me, she was very unwelcome.

I wanted nothing to do with another shady person; I already had Fowler to keep an eye out for, a new issue with Mozzie, and on top of those, I was also just now trying to adjust to letting Neal quench his quixotic nature. It was easy to accept but harder to do without paranoia or suspicion, which was unfair to him. I had promised him the chance to prove he was sincere and now I had to follow through with that.

Mozzie was an entirely new headache all on his own. Was he really going to stay out of it, as he claimed? Or was his conscience, or his loyalty, going to get the better of him and tell Neal what he'd seen? If he did, then not only would my secret be out, but it would be at least twice as bad as if I had told him myself. Neal deserved to learn from me. Someone else doing the telling would take away the credibility of my reasoning and make it all seem like excuses. Which was the greater risk – uncertainty that Moz would keep his mouth shut, or spilling my guts myself in the off chance that he wouldn't?

Not to mention the case at hand. There was at least one person dead at this woman's hands already, a hit list in our evidence, and I had Diana to supervise and make sure that her annoyance with herself wasn't going to drive her to do something reckless to make up for it. I had to keep her in the game without letting her run it entirely.

"And to be honest," I added more quietly as Derek did me that favor and went to go to forensics. Standing in the middle of the floor between two rows of desks, I finished my thought. "I'm not sure which of us it was." Neal had invited me over, but he had seemed content to hold his covert meeting with the brunette. Was I supposed to have not known she existed? Would he have even told me if it hadn't been for me meeting her face-to-face?

* * *

Diana turned on the projector and moved out of the way, letting it send its images onto the wall. Her laptop showed two images of men, their profiles looking straight at the camera with neutral expressions. The one on the left was brown-haired and blue-eyed, and the one on the right was a ginger with green eyes.

"The first two names on the list, Earl Bauen and Jon Elga, are from different cities halfway across the country." Derek, Neal, and I all sat in chairs, Neal and I on one side of the table and Derek on the other. I let Diana run the presentation. She wanted to reaffirm her status as an effective agent? She couldn't learn to do everything she needed to be able to do in the bureau if I was always leading. "Both shut up really fast when I sent over Pierce's picture, and they swore up and down and halfway to Africa they'd never laid eyes on her."

"They married?" Neal asked, looking between the two men's photos. I frowned at them, trying to see whatever it was he had noticed, but couldn't.

"Yep, almost two years," Diana confirmed without asking how Neal had figured that out just from looking at their profiles. Maybe it was actually from her, saying she sent it to _them_ instead of to _each_ or _either._ "The third guy is Ben Thalen, real estate shark from New Jersey. Two months ago, he went to the hospital for a gunshot wound and steadfastly refused to admit it was anything other than a hunting accident."

She turned the page on her computer and brought up a photocopy of an emergency room report. I read the details and raised an eyebrow cynically. Yeah, Thalen was certainly keeping something away from the public.

"With a C-cam thirty-two ACP?" I sarcastically guessed.

"Uh-huh," Diana agreed in the same annoyed tone, rolling her eyes.

"I'm guessing he never met Pierce, either," Neal quipped, and Diana shook her head.

"Nope." My probie reached underneath her laptop, tipped the keyboard up, and took out a few pages stored safely underneath. She went to the second one in the small pile and slid it out from between the others. "Speaking of, we found a set of fingerprints that we think are hers, and this pan shot has all of the areas that we think for sure she touched." She slid it over to Neal and I with a push.

The photograph of the parlor where the body had been found had been highlighted and circled with red. Pierce's prints were on every article of furniture the room possessed, as well as on the picture frames of the hanging art and the walls around the edges. Drawers and dressers were covered with them, every single handle of the dresser where her purse had been touched in several places. It seemed like the only places free of her fingers had been the ceiling and the floor.

Neal bit his lip. I looked at him to pay attention to him while he spoke, but secretly admired him while he thought. "She's searching for something," he muttered, brushing his thumb over the top of the photo. "Her prints are all over the drawers and around the paintings. Maybe looking for a safe?" He suggested. He looked up to Derek to see what the other agent was thinking of the suggestion. My eyes were all for him, hair fluffy from a blow drier and curling up at the back of his neck, eyes crystal clear and alert, sucking on his lips thoughtfully.

"Could it be an elaborate robbery?" Diana asked, she and Derek oblivious to my nostalgic staring at my boyfriend.

He noticed, however, and he sent me a quick smirk and a wink before focusing in on Diana again, respectfully giving her his full concentration while she led the meeting. I reached for him under the table and touched his leg, setting my hand over his thigh. He didn't outwardly react. I kept touching him. _If Mozzie doesn't hold his tongue, then I might not get many more chances to just casually reach for him._

"They're all pretty rich," I noted. None of them were going to have a hard time figuring out their kids' college tuitions. "She could've taken money, but as far as we know, she didn't… which means she thinks that one, or all, of them have something she wants."

"She's smart," Neal credited. "Appeals to their greatest weakness to get in the door, then takes whatever she needs."

"What made her change her MO when she got to Grey?" The other woman on the team leaned onto the table and left her computer on, showing the hospital report against the wall, even as our focuses shifted to consider the motives behind Pierce's behavior.

"She was all bruised up," I recalled, thinking back to finding her and seeing her as a victim because of how multicolored she'd been. "We'd thought it was defensive, but it makes more sense if he started the fight and she pulled her gun when she was losing." Neal's mouth tightened disapprovingly. I curled my fingers against his thigh, reminding him that I was there with him. "A tox screen found a barbiturate that hadn't fully metabolized in his system. She probably got in the door, drugged something he ingested, and then started searching his house. Which explains the forty-minute gap between her arrival and the gunfire."

Neal took both of his arms off of the table and set them in his lap docilely. Diana and Derek were oblivious to that he took my hand in his and wrapped his fingers around my palm, holding our hands to his leg. "He woke up, they struggled, she pulled a gun. She'll kill if she has to." He grimaced. "Actually, she doesn't even have to. This could get messy."

"And we all know how much you dislike blue-collar cases," I sang, squeezing his hand while Derek snickered. If not for the gesture he couldn't see, it sounded like I was mocking.

Diana turned to the next slide on her laptop, and the projection showed a new profile picture of a short man with floppy black hair, hazel eyes, a round face, and a big, cheesy smile in a checkered shirt and a beanie. "The last name is another local named Daniel Picah. He's a trust fund baby whose family left him a few truckloads of money and then some." She looked mildly impressed. "I mean, that's a lot of zeroes."

Neal canted his head as he looked at the picture of the man in his early twenties. He didn't look anything like the others. Aside from being the youngest, he looked the most energetic and carefree. It was hard to consider him as someone who belonged on the same hit list as the others with the way he posed for the camera. He might as well put that image on FaceBook.

"I wonder what he has that's so appealing…"

I drummed my free hand on the table. "Whatever it is, she might kill him trying to get it unless we get to him first." _And then take steps to keep her out of his house._ "You've already called him? He needs to be aware she might approach him, and he needs to know that she is to be considered armed and dangerous." _Which Neal never was or will be,_ I thought gratefully, stroking his fingers with my thumb before disentangling our hands.

"I've already contacted him and explained the need-to-know on the situation," Diana assured. I smiled at her proudly and she nodded, not making a big deal out of it. "Safety is paramount."

"Is he talking?"

"That's not the problem." The brunette's expression dulled into one of irritation and she curled her lip. "The problem is getting him to _shut up."_

* * *

Picah had his own elevators. No, I was serious. His own _elevators._ In his own _house._ He had a house so large that it warranted his own elevators. Okay, so it was actually only four floors, but they were tall and large floors, and I really didn't think that anyone could be so lazy as to install elevators into their four-story house, but that argument applied to homes, not to trust fund kids who would never have to lift a finger a day in their lives.

 _Elevators._ The doors dinged and opened. Neal and I showed our badges and got through without a security escort, which was probably for the best, since I couldn't let go of the whole _elevators_ thing that kept sticking with me.

They slid open and Neal and I both stepped out. Neal went first, holding his hand across the doors when they were fully retracted, keeping them open while I slowly stepped out, looking up and down the hallway we emerged in. To the left, light from a bright source was creeping through the hallway and the corridor opened into a large room. To the right, it was darker, leading to a few closed doors on both sides of the hall. Neal took my elbow and pulled me out of the ride a little bit faster, but was still gentle. The doors closed impatiently when he moved his hand.

A black-haired man fitting Daniel's FaceBook profile picture heard the elevator as it closed and started to descend back down to the first floor. I looked at him, then glanced at his vest. He was dressed like he should be a college professor's TA. I looked past him, walking towards the left side of the hall and into the open room that Picah had come running from.

"Elevators," I said with barely-concealed distaste. There was just… there was a limit. Installed elevators in your own home crossed that line. "Very… fancy."

Dan's hair was floppy and fluffy in person. Unlike Neal, he didn't look as though he'd walked out of a _Men's Health_ magazine cover, but it was kind of refreshing to be near a man who wasn't in a suit for once in the last week. Between Neal's Devore and the bureau's professional atmosphere, the only man I'd talked to that was _not_ in a suit in the last two weeks was Neal, and I wasn't sure he counted, since I was temporarily living with him. I was bound to see him in a state of dress that didn't come from _Cosmo._

Daniel held his arms out as if inviting us in for hugs. Right away, I knew that he was going to be an atypical example of a civilian cooperating with the bureau. "Hey! FBI guys!" He skidded to a stop, socks slipping over the plain wooden floor. He saw Neal first, having looked up quickly, but then sought out my eyes, saw my hair, facial features, and chest, and corrected himself with a boyishly cute introductory bow. "Oh, sorry, FBI lady and gent." He straightened up and bounced back, clapping his hands in front of him and then swinging his arms at his sides. "How's it going?"

I questioned how he knew who we were. He had to have some visitors that weren't FBI, right? Diana had called to warn him, but there was still the possibility we weren't with the bureau. Then I realized that the security guard had probably buzzed up to his employer after showing Neal and I to the elevator (!), which explained why he had only just come running.

I held a hand over my chest. "Agent McKenna Anderson." Indicatively, I reached towards Neal. He was a step behind me, and I felt around blindly, eyes and smile locked on Picah while I felt for my consultant until my hand landed on his chest. I patted the side of his chest as if to say, _here he is!_ "This is Neal Caffrey."

Picah cocked his head, looking at Neal with interest. I turned to see what was so interesting. Neal had just taken off his fedora, was holding it to his abdomen, and was trying to stand on his toes to look over the homeowner's head and see what was in the room he was blocking us from.

"Not _Agent_ Neal Caffrey?" Our guy asked, eager to make conversation.

I shook my head. "He's my consultant," I explained briefly.

If anything, this just made Picah a little more enthusiastic in asking questions about my CI. "Oh?" His eyes brightened. "What do you consult on?" He asked, bouncing on his toes.

I held up a hand and waved my finger in a circle. Picah nodded and leapt to the side of the hall, waving for us to come on. He might as well have asked what we were waiting for. The unhesitating willingness to let us into his house was, if nothing else, refreshing in its amicability. I then reached behind me, crooked a finger at Neal, and led the way into the bright room.

Now _this_ was a studio. Neal's penthouse was sweet, but this was the kind of place I thought of when I thought of an artists' studio. Picah had the main room cleared out and it was flooded with sunlight from opened curtains on windows that reached almost all the way to the ceiling, which was easily fifteen feet high, _at least._ It was spacious, lacking in furniture but for decorative dressers and tables placed around the room, showing off artifacts and displays. None of them stood out to me, but I guessed they were probably all worth some pretty pennies. To the far left of the room, a staircase wound upwards even further from the far side of the room, and underneath that staircase was a second one that descended.

Neal looked around while he answered, distracted by his eyes and attention being all called for by every item in the room. "Frauds, forgeries… cons…" He did the hat trick with his fedora, flipping it onto his hair and settling it with a hand both on the back and front sides of the brim.

I leaned forward while Neal walked onwards. Picah stayed just a couple of feet from me, watching with oblivious delight as the conman checked out the interior of his house. When it was clear he was done talking, I added to Picah, "Arts, heists, cyphers – if you're curious, you should Google him," I advised impishly. If Neal wasn't going to pay attention, I'd just find some way to convince him. "That's Neal – with an A – Caffrey, C-A-double F-R-E-Y," I spelled. I'd like to see his reaction when he did as I advised and found that his visitor was a renowned, high-end thief.

Who was currently walking around all of his expensive material objects, which were in plain view, with very limited security measures taken to guard them.

Picah just disregarded my advisement. I would've been lying if I'd said I wasn't a little bit disgruntled. His eyes were _all_ for my boyfriend. "Ooh, awesome hat trick!" He followed Neal to a dresser against the wall on our side of the room, which displayed a short, unremarkable hat against a modeling black bust. The chest started to swell with breasts, but the bottom of the statue was cut high enough so that it was child-appropriate. "Can you teach me that?"

Neal was bent over, bringing his face closer to the bust and its accompanying hat, but when Picah asked, he turned his head to look to the man who was joining him at his side. His smile wasn't even convincing enough of a normal person, much less a skilled professional. He might as well have been looking at one of June's dogs as they were doing something goofy.

I glared at him to behave, but he kept his mouth shut and looked back at the decoration that, for some reason, had quickly become the most important thing in the room.

Our helpful host couldn't seem to stop running his mouth. "You like that statue?" He asked, hovering behind Neal with his hands behind his back, mimicking the way my consultant stood. "Don't worry, it's real, completely. I had it authenticated."

Abruptly, Neal stood up and walked back to me from the bust and the host, rigidly straight. He looked down at me with the aggravation of someone whom had just been gravely insulted… by an authenticated piece of rock. I sighed and pinched my nose while Neal quietly complained.

"He uses a Bo Hasevadia bust as a _hat rack,"_ Neal tattled. I shrugged, closing my eyes and looking up wearily. I had no idea who that was, but I was sure it was a big deal to my CI. Neal touched my shoulder when I didn't take him as seriously as I was supposed to. "Do you know how much this bust is worth?" He demanded.

"I paid four fifty for that," Picah piped up, oblivious to the tension he was causing in Neal.

 _Four fifty what? Dollars? Hundreds? Thousands?_ The lack of quantifier suggested that it was pretty obvious to Picah, and Neal's lips twisted into a grimace. I reached up to his hand on my shoulder and patted his wrist consolingly, only just managing to keep myself from smiling. His distress seemed so silly and over-exaggerated. _Diva._

We both looked over to Picah to see that he was still by the bust, but had picked up the hat. While we watched, he did a sloppy and slow version of Neal's own patented, handsome hat flip. His ended up being flipped too far, and he had to pull it forward over his hair. It wasn't a big deal – I was still impressed, I didn't know how to do that – but Neal looked upon him with the air of Professor Snape surveying the subpar first-years. _Oh, of course,_ I sarcastically realized. _Having to fix the hat would mess up Neal's hair._

Neal turned to look right at me. "I can't be here," he declared nauseously.

I touched his bicep to deter him from turning right back towards the elevators, which he looked prepared to do at any moment. "You can suffer through," I sternly corrected him. He might not _enjoy_ it, but he could manage. I didn't really see the problem. Not everyone could be art history experts, and Picah was kind of cute in his readiness to please, even if he was kind of annoying in the way he seemed not to grasp Neal's mood. I turned to the guy who was practicing the hat flip again. "Mr. Picah-" I started to get his attention.

He dropped the hat onto his hair and pulled the brim to the side, misaligning the hat in a cool move. "Hey, we're all friends!" He threw his arms out to express that he was an open book. "Call me Dan!"

Neal's face implied that there was no way in hell he was going to foster that feeling of familiarity. I chuckled. _Dan_ was entertaining me, especially in his unintentional antagonizing of my boyfriend, who could do with being a little less superior. "Friends, okay," I agreed, to which Neal stared at me as if I had gone nuts. "Have you been in contact with any women recently?"

Dan grinned handsomely and pushed his thumbs through the belt loops of his jeans, no belt actually around his waist. He leaned back while he answered with an earnest flirtatiousness, "I'm talking to one right now."

For once, Neal acted like a stereotypical man, clearing his throat and puffing out his chest to look bigger. My conman turned around so he was standing next to me instead of in front of me, held a hand behind my back, and looked down on Dan with disapproval. Dan looked a little confused at the competitive display, and I hurried to smoothly transition away from it. I'd have to tell Neal not to do that again. We were not in a situation where we could be open about our relationship, and I was allowed to handle people flirting with me on my own, no matter how jealous and insecure he got about Melissa Calloway.

Laughing quietly to reward Dan's kind behavior, I opened up my wallet and handed him a print-out of Pierce. Stepping away from Neal to get close enough to give it to him, I pushed my wallet back and decided to stay closer to Dan, just on the principle of not giving him reason to suspect Neal of being possessive for a reason.

"I meant this woman specifically," I revised, while he took the small image from her fake driver's license and held it up to his eyes. "Have you been in touch with her at all?"

"No," he informed, a smile growing on his face. "But she's pretty. _Should_ I be in touch with her?" He asked, looking up with a bright expression. _You bounce back quickly._

"You really don't want to be," Neal advised, shaking his head and drawing his hand over his throat. I covered my face with my hand and rubbed over my mouth and chin. Without the context, that made no sense. The artist came to join us, but this time he was more conscious of discretion, and he stood closer to Dan. "She'll likely try to contact you soon. She might be after something you own, something rare."

For some reason, it failed to occur to the collector that someone the FBI was asking after actually _wasn't_ good news. In place of the proper trepidation or concern, Dan sprung onto his toes. "Awesome!" He exclaimed loudly, voice ringing around the room. "I've got tons of stuff! What do you think she wants?"

I apparently had a lot more tolerance for Dan than Neal did, but that didn't mean I thought everything he did was endearing. Unnecessarily shouting in his anticipation of making a new friend was not _nearly_ as cute as trying to copy Neal's fedora flip.

"If we knew, we wouldn't have used vague terms like _something_ ," I suggested to him as patiently as possible. He could use his brain, too.

Dan looked down at the floor between the three of us, intensely thoughtful. _Well, don't hurt yourself…_ His hat looked dangerously close to falling off and sailing to the floor. Neal eyed it as if he was willing it to do exactly that.

The civilian's head snapped up, eyes huge like saucers. "Maybe it's my sword!" He cried.

 _…_ "Um, no, I'm sorry, but I _really_ don't think that's it," I said uncomfortably. This conversation had taken a drastically wrong turn somewhere, and I missed where that fork had been. Pierce was definitely not looking for his bedroom, unless she was looking to loot something from inside… and the thing she might want to loot would _not,_ in fact, be Daniel's pants.

He frowned for a few seconds before he realized what I thought he'd meant. He laughed delightedly. _I… I wasn't joking…_ "No, I meant my _actual_ sword!" He clarified, and Neal and I both nodded in relief. "It's a Go Yoshohiro, Japanese, thirteenth century. It cost me two hundred twenty thousand dollars, if you can believe it!" With that, he looked up at Neal to be acknowledged. I shrugged at Neal. I didn't know what the going rate for thirteenth-century Japanese swords were. "I love history," Dan prompted. "Do you like history?"

Looking up to the ceiling, Neal ignored Dan. His eyes caught sight of the brim of his hat and he reached up to his head, taking the fedora off. The sulking artist held it to his stomach, protective of his apparel, but left it off. Someone didn't want to be associated with the too-cooperative potential target.

"Silent type," Dan decided, reaching for Neal and knocking their elbows together. "I get it," he promised, being accommodating. How he could miss so many hints was beyond me. Conversationally, he turned to me. "Have you ever pulled your weapon?" He asked gleefully. I nodded factually. "You ever shoot anybody?"

The questions were the same kind that came from the kids Katie babysat, and sometimes from their older siblings. I had come to speak to an adult, not a little boy whose parents were out. "I've shot lots of somebodies," I answered gravely, extending an arm to Neal and catching his other arm. I cupped his elbow and pulled him aside, leading him away from a peacefully oblivious and humming Daniel. "Alright, Neal," I sighed. "Any wisdom you'd like to offer to this would be very useful."

He snorted. I frowned. When he realized that I was completely serious, Neal scoffed. "Are you standing in the same space I'm in?" He asked a little bit haughtily, holding his right arm out to indicate everything from the bust to the ornate Vivaldi paintings on the walls. "It could be anything! All of this is valuable. I'm completely incoherent."

My breath came out in yet another sigh. This was supposed to be an easy visit. Instead I had a host who was cooperating so much that he was obnoxious and a consultant who behaved as though Dan had slaughtered June's pug and then used its fur as a wall decoration. _I knew I should've pawned this trip off on Derek._

"A little _too_ incoherent," I agreed, looking him over warningly. He needed to get his head back in the game. "I think you're hurting his feelings."

We both looked over to Dan, Neal to verify and me to make sure he was still there. Dan didn't _look_ like his feelings were hurt. He was just waiting, smiling pleasantly in the meantime. The guy had zero issues with us going off and excluding him.

Yeah. Hurt feelings were clearly not a big concern.

"You guys want to see the rest of the place?" Dan offered, taking a hand out of his belt loop and waving towards the ascending staircase.

Neal clutched his fedora tightly to his stomach. "No, no," he begged, taking my wrist tightly in his other hand. Desperately, he pled with me to relax my strict rules about following through on leads. "Let's get out of here, _please_."

"We have to," I rebuked, pulling on my wrist until he let go. "Come on, pretty boy." Neal scowled, shoulders falling crestfallenly. I might as well have just told him that he was required to take a firearm training course. His distaste for Dan's home rivalled his hatred of guns. I raised my voice, twisted around to grab onto Neal's hand, and dragged him back to the collector. "Yeah, that'd be great, thanks," I accepted calmly. "You know, if you can spare the time."

"Awesome!" Daniel exploded ecstatically. "I've got four floors; let's start at the top."

Neal trudged miserably, only not dragging his feet because to do so would scuff his shoes. I shepherded him unsympathetically after Daniel, who forgot he had elevators and went to the stairs, leading the way up to the next two flights.

Halfway up the first set, Neal quickly jumped out from in front of me and spun around, intending to race back down the other side of the stairs. I backtracked to a step lower and held my arm out to stop him. Neal looked at me with sad blue eyes. I shook my head. Grumbling, he turned back around and marched after Dan.

* * *

I had gotten used to a routine of emotions when I was inside June's house. First there was trepidation, then comfort and joy, and then it went downhill to awkwardness and a sense of not belonging in the slightest. Needless to say, unless there was work involved, I had never spent a lot of time in Neal's home, and aside from his wine collection and his bed with the incredibly high thread count comforter, hadn't really taken advantage of the luxuries. Temporarily living with him helped to lessen the creeping sense of displacement, and knowing that both of us _wanted_ me in the penthouse with him put me incredibly at ease. It would be a while before I was as comfortable there as I usually was at home – not that I was exactly all that comfortable at home, since Fowler's attempts at invading my privacy had left an emotional mark on my sister and I both – but I no longer felt like I needed to keep myself in one place and adamantly controlled.

And, wow, being wanted for my company and not just the sex was a good feeling. I felt like my emotions had been validated and I wasless frightened that I was being manipulated (although that was still on the table, however little I tried to think about it). Although I didn't inherently have an issue with being wanted for sex, as long as I was treated with the respect I deserved as his colleague, it was a great feeling to curl up against another warm body at night. Being all mature and responsible made that less common than I'd have liked, and the only warm bodies I'd cuddled up against in the last several years were Kate, Derek, and Diana during sleepovers, and in one particularly memorable incident of a stakeout that went horribly wrong and involved crashing through the thin ice over freezing cold lake. There were still plenty of jokes to be made, but between how I was urged to stay awake and how quickly I was stripped out of my soaked clothes, I couldn't possibly accuse my team of not paying attention to the mandated medical safety lectures.

After I partook in an unbalanced mix of a workout session and a long time of playing on the rooftop, I finally decided that my eyes were stinging and my arms and legs aching in a wondrous way. Using the ladder up the side of the deep end of the pool, I hoisted myself onto the concrete surrounding the edge about halfway between the diving board and the corner of the pool. My hair plastered itself to my neck and hung heavily over my chest, water raced down my legs, and as my one-piece swimsuit went from submerged to out in the air, it went from comfortable to cool and sticking to my skin. I was just thankful that this was a private pool. I used to wear bikinis, but ever since being attacked by Køhler, I don't appreciate baring my abdomen. I wouldn't call myself insecure about the scars as much as I just didn't enjoy the pitying and shocked staring and the horrified questions. I didn't have to worry about that on private property, but I still didn't own a bikini.

I took my time drying off, walking around in the sunlight with long strides that stretched out the muscles in my calves while I patted down my body and wrapped up my hair in a towel, twisting it up to stop my hair from dripping. Then I bent over to touch my toes, stretched both arms behind my back as far as I could, and arched backwards, loosening the muscles and relaxing after rigorous swimming interspersed with happy hops off of the diving board before I went inside.

"Hey," Neal called without looking up when I pushed the sliding door open, stepped inside, and shoved it shut again. My feet were cold and bare on the floor, but I had stepped on the mat outside and rubbed down my legs with another towel so I wasn't treading water all over the place. Sitting on the couch and comfortably leaning back with a book, his feet up on the coffee table, Neal flipped one of the pages with a rustle of paper. "Utilizing the pool?"

"There's a diving board," I exclaimed brightly, thrumming with excitement that made me want to bounce.

"Yeah, I know," he patiently replied, voice tinged with amusement.

I mouthed the words "yeah, I know" after him mockingly. He didn't see. I was careful when I walked over to the couch in case I slipped or lost my footing, holding up a towel around my body and wet swimsuit. "You know, but you aren't expressing the proper amount of excitement! I repeat, a diving board!" If Katie were with me, she'd have been squealing and shooting through the penthouse to go see for herself, then tearing through her drawers to find her tankini. I wanted Neal to share the same happy enthusiasm that I was feeling, a throwback to childhood summers when I went leaping off of high diving boards to impress my friends and trying to catch my mother's attention. That was back when my biggest concerns were how to get home without driving under the influence and how long I could spend in a foreign country before my parents demanded I come back home for some meeting or dinner party they wanted their daughter to attend.

The man finally looked up from his book. Dressed in black trousers and a long-sleeved white button-up, a black sleeveless vest on over it, he looked dapper as always while more casual than in his suits. I held out my hands expectantly for a reaction. Maybe he'd at least _pretend_ to get all excited.

He held his book in place against his thigh with one hand and held out the other arm towards the end of the couch. "C'mere," he invited, crooking two fingers and beckoning.

I paused and looked meaningfully at the sofa cushions. High-end furniture meant high maintenance, and, ah, there was a reason the bedroom activities stayed in the bedroom. It would be hard to explain the cleaning process without horribly embarrassing ourselves. Chlorine probably wasn't much better for the velvety suede than… um… other things. "I'm still in my swimsuit," I hinted with the subtlety of a slap in the face, pulling down the side of the towel wound around my torso for him to see the dark grey material clinging to my chest, stained with water.

Neal turned the book over so the spine was facing up, picked up a fleece blanket from over the back of the couch, and threw it down onto the cushion next to him, hastily unfolding it and tucking the edge both into the space where the seat and back cushion met and underneath his thigh on that side. "There." He looked back up and picked up his book again, looking way too pleased with himself. "Now the couch is protected." I blinked, unimpressed. "Come on," he pleaded with the undertone of a playful whine. "If I don't have company, I'm going to fall asleep trying to do this research."

That got my interest, at least, and it enticed me to move closer inquisitively. "What are you researching?" I asked, trying to get a better look at the book he was holding. The hardback cover was grey and I'd seen something bright and almost golden on the cover when he'd had it turned over on his legs, but for the most part, his arms had been in the way of a clear view.

In answer, Neal shut it and turned the cover towards me, holding his place with a finger in between the pages. The front was bare except for a gorgeous metal golden music box – no, not golden. Amber. The characters where a title would be on the front were in Russian. I barely resisted a disappointed "oh" at the reminder that this wasn't the summer when I was sixteen and had my glorious freedom in the form of driver's licenses, debit cards, and diplomatic immunity. This was the middle of a case with my chained consultant – I could see his anklet under the hem of one of his pant legs, tracker steadily blinking green – with at least one person dead, his sister missing, mine being threatened by a dirty agent, and I wasn't exactly waving around hundred dollar bills towards makeup anymore.

"Your work ethic has improved," I noted instead of any of the rest of my thoughts. Whether he was working on a case or the music box, he was at least working. His face softened. I didn't doubt for a minute he saw the dip in my mood, and he patted his leg softly.

I just gave in. Unfolding the towel on my head, I let down my hair, which was now stringy and only a little damp. I kept my other towel around me to keep the blanket as dry as possible and sat down on the couch, then picked up my legs and leaned back. A hand quickly went under my back and lowered me gently down while I draped my legs over the arm of the sofa, knees bent and ankles crossed. My head was pillowed softly by Neal's thigh and the crisp fabric of recently-ironed pants, made comfortably warm by his body heat. I let my eyes fall shut in comfort and breathed in deeply while a light hand landed on my collarbone. Expert fingers applied a perfect amount of pressure, tracing invisible figure eights across my skin, dancing just under my neck. I turned my head to the side, my nose almost touching his vest, and just breathed. I felt at home and treasured and safe, and I cherished the moments as he spoilt me with attention with one hand and turned pages in his book with the other.

 _I could fall asleep like this,_ I realized when it occurred to me that my mind was slowing down and my eyes were getting heavy with relaxation. Even with my legs hanging off the side, it felt great.

He took his hand away. I sighed unhappily, and a second later he replaced his fingers in my hair. It took about half a second for him to realize that he shouldn't continue the motion and drag his fingers through. "Your hair's tangled," he said, sounding surprised and a little miffed, as if I had intentionally tangled my hair specifically to prevent him from combing through it.

"What were you expecting?" Mourning the loss of his hand, I slowly opened my eyes. I considered moving my head so I was looking up at him, but, although the sight of his vest and shirt wasn't as exciting as his eyes and handsome jawline, he was making a very good pillow, and his clothes were blocking out a lot of the light that would try to keep me awake and alert. "I was just swimming. In chlorine." Chlorine has never been my friend, not since I had dyed my hair when I was a teenager for the first time.

About ten or fifteen seconds went by. Neal shifted and I felt the movement through his leg. Stubbornly, I refused to acknowledge that my pillow was moving.

"Where's your brush?" He asked abruptly. The sound of a book shutting made me snap open my eyes. I hadn't ever realized that snarled hair was such a big distraction. It had a few knots, not a bird's nest.

"You're kidding," I groaned, shoving my hands against the cushion and pushing myself up. "If my tangled hair bothers you that badly, I'll just sit up." He could bitch all he wanted about it that way. He wouldn't have it within two feet of his hands if I leaned on the other side of the couch and pulled up a throw pillow to hug. Still, it was a little upsetting that I wasn't allowed to lay in his lap a while longer because of something so trivial. Peace is getting harder to come by, and if anyone should understand that, it's him.

"Hey." The small protest made me turn my head to him. Strands of hair that were stuck together from an impromptu styling job waved in front of my eyes. He shifted towards me, book left on the coffee table, and reached out. I shut my eyes as he caught the loose hair between his fingers and delicately pushed it out of my face, hooking it behind my ear. "I just meant that I'd brush it out for you," he soothed, tender voice fixing the misunderstanding. "It's hard to run my fingers through if it's all tangled."

I do love having my hair hand-combed, especially by Neal. Yet responsibilities got in the way, and there was one time when I'd been swimming for close to four hours and then hadn't showered for another two of lounge time, and ended up with hair that had turned green as dye met pool chemicals. I learned my lesson the first time. No repeat performances were necessary. Reluctantly, I opened my eyes again and used sheer willpower to stop myself from leaning closer, closer, and settling my arms around his shoulders, kissing him senseless and making out on the couch.

"I need to shower anyway," I regretfully stated, looking down. "Chlorine and hair dye isn't the best combination, I've found. Best to wash it out sooner rather than later." I paused when he looked visibly disappointed. It wasn't the first time I'd been able to clearly tell when he was upset at being denied an opportunity to do something cute or revoltingly couple-ish, and considering that this was coming from a world-famous art thief and con artist, it seemed particularly funny, in an ironic sense. Rather than kissing him, I reached for him. He stayed amiably still while I cupped his face in my hands and balanced up on my knees, pressing my lips to his forehead sweetly. "And you're being a real sap, so you know."

My voice was supposed to sound annoyed, but even I knew that there was no way that he heard anything but affection and the desire to sink into his arms. I traced my thumbs over his cheekbones before I was ready to leave my little haven on the couch.

* * *

Another way in which Neal's place of residence was a lot better than mine was the water pressure. His shower was absolutely _incredible;_ the temperature adjusted itself through the slightest twist of the dials, the spray was adjustable through twisting the sprayer, and there wasn't the clutter of half a dozen hair products in the shower. Neal had, at some point, bought the brand of shampoo and conditioner that I kept at home and stored it in his bathroom for me. Honestly, even if it wasn't for the pleasure of his company, I'd probably start making myself at home with him just for his shower.

Hot water slammed down over me and plastered my hair along my neck and upper back. It slid down over the curves of my body and rushed down my legs, splashing around my feet and running to the drain. Suds flushed out of my hair and covered my shoulders. Soap slipped into the valley between my breasts, followed after by my fingers directing hot water to chase it away. I pulled my hair back behind my shoulder, turning my neck to the spray, and cupped my right breast in my other hand. Showers were always so wonderful – I got clean and relaxed, and the heat drew tension away from my body, leaving me feeling refreshed and sensual. I let my eyes flutter shut as water dripped from my fringe down over my face and I caught my nipple between my thumb and forefinger, gently tweaking and sighing, letting my imagination drift to Neal.

 _I should suggest this to Neal,_ I thought dazedly, letting go of my hair and dragging feather light fingers across my throat. I gave my nipple a pull and my breath caught, jaw quivering. _Why didn't I think of this before?_ I already knew he was strong enough to lift me. I could imagine reaching over his shoulders and pressing the arches of my acrylics into the firm muscles in his back, leaving pale crescent-shaped marks for me to kiss at later on; lips sliding over wet skin and fingers tangling in soaked hair, hands slipping over slickened skin and quiet moans drowned out by the thundering of the water as-

"Kenna!"

 _"_ _Ah!"_ I screamed, eyes flying open as the bathroom door came swinging wide. The shower curtain didn't make me feel any better; my arms flew and I covered up my breasts, blushing so furiously that even my chest was turning pink. Then I remembered where I was with more clarity and recognized Neal's voice, and momentary panic gave way to irritation and a little bit of embarrassment. "Ever heard of knocking?!" I shrieked indignantly over the water.

"Go back to the house!" He shouted over the shower.

I sighed loudly, a lot more annoyed than aroused. It's amazing how quickly I can make that transition. Comes from sharing a house with my sister, probably. "Well, fuck," I snapped, reaching up to my hair and sliding soapy, watery shampoo out from below my roots. "Okay, I'll get a hotel, but can I finish my shower first?!" Saying that I was offended would be going too far, but I was definitely a little bit hurt that he suddenly wanted me out.

I didn't hear him say anything, but then the shower curtain was being pulled back at the top. Respectfully, he held the lower half to the wall and kept his eyes on my face. Mist sprayed in his direction. "No, no, Christopher Grey's house," he amended, grinning apologetically at the misunderstanding. I sighed, nodding that I understood now, and shrugged my shoulders. I still wished he would've knocked. I spend a lot of time close and personal with him, but that doesn't mean that I don't want him to _ask_ permission before he crosses boundaries – which was pretty much what he was doing now by holding out the shower curtain. I probably hadn't heard him knocking, or he'd gotten overexcited. "The FBI interrupted her search. She wasn't expecting that."

Gathering up my hair in my hands, I pulled it over my shoulder and wrung it out, seeing how much shampoo was left in it. "So whatever she was looking for is still there," I concluded. "She didn't have time to steal it." I smiled at him proudly. "Great job, you're being smart and thoughtful again!"

"Maybe we can figure out what Grey and Dan have in common if we go back."

 _Sure, that could work_. I was nodding even while I was still thinking about organizing the next visit to our new rich collector friend, and then I smirked at Neal, certain that he wouldn't be quite so happy about his thought process once I pointed out the obvious thing he'd overlooked. "You realize that involves taking Dan with us, right?"

For a single moment, he looked confused at what that was supposed to mean. Then it dawned on him that he would have to deal with the adoring man and his face fell into a pout while he groaned. I giggled. He shot me a betrayed, pitiful frown and yanked the curtain closed to leave, which just made me laugh harder. I kept going even after I heard the bathroom door shut again, more gently than it had been opened, and I reached for the wall to steady myself. The wall was slippery and didn't have a lot of traction; probably wouldn't feel too rough against my back.

"Shower sex," I murmured thoughtfully, tapping my chin. Seemed less safe than mattress sex, but could be a lot of fun. Could save time, too – get off and get clean at the same time. And it would be at least twice as safe if we got a shower mat so there was a lower probability of slipping on wet floors. "Hm."

* * *

 **Easily the most aggravating thing about being a teenager is that no one really listens. And I get it most of the time, I** **_do,_ ** **I mean, God knows I see a whiny eleven-year-old and I literally think, "calm the hell down, you're eleven, what do you possibly know about important decisions?" But this isn't just a decision about where to take a vacation – it's my** **_future._ ** **I'm seventeen now. I have the right to make that choice myself. It's not like I'm deciding to marry a stable boy and wait around my entire life for him to return after he leaves me.**

 **I do** **_not_ ** **want to be a nurse, nor do I want to be some quiet politician aid who sits in the background, flashes a pretty smile at the right people, and makes someone else's home life look secure and politically correct. My dad acts like those are the only respectable career options in the entire world. My mom acts like I don't need to have a say in what happens, or that I even need to go to college. It's funny that she cares so much what I do when she easily spent more money paying people to do her parenting for her than she does even now on wines and jewelry she'll wear once and then never use again.**

 **If I could talk to a sociologist, I think the first question I would ask is, when are teenagers adult enough to consciously weigh repercussions? When should they be granted the freedoms to determine their futures? I mean, sure, if an eleven-year-old wanted to run away from home and start a profession their parents would have heart attacks over, it's laughed off. They're eleven.** **_Wait until puberty before making big choices, brat._ ** **But I'm seventeen, and the government says I can do most anything I want next year without my parents' consent, so really, am I trying to make rash decisions or am I just being oppressed by parents who didn't want a child in the first place?**

**Love (and love your damn children, or don't bother becoming a mother),**

**Zarra L**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Love it? Hate it? Let me know!


	24. Wish I Had the Chance to Say I'm Sorry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Foreign diplomacies invade the FBI. Alex's untimely arrival forces a wedge between Neal and McKenna, while simultaneously pushing one of them into life-threatening danger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Lucy Hale's "Have You Ever."

**_Chapter Twenty-Four - Wish I Had the Chance to Say I'm Sorry_ **

Dan didn't answer the door when we came to see him again, but the doorman let us in and escorted us to the elevator. Apparently, being FBI with a badge and everything doesn't make us trustworthy enough to lead ourselves to the right floor. Considering how many valuables he had here, though, I found it would have been stupid if his doormen-slash-security guards were less vigilant, and decided to put a cap on my minor annoyance.

I had to wonder if there was some alarm he had for when the elevator was coming up. Dan was in the front room right off the hallway with the sliding doors when Neal and I stepped out, and he hurried to us. He must not have been called by the doormen, because for a second he looked surprised that it was us, but then he wore a huge, face-splitting grin and bounded over on limber legs.

"It's the FBI partners!" He greeted enthusiastically, sticking out his hands and bouncing on his feet. He was like a giant kid with good taste. "Hey, welcome back to my humble abode!"

Privately, I remarked in my head that hardly anything about this huge place he called a house could be considered _humble._

Neal found the little man's excitement irritating. I thought it was adorable. It was definitely a fresh change of pace from most of the people we had to work with, especially the rich and entitled ones. They tended to treat me like a thorn in their side or a pain in the ass, looking on me as a typical public servant. I don't think most of them realize how hard I had to work to earn my title. Having a guy who greeted me with the love and enthusiasm of a puppy whose owners got home could probably get tiring after the first few times, but for the moment, it was sweet.

"Hey, man, we kind of have a theory, but we need your help with it." When I said _need your help_ , his eyes got wide as saucers and he practically started to vibrate. Knowing it was probably unnecessary, I flashed him a charismatic grin and asked, "Would you mind coming on a field trip?"

"Awesome!" He burst out, practically tearing at the seams to agree, nodding his head so quickly I was afraid he'd hurt himself. "Of course!"

He started to walk around the other side of Neal to go to the elevator and take us back to the front doors, but then he stopped before his right foot was fully on the floor and turned around, jogging to hurry up.

"Let me get my hat!" He called over his shoulder.

Dan had turned a vintage wrought iron dresser's back into a hat stand where sanded iron curves turned out away from the wall and pointed forward, and on almost all of them… were different colors and styles of fedoras.

I looked at Neal. Daniel picked out a hat almost exactly like his, down to the color and the dark silk ribbon wrapped around the figure. My darling drama queen looked like he felt sick, taking off his hat and going back to the elevator without waiting for Dan or I, holding his hat close to his stomach like he was grieving. I watched his back as he retreated in sorrow and I shamelessly giggled.

When I turned back to Dan, it became apparent that he'd been waiting for one of us to pay attention to him. He held the hat out to his left side by the brim, flipped it around while holding on until he was holding the back, and raised it to his head, planting it on his hair while he steadied it with his other hand on the front… just like Neal liked to do when he was showing off.

It just made me laugh some more, but I gave Dan the universal thumbs-up sign and beckoned with two fingers for him to come with me. "Very fashionable," I praised, biting on my lip in an attempt to stop finding this quite so hilarious.

"Thank you!" He perked up right away and left the hat on, looking very proud of himself.

* * *

With most adults, I don't feel the need to be too worried about the evidence while they're being escorted by a few federal employees. With Dan, however, I was inclined to change my opinion on that. It wasn't that I thought he was likely to disregard instructions and touch things, getting his fingerprints all over – it was that he reminded me of a hyperactive dog, and if he'd had a tail, I wouldn't have been surprised if it knocked half of the items off of their shelves and tables.

One motion to the stairs, and I ended up practically giving chase after the overly enthusiastic little geek. He was getting his energy from pure excitement. I wouldn't've pegged him for someone who could go up a big flight of stairs without pause, since he installed his own elevator at his house, but evidently, I couldn't have been more wrong.

"So this is a crime scene…?" His thrilled voice came down the staircase, and Diana, who was at the top landing, started to introduce herself, but was cut off by the blur running past her to look around.

My agent looked back down at me with wide eyes. I shrugged, slowing down to climb the stairs at a somewhat normal pace next to Neal while Diana followed after Dan to keep an eye on him.

We knew the exact moment that his eyes landed on the outline taped onto the carpet. He drew in a deep gasp. "That was where the body was!" Neal grimaced again, but whether it was at Dan or the reminder of the murder victim was up for debate. I lightly elbowed him and sternly gave him a look of reproach. He could at least pretend to be happy to have the help.

At the top of the stairs, I pulled Neal around to the right side of the banisters and led him around to the room behind the staircase. Daniel was almost running, like a kid in a museum, from object to object. He stopped by what looked like an antique copper statue on the edge of a dressing table and put both of his hands up. As a precaution, he was wearing latex gloves – both in case he got too excited, and in case of an accident. We couldn't bring a civilian here and then get mad if they grabbed onto something if they tripped.

"Don't touch anything, right?" Dan held both of his hands up and laughed gleefully. "I won't. I'll just, uh…" he subtly lowered his voice. "Survey the scene," he finished, holding himself up tall with a straightened back.

"He's trying to impress you," I whispered to Neal, touching his arm with the back of my hand. I thought it was funny that, of all the people Neal tried to impress, someone he almost couldn't stand turned out to be the most awed. Neal glared at me, so I turned my attention temporarily to Daniel and Diana again. Diana stood to the side of the room like she wasn't sure where to start with keeping the overgrown kid in check. "Look in every room," I instructed both of them, before going more specifically to Dan. "It could be anything you have. No matter what the monetary worth is, if you have it, bring it to our attention."

All he did in response to _me_ talking to him was to raise one of his hands in my general direction, waving like he was telling me goodbye. "Yeah, I'll let you know, Kenna," he promised. I bit my lip, trying to decide if I should be offended that we were now at that level of familiarity that he could call me nicknames and act dismissively.

Neal huffed quietly and turned towards me, ducking his head down to whisper to me. "Kenna is _my_ nickname," he muttered in annoyance.

I patted his back supportively. He could be irritated with Dan all he liked, and I'd say something if Dan stepped out of turn, but to be fair, I was the one who had been friendly in the first place, and it's not like giving me a nickname was an insult. After all, wasn't I calling him by his? Neal just wasn't allowed to be jealous or possessive, because the only people who realize he might have anything to be possessive over are himself, me, Katie, Alex, and maybe Mozzie.

And it would be _really_ stupid to get possessive just because I have a nickname. Just because he's never heard it from anyone else doesn't mean that he's the only person to ever use it.

"Hey, Neal?" Far more interested in my consultant than me, the kid – sorry, man – took time out of his crime scene exploration to look after Neal hopefully. "Maybe you could teach me some hat tricks sometime."

Politely, Neal put on a smile. He didn't really try to make it look sincere. It was all I could do not to roll my eyes where Dan could see. "Yeah," my CI agreed noncommittally. "Yeah, maybe."

I stood up on my toes and leaned my head towards Neal's shoulder. "He wants to learn your hat trick," I murmured to him, pursing my lips before I started to grin. "That's so cute!"

"Don't," he warned.

"It's _adorable,"_ I continued quietly.

"Don't, Kenna," Neal scolded, which only encouraged me to keep going.

"It's precious," I stated matter-of-factly, watching Dan point to the handle of a dresser drawer. Diana nodded and he pulled it open with his gloves to look inside.

"Please!" Neal sounded more like he was begging now. I made the mistake of looking up at him and seeing the almost pained look in his eyes. Usually I'd want to raise hell when I saw that, but this time I just wanted to pet his hair and laugh at the attempt.

"He's got a crush on you," I teased, taking it a step further since it bothered him so much.

Daniel unknowingly cut us off before I could press and poke at my boyfriend any more. Neal was a picture of relief. "So what happens if I don't find it?" He asked, slowly sliding the drawer back in before he stood up and looked in our direction, rubbing his hands together. "Where're we going next?"

"Then we'll look into any storage facilities that the victim may have possessed," I explained, to Dan's satisfaction. The collector took me at my word (of course he did, he trusts me) and went on to keep looking through the lower drawers of the dresser.

I was willing to let it rest, but Neal wasn't going to let me have the last word. He tugged on the sleeve of my blazer until I gave him more attention. "He's still on," he said with another shade of agitation, "Because he wants to hang out with you."

"No," I disagreed, marginally patient only because he was amusing me. I knew the problem couldn't be the suggestion that Dan actually had a crush on him, since he's fully supportive of Diana's same-sex relationship (well, as supportive as someone who's threatened every time he tries to engage her in conversation about it can be), and it actually gave me a flashback to the Haustenberg painting when he'd been angered by Dorsett's implications that he would cheat on his significant other. "He's still on because he wants to hang out with _you._ "

"No," he argued stubbornly, "He saw your-"

"Is that fingerprint dust?!" Dan obliviously interrupted, pointing ecstatically at the white powder that had clung onto the surface of the wooden arms of the chair I'd had Pierce sit in for a few moments after finding her. "Neal, did you see this?!"

"Yeah," my consultant responded with as few syllables as possible.

"See?" I pointed across the room at Dan as he passed the chair, looking after it wistfully, sad to leave it alone. "He _totally_ wants to hang out with you."

Diana was giving us looks somewhere between humor and _what the hell_ for the duration of the visit, but now she took Dan gently by his shoulder and started to shepherd him around the other side of the staircase to the hallway. "Okay," she chuckled, shooting us both a look. I could practically see message like it was written on her forehead – _shape up._ "I think that's everything to see here. Let's go check out another room, huh, Dan?"

Daniel was all too willing to go where Diana directed him, and they ended up taking a right turn at the first door off of the hallway. I wasn't sure he was entirely out of earshot, but they were far enough away and there were enough walls between us now for Neal and I to talk more freely.

Which Neal took advantage of in order to try to pass the babysitting duty over to me. "You're hanging out with him," he flatly declared.

I raised my eyebrows. Well, now I _definitely_ wanted to shove the job to him. "He doesn't care about me," I pointed out.

His shoulders raised defensively. "He was flirting with you!"

"He dismissed me!" I mimicked the little wave Dan had given me. "He keeps looking at _you._ He keeps talking to _you._ He keeps trying to engage _you_ in conversations about things that excite him." Katie may be right about something – I may be a little bit too ignorant of signs when they're directed at me, but I can usually tell when someone else is the subject of a crush. And Neal was definitely the one Dan was interested in. "He is wearing a _fedora,"_ I reminded the conman in exasperation. How much more obvious could it get?

Neal opened his mouth, but had nothing to refute anything I'd said. Frowning, he realized that he couldn't argue. "But this is your job!" He whined.

I laughed shamelessly. "Oh, hanging out with civilians who have crushes on my consultants was not _anywhere_ in my job description," I giggled, poking his chest over his tie pin. Neal batted my arm away like I'd lost touching privileges when I started taunting him. _Oh, well. It was worth it._ "I'd have remembered reading that."

"He does not have a crush on me!"

"He so does!"

"Rock paper scissors." I sighed and put my hands on my hips. I hoped he realized that he was reaching all new lows. Neal held his hands out to show he was serious, one in a fist in the other's open palm. "Rock paper scissors," he repeated insistently.

I took his wrists and pushed his hands down. "I am not playing rock paper scissors with you about-" I _do_ have _some_ dignity left, however limited it may be.

"Coin toss?" He pleaded.

Shaking my head, I turned away, stomping my foot on the floor. "This is ridiculous."

Neal reached for my shoulder and curled his fingers over my collarbone. "I would rather eat at _McDonalds'_ than babysit him," he stressed. I giggled at how desperate he sounded. Most people would say 'walk through fire' or something painful; Neal says he'd eat fast food. Heh. More giggling ensued.

"Oh, you poor baby," I struggled to say. Meanwhile, Neal heard me laughing and now he just looked unimpressed by my sympathies. I gave in to the earlier impulse and reached up for his head, smoothing my hand back over his hair. "You've really illustrated your pain," I cooed while snickering.

His shoulders sagged and he didn't even wrestle my hand away. "Kenna, this isn't funny," he said sadly.

"This is hilarious," I snorted. Then I got a big grin and dropped my hand to his cheek, pinching. "And adorable," I said, sending myself into another fit of giggles when he scowled at me, the pink mark on his cheek fading quickly.

Diana's voice came before her presence, or Dan's. "This is it!" She called out before stepping out of the room, Dan following on her heels like a puppy after a treat. In the few seconds between her words and her footsteps, Neal and I jumped apart. I smoothed down my jacket anxiously and he rubbed his cheek to get rid of the impression. Dan had a big grin on his face. Diana had pulled on some white latex gloves to carry a dull green statue, and had it set on a black cloth as a further careful measure.

"Did I do good?" Dan asked, looking at me for a moment but then focusing on Neal nervously.

All quarrels with the collector forgotten, Neal picked up the black cloth Diana was holding the artifact with. Diana was slow to take her hands out from under it, even when Neal started trying to move it closer to him to look at. "You did great," he breathed to Dan, who started to glow. "Kenna, do you know what this is?"

Dan had found a statue of a small elephant, about as long as Neal's hands held together, color entirely green like jade. The stone looked faded, and it was overall unimpressive to look at. Going by Neal's reaction, it was probably worth a lot more than it looked like.

* * *

"One of the Emperor's five jade elephants," I said, leaning over the table in the conference room and looking down at the animal-shaped rocks. I tilted my head. The things that people put such high monetary value on are weird sometimes.

Dan perked up in his chair next to Neal. "There's five of them?" He asked, eager to learn more.

Neal already knew what they were, and had recognized it from the moment Dan had taken it out of Grey's house. After a quick mission back to Dan's residence, we'd collected his, too, and brought them to the FBI for safe storage. None of us were confident in trusting Dan's security systems over our own, and although a little saddened that we thought his home was lacking in the safety department where femme fatales were concerned, he was happy to comply.

The artist leaned onto the table but kept his hands away from the international prizes. I imagined it was killing him to have them so close, but to be unable to touch. I wondered if Neal was considering how hard they would be to steal, just for the mental exercise. He looked at them longingly. If I'd been close enough, I'd have patted his back sympathetically. It must be hard to go from the mindset of _steal art to turn a profit_ to _don't steal art, or anything else_.

"In fourteen twenty-one, ambassadors from all over the world came to China to celebrate the inauguration of the Forbidden City. Upon leaving, the Chinese empress Yu Ji gifted them each with a treasure." Neal told the story to Dan without looking at the younger man, his eyes all for the elephants on the table.

"Of course, like most treasures, they were stolen a long, long time ago." I shared a look with Dan and rolled my eyes at the trope. Dan, however, looked a little bit saddened at the thought of owning stolen treasures, which was… _not_ the reaction I'd have expected from someone with his adventurous attitude. "They resurfaced in America in nineteen-oh-one, but by the time our government was aware, let alone the foreign ones, they had already been broken up and sold separately, downgrading the worth both financially and culturally."

"This is imperial jade, so each statue on its own is still relatively valuable…" Neal figured to himself, and turned reluctantly to speak directly to his fan. "How much did you pay for yours, Dan?"

Regardless of what he was being questioned about, Neal was speaking to him again. Dan forgot about being upset by the story of the elephants and instead promptly responded, "Eight hundred thousand!"

I stared right at the elephants, suspicious that they were really worth that much, and questioning even more that Dan was willing to pay eight hundred grand for something when he hadn't even known the significance of it. Neal wasn't completely innocent, either, considering that he was strangely failing to react to the unreasonably high amount.

Neal pointed between the two recovered artifacts. "Combine one with the other, and you just doubled your price. Link them all together and they're worth between a hundred and fifty and two hundred _million_ fenced together on the black market."

"Damn," I remarked, rubbing my eyes.

My expletive was overlaid by a man's voice talking over me from behind us. "Or, to us," the baritone rumbled. Neal and Dan looked up, and I turned around to see the newcomer. Hughes escorted a tall, older Asian man in a suit and red tie in past the doorway. "A priceless piece of our history."

"Agents – and Neal," Hughes amended when he noticed Neal sat up a little straighter and gave him a charismatic grin. Neal slumped down again in a pout. "This is Diachi Yoshida of the Japanese embassy."

Neal stood up just so he could bow politely. "Kon'nichi wa," he greeted, taking on the foreign language with ease. His tongue took on the words and wrapped around the foreign sounds beautifully.

I definitely had a bit of a thing for listening to him speak other languages. *

I outdid him with a slight smile and bowed over courteously. "Kon'nichi wa. Hajimemashite, yoroshiku onegaishimasu. Amerika e youkoso, Yoshida-san."

Yoshida bowed to Neal and I both at the same time and responded fluently in Japanese, which I assumed was his first language. "Arigatou gozaimasu. Anata no namae wa desu ka?"

"Special Agent McKenna Anderson." I held a hand over my chest and then gestured to my CI. "Kare wa Neal desu." I left out Neal's surname in case the man had heard of him before. That was just something I usually preferred to omit.

He tilted his head slightly in recognition. "Watashi wa anata no namae wo shitteimasu ka?"

"Tabun," I shrugged. "Kako ni, Nihon ni ikimashita. Anata wa kirei kuni arimasu."

At the compliment, the man lowered his head. "Domou," he responded.

I looked over to Hughes for a lead on what to do next, because the Japanese ambassador didn't go to say anything afterwards. I caught Neal staring at me in the reflection of the wall-to-ceiling window where the blinds had been pulled up by the door. _Does me speaking another language have the same effect on him? *_

Daniel broke the silence that had reigned for only a few seconds with wide eyes. "You guys should be, like, the ambassadors of _awesome,"_ he declared, awed, pointing at Neal with one hand and at me with the other, curiously peeking up at Yoshida with curiosity and interest, and a polite deference to the foreign official.

Hughes looked over at the civilian. "Don't encourage them," he told Daniel, shaking his head.

Yoshida cleared his throat and eventually, even his eyes were pulled to the jade statues on the table. They would've been the reason they were here. As soon as we had identified them, we should've expected some ambassadors and representatives to come knocking on our doors, especially those from Japan and China, the countries with the closest ties to the collection of elephants.

"We are not interested in the monetary value of the statues," he told Neal, not unkindly, but very professionally. I couldn't really blame him, since he'd come in and overheard Neal discussing exactly how much money could be made if they were all recovered and sold as a collective unit. "We'd like to bring them home."

Hughes did a good job at hiding it, but I could see underneath the façade that he was tired and annoyed by the bureaucratic channels he was having to go through with this case, and it wasn't even over yet. He rubbed his chin with his hand, kept his eyes wide open, and pretended like he was having a fine day. "The Japanese government has filed a claim stating that the statues were stolen from them and illegally imported to the US." _They move quickly._ "We're cooperating in the efforts to restitute them to their _proper_ ownership."

When he said this, he looked at Neal to make a point. Neal leaned back, affronted, and then looked at me as if asking if I heard the way he was being treated.

Yoshida missed the exchange between Neal and my boss, because he was turning directly to Dan, who scrambled to sit up straight as he was addressed. "And we thank you, Mr. Picah, for turning over your piece." Yoshida bowed.

Dan realized that he was supposed to do the same thing, according to the custom. It probably would have been alright if he hadn't; we were in America, after all, and a shocking amount of citizens are oblivious to the other cultural norms and expectations, especially of Eastern countries, but having seen it modeled, he was fast to return the gesture, jumping up onto his feet, holding his hands down in front of him, and bowing.

Then he sat back down and looked at Neal for praise. "See, I did good!" He said with a painfully bright smile, looking for the commendation from his new idol. I snorted and looked away from both men before I could see the promise of retribution Neal was undoubtedly trying to give me through his gaze.

"You did good, Dan," Neal agreed. His voice was cheerful and congratulatory, but the months in which I'd known him and the times that he'd been open with me about his feelings let me know exactly how genuine that demeanor was.

Hughes shook his head at the two of them and appeared to be questioning how I ever solved any of my cases with help like that. "We can finish this discussion in my office," he told Yoshida more quietly, standing to the side and implying that the Japanese should leave the conference room and return from whence they'd come. At least we weren't the first stop on the tour; Hughes would handle the administrative things, I just needed to recover the jade pieces.

I bowed again before the ambassador left. One of the few things my parents had managed to permanently impress on me was the importance of recognizing authority, and taking advantage of it where I could. Although I didn't know why I would need a friend in the Japanese embassy, I was going to take the opportunity to make that connection as well as possible without also sucking up. I did _not_ wear lipstick for the purpose of kissing political ass.

"Ja ne, Yoshida-san."

He bowed to me as well. Neal watched from where he was comfortably seated, leaning to the side against the arm of the chair, his eyes on my mouth as I talked to the visitor. I feigned ignorance to his long gaze. *

"Watashi-tachi wa atode hanashimashou." The ambassador promised. I smiled slightly to be polite, but it wasn't hard to fake the satisfaction that came from following one of the few useful lessons my parents ever taught me.

Yoshida left the room first before Hughes, but my boss lingered inside, darting his eyes over Neal and then checking to make sure the jade elephants remained unmoved on the table. He scanned Daniel and seemed unimpressed, grimacing, and nodded at me.

"I get nervous when you speak in something other than English." He stated dryly. "I have no idea what you're saying." I grinned as if I thought he was joking, but since he knew my temperament pretty well, I could see how that was a legitimate concern. Hughes glanced over his shoulder to see that the ambassador was waiting patiently by the railing of the mezzanine. "It's very important that we recover the missing pieces in the set," he told me, setting a hand on my shoulder and holding me facing him. I bobbed my head up and down to show I got the picture. "We don't want an international incident on our hands."

I saw an opportunity, and I _shamelessly_ took it. "Anata wa, watashi no yokusoku wo motteimasu," I wisely agreed, keeping a serious expression on my face. He turned his head to the side and glared at me sideways. "Ano…" I coughed. "I mean, we'll get them sir."

Hughes kept staring at me suspiciously and grunted something that sounded like a "you'd better" as he left. He pulled the door to the room shut behind him, even though it had been open when he'd come in. I kept my grin on and turned back around to face my companions, one of whom was going to be headed home soon, whether or not he knew it. It was nice to have someone excited to learn and cooperate, but he was a civilian, not an agent or a consultant.

"How do we find the pieces without knowing where Pierce is, assuming she has the other three, and that's why she moved down her list?" I questioned. I was open to either of them answering, but I expected Neal to have the plan more than Dan, whom would be keen to go on the ride, but wasn't the brightest or most experienced about how law enforcement worked on the inside.

Neal turned his chair so it was sideways against the edge of the table and he faced Dan, his knees just a few inches away from Dan's seat. The artist stared at the collector until Dan started squirming. Neal's attention went from being desired to being uncomfortable really quickly when the conman didn't actually say anything, just stared at him contemplatively.

"What if we know who her next target is?" He asked, glancing at me and not explaining to Dan. I grimaced. I _swore_ he used to be more charming than that… deliberately turning Dan off to him made sense, but it was weird to see him acting anything less than charismatic in public, like it was opposite day or something.

* * *

The shadiest thing in Dan's records seemed to be when he called a woman's phone number and she turned out to have a history of arrest for prostitution… the call had only lasted a few seconds, so it had most likely been a misdial. The kid looked squeaky clean. I was well aware that he wasn't exactly a kid, but he sort of acted enough like one to count. I swear, his history was as sparkling white as anime teeth. He'd even done some higher education, but he'd only completed the first four-year undergraduate program before he'd decided to stop, having received his bachelor's degree and not having any need for a source of income.

People like Dan confused me. Sure, they had a lot of money, and didn't need the income, while others needed it more, but how did he just sit around all day without a job? I didn't even particularly like my career most of the time, but even when I was put on medical leave for being shot or tortured or whatever, I practically climbed up the walls with boredom. I suspected that I wouldn't be quite so insufferable anymore, since I could bring white collar cases home to work on where I couldn't blue-collar, but I was still a real headache to handle. What did he _do?_ Browse Amazon for more things to buy?

"Hey, babe, got a minute?" Derek's interruption was welcome.

I looked up at him in the doorway with pain in my eyes. "Yeah, I have several. I can't find anything related to Pierce in Dan's phone or internet history, and it's starting to really agitate me."

Derek made sympathetic eyes. He knew how frustrating it could be to have trouble tracking someone down when they knew how to stay off the grid. "Patience, kiddo," he said sadly, coming into my office. He pushed the door so only a crack remained open.

"Don't lecture me on patience. You cursed at a toaster for taking too long last week." My brother winced. I forgot that I hadn't told him I'd overheard that. A surge of victory made me brighten up, but it didn't last for very long. He was holding a file to his stomach with the front turned to his body, shielding it from prying eyes. "What do you want?"

Derek looked over his shoulder out the window to the bullpen. No one was directly outside of my door, but he lowered his voice to talk privately in case that changed. "I got that other down-low information you wanted," he explained softly, pushing my coffee mug and phone away from the side of my desk to hop up and sit on the edge. "Her name is Alexandra Hunter."

He gave me the folder. My eyes lingered on him for his expression, one of concern and expectant explanation. I had kind of given him no background for where I had gotten the prints, and going off of his reaction, Alex was the kind of person that I was right to be wary of Neal hanging around with. I opened it up to the profile page. Her picture was a mug shot with French writing. Alex was disgruntled in the image, but there was no way that it wasn't the brunette who'd intruded on my night with my boyfriend.

Alexandra had just turned thirty in February, and celebrated her birthday month by getting an inquisition after her in the capital of Poland. Her name lit up several crime agencies in Europe and one or two in western Asia. The woman had an admirable reputation as an independent fence. Her specialty was with deals involving European antiquities, and she favored the eastern region. She worked mostly alone, avoiding organized crimes, and I was willing to bet one of the few people she'd partnered with had been Neal and Mozzie, which explained how she knew them both. She would've taken a cut and given the rest to the former two. She was slippery because she was so cautious; at the first sign of something going south, her mark being suspicious, or her accomplice acting a little _too_ shady, she bailed.

She probably had a lot of people really angry with her for fleeing from deals before they had completely finished out with the process, but it was the reason that she was even still free. The one time she'd been arrested had been in Marseille. That was where her mug shot came from. However, the charges had been waived, and she'd left the country before law enforcement could follow up on it.

I whistled. The front page alone made me worry about what she'd been doing with Neal. They _had_ been talking about the music box, and as a high-end fence, it was plausible that she might have heard about it, a stolen Russian treasure… but having a former partner in crime in his penthouse was pushing a little far. I was still cynical of Mozzie, to an extent, but I had known him long enough to trust his motives. He wouldn't knowingly do something that would get Neal in trouble. I didn't have that assurance where Alex was concerned, and with Fowler, OPR, and Kate Moreau involved, I didn't feel like I could afford to take the risk of giving her the chance to prove my suspicions unfounded.

"She must have some friends in some really high places," I said, tapping the side of my jaw. Her arrest had been after an anonymous tip called in that Alex had an artwork that had been en route to the Louvre. That was never recovered, but it was a serious accusation to hurl at someone. For the charges to just be dropped and have her released from custody before a thorough investigation could be pursued… "Like, _cloud-high_ places."

Derek nodded gravely. Although he was kept mostly out of the loop about Mozzie (to shield him with plausible deniability as much as to shield Mozzie from federal involvement), he knew that I had my hands full with the two conmen. "Do you want me to go anywhere with this?" He offered, looking down at me with a hand out to take back the file.

I took a deep breath. I'd have liked the help with handling everything, but if he started questioning too much about Alex being around, then he might end up learning about the music box. The quieter that was, the better. I was not going to be responsible for giving Fowler a reason to add more of my friends to his target pool.

"Leave the file with me and don't tell anyone about it," I said, rubbing my face tiredly. Sometimes I felt too old for my age, like the perils and tragedy I faced through my time in the bureau had aged me to my sixties. Personally, I was pretty sure I was going to be murdered by a suspect well before I got that old, but I could hope. "She hasn't done anything."

"Yet," Derek amended to me, skeptical of wanting to keep it from even Diana. I wanted to assure him that I had things under control, and that I was only being preemptive, but just like I wouldn't risk him coming under fire, I wasn't going to risk anyone looking into Neal because I mentioned that I had reason to believe he was in contact with a fence.

The days when I could confide all of my professional problems with my team were long missed, and I felt low and secretive for being so conspiratorial, but I knew that, first and foremost, my job as their team leader was to protect them, and that was what I was doing. Derek and Diana were exceptional agents and they didn't deserve to have their careers and their personal lives invaded upon by someone who thought they knew more than they did.

"Sorry?" I asked, blinking and looking up at him.

"She hasn't done anything… _yet,"_ Derek said again, raising his eyebrows and asking me if I was really going to contradict him. Yeah, it did seem kind of unlikely that Alex wasn't up to anything, but so far there was nothing we could prove, and I didn't want him to keep an eye out in case it was something I wanted to shove under the rug.

Not that I could tell _him_ that, of course. "Right," I agreed noncommittally, looking down at her luscious hair in the mug shot and swallowing. I closed the folder to review later in the privacy of my bedroom.

Neal may trust Alex, but trust had to be earned, and so far, she hadn't done a good job of endearing herself to me. Remembering their history of at least sexual involvement left a bitter taste in my mouth. It would be much easier for her to ensnare him again since they'd had that chemistry… then again, he'd promised me that it was over, and for reasons other than practicality. I trusted Neal and I believed he would be loyal to me in our relationship.

Oblivious to the atmosphere and rushing too quickly to get a feel for the mood, Diana came running inside, pushing the door open almost all the way and only _just_ catching it before it hit the adjacent wall. "I found something!" The probie declared excitedly, bouncing, holding her laptop cradled carefully. She nodded to Derek in greeting and then carried her computer over to us, standing at the side of my desk and lifting the lid so both of us could see. "So, since you chickened out when we got to eHarmony," she glared at Derek shortly. "I took over all of the dating profiles."

I frowned at Dan's profile page. His introductory biography was threaded with lies. "There's no way that little weakling played college football," I snorted derisively. He wasn't breaking any laws by lying on a dating page, but he was being desperate, especially with the extent of the fabrications.

"He's not exactly got an MD, either," Diana remarked with a roll of her eyes.

"See? This is why I don't like online dating." Derek had jokingly tried to rope me into it a couple of years ago when he thought I was spending too much of my time working. I crowed at him with a smug smirk, thanking Dan for the prime example of why it was a bad idea.

I reached out to the touch-screen computer and scrolled it up. His first and last name were underneath two photos: one was a banner of himself in an attractive-fitting casual outfit, standing to the side of the Statue of Liberty. The smaller one was a profile picture of himself against a dark blue background, mouth stretched into a smile, hands giving a pair of thumbs-ups, and with a fedora that matched Neal's.

"Aw, look!" I squealed and clapped my hands, seriously considering going out to the mezzanine, pointing at Neal, and dragging him up to my office just to show him the _adorable_ mimicry. He'd be unhappy, but I could always spout some _imitation is the best form of flattery_ line at him. "He changed his picture so he's wearing the hat! Oh, he should shut this down and ask Neal for drinks," I babbled. "It's so cute!"

I didn't know what it was about Dan, but while I was jealous of leery of Alex, I felt completely unthreatened by the dorky twenty-three-year-old. It could have been because Neal showed zero interest… it also could've been because I was entirely confident that I could flip him over my shoulder and shatter the bones in his arm, and all he'd do to fight back would be to repel me with tears.

Derek and Diana were both looking at me like I'd come unhinged.

"Are you done?" Derek asked me, looking like he'd just witnessed something truly sad.

I looked down and pushed the file on Alex into a drawer. "Yeah, I'm done," I mumbled, a little embarrassed since they weren't getting on board.

"Pierce must like the hat, too." Diana remarked about the fedora, turning her laptop back around so she could operate the screen. "She's desperate enough for the elephant that she winked at him last night and left her phone number." Derek and I both grinned. It was always when they got impatient or panicked that they got messy and left a trail. "I tried tracing it, but it belongs to a prepaid cell."

"But she still has it," I rationalized. It wasn't a bust, it just meant that we'd have to lure her into a trap. "She'll answer if she thinks her mark is calling to meet her."

"So what do we do?" Derek asked, looking between Diana and me. "Call her up for a meeting and take her in?"

"Normally, yes," I made a face. Hughes' prioritization of regard for the Japanese embassy was going to make my life a little more complicated. Because of the problems that would arise if she got away, my first priority had to at least _appear_ to be the recovery of the jade statues, not getting her on homicide. "But if she does what certain other people have done and slips out, then she can disappear for good with the elephants in tow. No, we need to keep her on this, and we need to do it in a way that convinces her to reveal where she has the others." I pursed my lips and steepled my fingers under my chin. "Let's send in Dan for a whirlwind date," I proposed with a smirk. "And by Dan, I mean Dan's crush."

* * *

Neal was not the happiest with me when I called him "Dan's crush" in front of him, but he was all for the idea. If he was nervous about meeting with a killer, he didn't show it. I assumed the responsibility of being alarmed enough for both of us, on high alert even as I wired him, taking the privacy of the surveillance van while we waited for Diana and Jones to scope out the bar, noting all of the exits.

 _"_ _If you get yourself shot, you're not getting laid for at least a month," I joked, buttoning up his shirt over the microphone and its thin, unassuming wires. My knuckles brushed his chest while I felt for the slit to push the button through, hot and firm, drumming with his heartbeat._

 _"_ _But Kenna," Neal returned, whining at me while he looked in his reflection in the computer monitor, fixing his hair and neatening the waves. He ran his hands through over his ears, combing it down._

_I snickered and finished his shirt. I dragged my right hand down the side of his chest, feeling for any obvious sign of the microphone. The extra padding of fabric from the breast pocket helped to conceal it. Pierce wouldn't be able to find it unless Neal gave her the chance to feel him up for it, and there were several reasons why that was a bad idea, not the least of which being that she might actually kill him if she knew he was working for the federal government._

Neal was sent in almost twenty minutes before Pierce was supposed to get there. We weren't too sure we trusted her to show up on time, but we also weren't sure she wouldn't get there ahead of time to look around, and we didn't want to give her too much time to formulate a plan of escape if it went badly. I had plopped his silk fedora on his dark curls, patted his cheek, and wished him good luck with an additional order not to do anything stupid.

It was torture to have my job sometimes… the job of the supervisor. I yearned for the days when I could be the one walking into the danger, the one who would be injured if the suspect caught on. I missed the rush and the power it gave me. Mostly, I missed being the one who everyone else was worrying about, because when I was that person, it meant that the only person I had to worry about was myself. If I were the one leading the operation, Neal might be sitting in the van and fidgeting and chewing on his lip, but I would know that he wasn't in trouble.

The bar we had them meeting at was a fairly classy one, but we knew that the lighting was low and most of the lights would be colored LEDs, distorting the perception of peoples' hair, skin, eyes, clothes, and surroundings. Neal went to go sit at the bar and asked the barista for some of "whatever you recommend, on the rocks." He sipped on his drink and we listened like a devoted audience while we awaited our insane little friend.

Ten minutes before the meeting, our wait was cut short. The movement was hard to hear in such a crowded place, but a voice close enough to be coming from right in front of Neal, feminine and youthful, called for our actual friend-ish person, who was safely in our custody while we knew he was a target.

 _"_ _Daniel?"_ Neal was wearing the fedora to be recognizable as Dan; the familiar voice didn't move, but she must've gotten a good look at his face. Her voice went from warm and inviting to cool and calculating. I tensed and reached for my gun, rubbing my thumb over the holster. If she started getting aggressive, I was storming in. _"You look a little different in your profile picture,"_ she accused.

 _"_ _Pleasantly surprised?"_ Neal asked tongue-in-cheekily. I rolled my eyes. Neal was more classically handsome than Dan, but that was kind of mean. It's not like Dan _wasn't_ attractive. Poking fun at his looks in his profile seemed unnecessary.

Pierce scoffed. _"No,"_ she answered flatly. Diana pursed her lips tightly. I motioned for her to keep sitting down. Neal was good; he could recover that, keep her interest…

Neal made a disappointed groan. _"Stay,"_ he called after her, likely reaching out to touch her arm or hand before she could run off. Evidently, whatever he'd done had held her attention for just a bit longer. _"Stay, for just one drink."_ She must've been looking skeptical. _"I promise you, it'll be worth it,"_ he said, voice changing like it did when he spoke through a grin. He raised his volume. _"Another Ketel One on the rocks, please."_

A stool close to Neal scraped as Pierce pulled it out, and I could only assume that she did the normal thing and sat down next to him. _"Who are you?"_ she asked, challenging and going straight to the point.

Neal had a response ready. We had already drafted an outline of the script he should follow to get her attention and keep it on him, but I still couldn't sit stationary. This was the part I was unhappiest with; it made him Pierce's enemy, and if I were her, I'd be pretty inclined to be violent.

 _"_ _I'm the guy who set you up."_ Neal said lowly, smirking, possibly tipping his hat to her. _"The FBI was sitting on Christopher Grey's house because_ _ **I**_ _tipped them off."_ Wrong, of course, but Pierce had no way of knowing that, and I hoped to God that being in a public place would save Neal a world of pain from her ire.

Waiting for her to respond, to see if she was going to be violent or hear him out, was like waiting to get a shot: you know the needle and the threat is there, but you don't know how much it's going to hurt or exactly when it will strike.

I pinched my arm while I gritted my teeth. _He's fine,_ I reassured myself. _She probably doesn't have a gun, anyway. That place is high-end. They have metal detectors._

Her response, when it came, was coldly calm and smooth as a block of ice. _"And why would you do a stupid thing like that?"_ She practically purred seductively. Despite that we could hear her quieter tone, the volume that the wire on Neal gave us picked up on it about the same. She was leaning in.

 _"_ _So I could get to these first."_

A pause commenced in between my nervous sitting, wiggling in my chair, and uncrossing and re-crossing my legs. I wanted Neal far away from her. I hated this part of his work-release, the part that forced him to go undercover in risky situations if convenient, taking away the choice that all civilians would have to avoid threat of personal injury.

Pierce saw the photograph Neal had of the two jade elephants that we had set on the table in the conference room. Once I explained that we wanted a picture to trick the thief with the other three pieces, the Japanese ambassador was happy to let Neal snap an image with his phone.

 _"_ _You got Daniel Picah's,"_ she realized, sounding truly shocked. I was glad Dan wasn't there to hear what was going on. Having it confirmed that she would have made him her next target probably would have sent the man into shakes. Or he'd be ranting about how awesome it was to be on a hit list. _He sure is an interesting guy._ I shook Dan out of my mind so that I could fully concentrate on Neal. _"How did you get it so quickly?"_

 _"_ _Dan just needed a friend,"_ Neal answered with a shrug, putting his phone away and taking a small drink of his liquor.

The blonde huffed with irritation. _"I take it you don't approve of my methods,"_ she deduced from his tone.

 _"_ _I think there are smarter ways of getting what you want."_ Neal's answer sounded matter-of-fact, but while he did imply that her technique wasn't the best, he didn't outright say that he disapproved. In a con, implications were just as important, if not more so, than the actual verbatim. Neal would never approve of anything that brought undue harm.

 _"_ _Well, it's different for a man,"_ Pierce defended herself, ice clinking in one of their glasses as it was swirled around. Her voice had a hard edge to it. _"You should be grateful that you have such a luxury."_ I didn't agree with how her take on that and her voice sounded like it could very easily become misandry, but she had a point, however skewed it may have been. Men had it easier in some ways. A male conman would usually have an easier time than a female. _"I, uh… I have to work with what I've got."_

She had certainly proved already that one of the things she had was a gun. And she had used the expectations and stereotyping of females to get in the door of Grey's house. Not one of my agents had suspected the sobbing, small blonde girl of being the killer. We'd have been more skeptical if it weren't for the defensive wounds, but even after finding her, we had still searched for another suspect. No one thought that the sexy little woman would turn on them with a gun.

Neal hummed. I had to wonder how deeply he was thinking about what Pierce was saying to him. It wasn't all unfounded. Even now, I had to wince and guess what would have happened if Pierce had gone to Dan as a friend. Would he have taken as strong a liking to her as he did to Neal? If the FBI hadn't been involved, would he have given over one of his treasures to a girl he'd met on an online dating sight?

 _"_ _Slightly jaded perspective,"_ he commented, while Derek, Diana, and I all sat upright and narrowed our eyes at the recording equipment, staring at it in place of Neal. _Did you just… "Excuse the pun,"_ Neal added.

Everyone in the surveillance van was completely disgusted with Neal's terrible joke. Diana muttered something about how he needed to stop trying to be funny. Derek's face looked like he'd tasted something rotten. I rolled my eyes and sighed. Puns should _not_ be one of the primary topics on his mind.

 _"_ _I don't think so,"_ Pierce disagreed proudly. _"I've got a lot to work with."_ Guns, sexism, and the same lust-based physical attraction that worked to convince people to talk to Neal. Yeah. She sure was taking advantage of her opportunities. If nothing else, this case was kind of eye-opening to the reasons different sexes committed crimes in different ways.

 _"_ _You_ _ **do**_ _have something I want,"_ Neal agreed.

 _"_ _Oh?"_ She feigned innocence. _"And how do you propose we solve that?"_

Neal tipped back his glass, finished off his drink, and smacked the empty glass onto the bar. _"Team up,"_ he suggested smoothly. _"I've got two, you've got three. Separate, worth about two million. That's not bad."_ People had killed for far less. _"But, together, they're worth about two_ _ **hundred**_ _million. Which, if you're bad at math,"_ he chuckled, _"Is significantly higher."_

The chair legs scraped again. Pierce sighed disappointedly. _"I prefer to work alone,"_ she said in reply.

Neal didn't react very vehemently, instead passively remaining at the bar. _"Then enjoy your two million,"_ he said in farewell, seemingly willing to put it down and let it go just like that. Pierce didn't say anything, as though she'd gone.

The three agents keeping tabs on the meeting were all waiting intently for something else to happen next. Neal flagged down the barista for a refill, remaining there at his leisure. Derek and I shared a look, unsure what was happening. It was easier to sit in another room when I could watch through cameras, but even if we had gotten some up, we probably wouldn't have been able to see two people sitting down at the bar through the dancers, the bustling pedestrian traffic, or the flashing, colored lights.

 _"_ _So you are good at math,"_ Neal remarked sassily without verbal prompting.

 _"_ _You underestimate me,"_ Pierce warned, voice grating and reluctant. She was back. It had only taken her a minute to decide that changing her MO was worth the much larger payoff, and besides, it wasn't like she wasn't fully capable of running quick and efficient blue-collar crime if her newest partner stabbed her in the back (metaphorically).

"He's got her!" I whooped and threw my hand up. Diana smacked my hand and locked our fingers in celebration, holding our hands up together for a few seconds. "Yes!" All we needed now was to get her to lead Neal to wherever it was she was working out of, where the remaining statues were, and we could get Neal out of her way, put her in prison, and please the Japanese government.

That last one wasn't truly very high on my list of priorities, but I figured I might as well do everything on Hughes' list while I was being productive. Go big or go home. Yoshida already liked me well enough; why _not_ go the extra mile and get a gold star?

Everything seemed like it was going to end well. Neal had the killer on his hooks, between us and her we had all of the jade pieces, and I was only a few hours away from taking my lover back to our temporarily-shared residence for a job well done. I was definitely going to do some luxurious celebrating, snuggle on the sofa, possibly with some wine, maybe lay his head on my lap and thread my fingers through his hair while he rested. I could remind him that he was safe, and he could relax, and I could cuddle him until he was close to falling asleep and then lead him to the bed and wrap my arms around his front while snuggling to his back, kissing at the back of his neck until we slept.

"Give yourselves some pats on the back for this one, guys," I said, leaning back and stretching my arms up. I straightened my legs and arched my back. I had an hour of stress to shake out. "This time tomorrow, we'll be submitting our statements on the recovery of the jades."

I let my eyes fall shut while I listened through the headset to Neal and Pierce. She was trying to needle him for information, and he was turning each around to her. She was evasive, but he was deflective, so neither were getting anywhere. _Just push her a little further, sweetheart,_ I coaxed in my head. _Just get her to tell you some hint or clue and I can get you far, far away from her._

While I kept my headphones on, listening in, I slipped down in my chair. _So close to done…_ I was exhausted, but I was also very jittery that he would be harmed. I wouldn't be able to sleep myself until he wasn't within firing range of that psycho bitch, and then I'd have to have some way of reaffirming he was alright. We could turn on the television in the background while we sat too close on the couch, cupping each other's faces and making out slowly, restfully, tasting and touching without rush, without panic, without a constraint of time, without shoving down every single desire to tenderly touch.

 _"_ _Miss me, Caffrey?!"_

My eyes snapped open. _I_ hadn't invited _that_ voice to come intruding into my daydream. I'd have welcomed an uninvited imaginary-Mozzie to come barging through the door, loudly voicing his theories on Area Fifty-One, before I wanted _Alex_ walking in. She didn't _get_ Neal anymore, didn't get to be in the same area as him while he was so calm and vulnerable with so few barriers up; he was _mine_ to treasure and take care of now.

"What?!" I sat up straight so quickly that, since I'd been sitting so far down in my chair, I almost fell off the edge.

"Who's that?" Diana demanded, holding the left side of her headset tighter to her ear as if she'd misheard. She turned her head into that side of the headphone band.

My hands clenched. _Caffrey._ She called him by his surname. That could give away his identity to Pierce, could get him _attacked._ "Alex!" I spat her name and growled, jealousy and bitterness from my first meeting with her combining and clashing with the steam rising in my chest that she was crashing my case and endangering my boyfriend, the terror rising uncontrollably that dashed any remnants of collected, composed fantasizing.

Neal sounded truly surprised to see her there. _"What're you doing here, Alex?"_ He asked tightly, an edge in his voice that warned her to go away and not make it into a scene.

"That's Caffrey's fence," Derek informed Diana, whose face closed off at the mention of Neal still having connections to the illicit marketing world. _Oh, great!_ Of course it was important that Diana know who she was if she was interfering, it was still a real pain in the ass. I had wanted to keep that knowledge to as few people as possible, for Neal's sake.

"She's gonna throw it," I predicted, outraged, hand on my gun and the other stabilizing the headset that had almost been knocked off when I jumped up to my feet. "She's gonna tip off the shooter!"

We would lose Pierce, and the elephants, and she might get violent against Neal, and – and if we lost her, and with such a high-profile theft involved, the bureau might blame it on Neal, since Alex was one of his former contacts, and try to re-sentence him.

Alex sounded as outraged, but I could guarantee the brown-haired beauty that her fury had _nothing_ on mine. She wasn't the one whose boyfriend's life and safety was being thrown up in the air for the sake of some petty revenge; and revenge against being identified as a fence, which she never should have been to begin with. _Take the fucking consequences! You're a criminal; you don't get to make the rules!_

 _"_ _I don't see you for five years, and within minutes of you waltzing back into my life, I've got the FBI checking up on me?"_ She raised her voice, fully intending to be as loud as possible. She was making a huge scene. No _way_ Pierce didn't hear that, and Alex had fully meant for her to.

Pierce's breath caught. The blonde whipped back to Neal and hissed, _"This is another setup!"_ Alex didn't bother correcting her, probably standing right beside Neal haughtily, nodding at Pierce just to be a sketchy bitch to someone who had nothing to do with the FBI being interested in her. How fucking presumptuous to automatically blame Neal. She was a _criminal_. Tons of people were looking for her. Did she think _she_ was the center of his universe?!

 _"_ _No,"_ Neal argued to Pierce, hastily trying to fight a futile battle and salvage everything. Alex had already opened her big mouth; the damage had already been done, and there was a pair of handcuffs reserved just for the pretty brunette. She'd have been fine if she'd just _stayed away._ _"It's not!"_

Things scraped, Pierce jumping up and running away. Neal stood up quickly, rising to his feet. Alex taunted him. _"It stings when somebody messes with your job, doesn't it?"_

I had run her prints, but I had deliberately told Derek not to tag it. The only way she could have known was if she, or someone she knew, somehow had an alert set up for when her name pinged. Which was illegal in itself. Did she _really_ think that she had the right to bitch and whine about the police looking into her when she all but confessed to breaking the law by monitoring that, if nothing else?!

I had never wanted to scream so loudly before, as far as I could remember. I could _not_ handle Neal's ex fucking with my relationship _and_ my job at the same time, much less putting _Neal_ at risk for her imbecilic, hypocritical crying and wailing about how she was getting in trouble for breaking the law.

"I'm gonna wring her gorgeous little neck," I seethed, imagining again. This time, I imagined something, but it wasn't about a sweet, loving date night with my soulmate. It was mean and violent and strangely very satisfying.

 _"_ _FBI ran my prints!"_ Alex huffed at Neal. _"That's bad for my business!"_

"Oh, boo-hoo!" I jeered out loud. "You poor baby! I'm so sorry that your illegal and unethical business has been fucked with!"

I got alarmed looks from both of my coworkers. I pointed emphatically at the doors.

"What are you waiting for?! Get the exits! She might already have slipped away!"

 _"_ _It's not what you think, Alex,"_ Neal urgently tried to explain and escape from the fence to pursue his mark.

I still wanted to lash out at Alex, using my tongue like a knife to inflict as much damage as possible, but more important was Neal, trying to keep up with Pierce at the risk of her freaking out and shooting him. I needed to get to _Neal._ If Pierce was with him, fine, but at that moment, more than I needed any sort of justice, I needed to show myself that my precious man was okay.

"Don't bother going after Alex," I roared, bristling while I jumped out of the back of the surveillance van. "I'll handle her later!" Pierce was still a priority, second only to Neal… I'd take care of the problem with the fence on my own.

Assuming I didn't just decide to have her convicted on charges of obstruction of justice, that is.

* * *

Pierce and Neal could _run._ They were both more athletic than I gave them credit for. I sprinted in a marathon dash, but they didn't come out the doors that they had gone in through, instead exiting on the other side of the building via an emergency exit. I heard Neal's strained voice shouting for her to stop, to which Pierce obviously didn't listen.

I ran down an alley after them and stopped. When the alley ended, it opened onto an avenue. I couldn't see them. Too many people were in the street and made it impossible to pick out either of them in the dark that had fallen, especially with the advance that their chase had on my pursuit. I moaned, stomped my foot, and turned around in a circle. Which way would Pierce run? The subway stop was down to my right, but there were less people to my left; would she value running and depending on being fast enough to keep her distance, or getting into public transport at the risk of being slowed down too much by crowds?

I wasn't left puzzling for very long. A feminine screech split the air. _"Help!"_ Pierce's high voice howled, pulling the same notes of terror and helplessness that she had in Grey's house. "Please! He's attacking me!" I turned to the left. It was coming down that side of the street. I raced up the sidewalk while a crowd cleared around two people grappling on the sidewalk. I had to shove my way through. "Help, he's attacking me! _Help!"_

A group of construction workers whom had been attending to an active sight right across the street from their scene came crossing, one of them checking the street for cars and the rest just plowing right across. They were all bulky, big, muscled, and wearing bright orange vests and hard helmets. I jumped up to look over the shoulders of the people. I saw Neal's back, bent over and wrapped around a struggling, lithe body, attempting to hold her while she fought like hell to free herself.

"Get your hands off of her!" The men crossing the street took the bait, running to the aid of a damsel in distress. I saw them converging on Neal and panicked. "Hey!"

Neal grunted while he tried to hold on. I shoved hard at someone's back and sent them stumbling into another person, forcing my way through in a rush of desperation and _need._ They looked pissed. All they saw was a crying woman and a man attacking her; hell, I'd probably have been pissed, too, but he was _mine,_ and she was _bad_ , and they looked _mean._

One of them reached them first. He grabbed Neal's arm angrily and ripped away at his wrist. With part of the grip lost, Pierce dropped down out of Neal's other arm and turned around, holding her black purse to her chest. She was wearing another tight-fitting dress, hair straight and ironed. She flashed him a look of triumph as Neal was manhandled, another guy coming up behind him, and then turned around and bolted, running with her head down right through the crowd.

Neal gasped and went pale as both pulled his arms behind him, holding his limbs behind his back and dragging him backwards. The other three joined, all looking ready for a beat down.

"I think there's been a misunderstanding here, guys-" he panted, looking around in fear, collar loosened and tie askew from his struggle with Pierce. His fringe flopped down over his forehead, legs scrabbling to get under him, but every time he tried, he was pulled back a little further on the sidewalk, leaving him at their mercy.

It wasn't just that Neal was being ganged up on that scared me; it was the panic in his eyes, the horror and terror and the desperation in his face as he looked for a way out. I elbowed my way in while he babbled at them, _"Whoa, whoa, come on, you don't want to do this,"_ and raised my voice, running right to my mate's side. He looked far too shaken for someone who hadn't had bad memories of something similar happening before. No one was going to beat him on my watch.

"FBI!" I yelled, body slamming one of the construction crew right as he raised his fist in preparation to hit. Neal had turned his face to the side already, preemptively trying to avoid as much pain as possible, shoulders shuddering and eyes squeezed shut. After knocking that one out of the way, I lunged forward and pushed hard against one of the first guys' chests. "Let him go!"

They didn't immediately let Neal go, but he looked up at me when he heard my voice, chest heaving almost painfully, eyes wild and terrorized. I touched his face with my hand, gently, then more firmly cupped both of his cheeks and made him look into my eyes. He focused on me easily, eyes staring into mine with naked relief. He tried to smile shakily. It didn't work. My heart cried for the obvious signs that he'd been assaulted like this before.

"Do I have to say it twice?! I'm an FBI agent and he's my consultant!" I snapped authoritatively at both of the men holding him, stroking my thumbs over his cheekbones and pushing back his hair. I glared at them both.

They shared a look with each other and then decided to cooperate. The biggest one was the first one to give up on the beat down. He let go of Neal's arm after hefting him up a little, letting Neal get his feet under him. The other wasn't so considerate, just dropped Neal's elbow. Neal stumbled. I caught him immediately, wrapping my arms around his waist and letting him stand up on his own time. I knew how frightening it was to have a gang baring down on me, and Neal, who wasn't as desensitized to pain, yet whom had spent four years in an environment like that, had to have felt it more acutely.

The second one wasn't happy about letting Neal go scot-free. "He was attacking a woman," he nosed in insistently, glowering hatefully at the man who hid his face in my hair, tamping down on his emotions now that he was safe.

"He was trying to stop her from running away," I snarled back at them. Good Samaritanism had to count for something, but _nothing_ made what they had been about to do to my darling _okay._ I shouldn't have kept going, but I wanted to make them feel bad. Neal was the gentlest person I'd ever met, and they wanted to break his bones and make him bleed. "Because she is the _killer_ we are – were – _pursuing!_ Thanks for trying," I sarcastically growled, rubbing my hand over Neal's left side while he looked up, tight arms loosening.

Neal tightly in tow, I dragged him away from the stunned and bemused construction workers, leaving one of them to kick at a fire hydrant. Neal was still shocked by the sudden descent that the mission had taken, and I was still bubbling with fire – at Alex, at those bastards who wanted to hurt my boyfriend, at Neal himself a little bit for letting Alex come back into his life, and, by extension, mine.

Once we were a little further away, I turned us down an alley. I figured it was safe. It may have been dark, but I had my gun, and there was a light on the side of an exit door off of a closed building that lit up most of the walk. I just wanted to get him back in the direction towards the bar and get him to my van so I could take him somewhere safe. I didn't know what was going to happen next with the case, but I wanted Neal somewhere secure and brightly-lit.

Neal let go of me after a few minutes, pulling on his tie and running his hands through his hair, ruffling the longer strands and pushing them back. The look was messy, but it was out of his face. "Thank you so much for that," he breathed, voice trembling with nerves. "Thank you."

Without my conman clinging to my side, I took out my cell phone to make a quick phone call. I didn't want to leave my partners hanging. I didn't want to talk or explain what had just happened, but they didn't need to be scouring the bar for people who were no longer there. While the dial tone rang, I stopped walking and reached for Neal's hand, touching the inside of his wrist.

"Neal," I said, kindly but firmly. He looked at me, eyes tired and bloodshot. I had found a very definite sore spot for my CI. If I'd had my way, I never would have had to see it uncovered. I was not going to sleep well away from him for a few nights, what with that image fresh in my mind. "You _never_ have to thank me for protecting you. It's not something I do to be nice. It's something I do because I'm obligated. By our deal, yes, but first and foremost, because I care about you and want you to be safe."

He licked his lips and nodded, though he seemed a little bit uncertain that that was really all there was to it. My dial tone turned off and Derek picked up, not quite as out of breath as Neal had been when I'd caught up to him.

"I've got Neal," I responded, reaching to touch my hand to his lower back, rubbing him through his jacket. "Pierce is gone. She summoned her own cavalry. Check traffic cams by the subway stop closest to the bar."

I hung up after that. If there was anything else, they would either call back or text. Hopefully they got the message that I was not inclined to talk to anyone.

Pulling my hand tiredly down my face, I sighed and turned to face Neal, standing a little bit closer to him so that I could keep my hand on his back protectively. "Did you see where she went?" I asked, wearily chiding myself for not asking before I had made the phone call.

Neal's lips pressed tightly together and he snapped back at me with a temper. "No, I was a little too preoccupied with the huge guys closing in to kill me!" _They wouldn't have killed you,_ I refrained from saying; for all I knew, the last people to approach him like that had tried, or come pretty close. "You were cutting it a little close there, weren't you?!"

Rationally, I would later realize that he was scared and angry and confused. Everything had happened very quickly, and fearing for his life hadn't helped matters. I'd have been short with him, too… and I was. At the time, though, all I was thinking was that I had just saved his ass from getting pummeled, his former sweetheart had blown the operation, and I was going to have to answer to the higher-ups and find some way to excuse Neal of the blame, despite his known contact's involvement.

What the hell was _with_ Alex? She came out of nowhere. Neal promised me that they were over, but how had she found him so quickly again? Why was she even there about the music box? How had he gotten her to come to Manhattan? How long had she been in town? If I hadn't overheard them, would Neal have ever told me about her? When all I had to go on was his word versus insecurities and suspicions and frustrations that I may not be able to keep him on the straight and narrow – or even the straight- _ish_ and narrow- _ish_ – it was hard to take his word for it that a beautiful woman who could pass as a model and who was comfortable taking her clothes off in front of him was _just_ a former fling.

"Well, I was all nice and comfortable in my van," I answered snidely, sticking my nose up and holding my head high. I dropped my hand from his clothes and stalked off, still in the direction of the street my van was on. "I didn't expect to have to get up and go for a run because your girlfriend decided to show up!"

Neal threw his arms up and paced after me, long strides crunching uneven gravel and rocks under his feet. "What are you _talking_ about?" He demanded with annoyance, confusion, and anger for my response. His voice echoed in the small space, but his loudness just made me more determined not to let him have the last word. I took care of him, let him hold me as long as he needed to feel physically safe. The least he could do was let me feel emotionally safe! "You _are_ my girlfriend!"

"Am I?" I stopped and turned around, eyes dry but my face hot and chest heavy. Neal stopped right before he ran into me, taken aback by my question. He opened his mouth to say something, but lost the words in his throat, looking clueless and uncertain of what was going on. I swallowed. "What are you doing with a fence?" I questioned quietly, holding up my hands and clasping them in front of my heart, symbolically shielding myself. "Yeah. I know who she is."

Neal's surprise was palpable, along with the disappointment that I knew who Alex was. He gaped, shook his head, pulled his fingers through his hair and rubbed his chin, all while trying to figure out how to explain. The lack of forthcoming explanations made my eyes sting wetly. I dropped my head down. He was taking the time to figure out something. The truth didn't need fabrication, so obviously it wasn't that.

I nodded, biting the inside of my cheek and looking over him with anguish. I'd been trying to give him everything I had, as a partner, as a lover, as a significant other… and as soon as his former bedmate (had she been more than that to him?) came breezing into the city, I was no longer as important, no longer kept in the loop. Those oaths to be honest with me didn't seem to mean much once I wasn't the only woman content to kiss away his loneliness and tell him he was clever and sweet and important.

Turning around, I shook my head and crossed my arms over my chest tightly. The walk back to the car sounded like an agonizing prospect now that I had to fight back the tears. "That's what I thought," I murmured.

* * *

Neal chased after me, calling my name and begging for me to listen. I just stormed to my car, unable to look him in the eyes. Tears were falling down my face, rolling down my cheeks, the wetness on my skin quickly giving way to biting, chapping cold as the night air attacked. My fingers were starting to go numb. The car was in sight; I just needed to get a little bit further down the street-

"Kenna!" Neal persistently refused to take a hint. "Kenna, please," his breath caught. I stopped walking by the back wheels of the car and reached into my pocket to feel for my keys, and the artist took the opportunity to touch my shoulders and turn me around. I held my breath, staring at his chest, self-conscious of my red eyes and sniffling nose. _"Please,_ darling, let me explain!"

"I just asked you to and you wouldn't!" My voice broke and I shuddered, head falling. Neal shuffled closer, hands moving past my shoulders and to my back, bringing me closer. I put my hand up against his torso, holding him at a distance instead of to pull him in tighter. "Now, either you weren't intending to tell me anything or you were going to lie to me. I'll save you the trouble of deciding." I trembled in speech and in body, rubbing my nose with the back of my hand. I stared down to his heart. It was easier to look at his shirt than it was to risk being trapped in his eyes. "Keep secrets if you like, but don't lie to my face and call me your darling, or your sweetheart, or anything else that implies you care about me!"

One of my hands went to shove him away. Neal caught my wrist in his hand, lowered my arm down to my side, and cupped the side of my neck with the other, long fingers wrapping around my throat gingerly. "But I _do,"_ he argued, holding the back of my head with his other hand. "I _do_ care about you, Kenna."

The artist used his hands to pull me in and pressed dry, hot lips to my forehead. He laid another closed-mouth kiss on my temple.

"I need you," he mumbled against my cheek, his breath coming out in a gust over my skin. Goosebumps stood up on my arms and neck, a violent shiver running down my spine. He touched my forehead again, raised his hand from my throat to my cheek, holding my head up and not giving me the choice to avoid his face. "Kenna, I'm sorry. I should've told you about Alex. But I promise, it's over between us! I don't _want_ her. I'm all yours."

His face was open, earnest, and bare; virtuous like an angel with emotion, but enticing as a devil with the soft curve of his plush pink lips, sharp cut of his jaw and angular cheeks, the frown that not only reached, but encompassed his eyes, sapphire orbs large and wet and worried. A loose piece of his hair fell down again over his forehead, but he didn't seem to notice, eyes locked on me, roaming my face, looking for the most miniscule of reactions.

He slowly, slowly moved his right hand from my face. My eyes were glued to him, just as I'd feared. I couldn't look away. I needed to memorize, to witness every inch of him, every centimeter, and beg the world that he was being honest with me now, even if he hadn't been then. The treasure that was my boyfriend was careful to touch my wrist and only gradually wind his fingers around my hand before lifting it between us. He pressed my palm to his chest.

 _Ba-bum. Ba-bum._ His heart pounded underneath my hand. I pressed harder against his pecs and Neal held my wrist tighter. _Ba-bum. Ba-bum._ The sound that eased me to sleep drummed against my palm, detectable if I just ignored the rest of the stimuli beating on my senses. Neal swiped the pad of his thumb underneath my eye to brush away another falling tear.

"This is _yours,"_ he whispered. I watched his mouth move, his lips forming the words with love and care, before darting back up to his soulful eyes again, eyes that spoke of trust and desire.

 _I have his heart. What a corny thing to say._ My face was numb; I couldn't say anything, but I chanced a peek down at our hands, his fingers brushing over my knuckles, my hand flat against his shirt, pressing his clothes and the line of buttons into his skin, so fragile and breakable, and his heart so vulnerable.

He shifted but held me steady. "Alex isn't taking me away from you," he claimed, covering the back of my hand with his, lacing his fingers in between mine, feeling his heartbeat and the possessiveness of my touch. " _I'm_ not taking me away from you, but you have to _listen_ to me, sweetheart." Neal bumped our foreheads lightly. "Believe me, I'm just as angry that you are that she ruined the sting, but you can't blame _me_ for what she's done. If she's doing anything to get to me, it's not because I asked her to."

 _Anything to get to you… anything like stripping down in front of you? Wriggling out of her skirt, sexing up her hair?_ It didn't feel like an _if,_ it felt like a _what._ The woman had already had plenty to do with Neal, stealing his attention and time, threatening our bond, risking his life for the sake of some petty vengeance. Everything she did seemed like it revolved around her. Maybe it wouldn't, if I had the context, but how could I know that when Neal just told me that she was irrelevant to us and asked me to trust him?

I trusted him he wasn't screwing Alex while he was screwing me. What if he wanted to? What if, to him, Alex represented the freedom he'd had before prison? What if she reminded him of what it was like to live on his own terms, to be reputable to the point that just his name scared security guards? I wasn't Alex. I was nothing like her. What made me special, if he had liked Alex enough to be with her then? I didn't have those traits he had liked. Was I just a fill-in? Was it a matter of settling for the best he could get with the anklet? When the anklet was taken off, would our relationship have any chance of surviving, or would he bolt away at the first chance, eager to re-immerse himself in riches and wines, in a lifestyle that I wouldn't have been able to tolerate?

My hand could feel his heartbeat, but that was just anatomical. No matter who he wanted to fuck and who he wanted to hold, his heart would still be beating. It was a cute line, but he wasn't John Green, and there was more to earning my trust and forgiveness than just holding my palm to his chest.

"What the hell happened before I got there?" I questioned, unwilling to settle for less than a straight answer. Prose wasn't going to win. I couldn't shove things aside and tell him it was okay for my peace of mind.

 _"_ _Nothing_ happened," Neal insisted, flexing his hand around my fingers and moving his other hand onto my shoulder. "You have to trust me!" My boyfriend was growing more frustrated. _It's not nice to feel troubled by your lover, is it?_ "You're it for me, Kenna. I don't lie to you. I am loyal to _you._

"Look," he breathed, dropping his hand from my wrist, moving closer and pushing me against the car, very careful to do so with the utmost gentleness, cushioning my head with his hand against the window, stepping so his feet were on either side of mine, leaning down to me. He tangled his hands in my hair and held our faces close, pained eyes staring right into mine, mouths only an inch apart. "I know you're insecure, and I'm so sorry people have hurt you, but I'm not going to!"

"You already have!" I sobbed, trying to turn my head to the side to look away, shrinking back down and sliding down against the car.

The effect was black magic; intense and powerful and painful and destructive. Neal let go of me, pulling my hair with how quickly he got his fingers out of it, staggering backwards like he'd been struck with his arms out like a wounded animal. I stayed back against the car, unable to look him in the eyes and see the pain, the realization, the horror, and covered my mouth.

I could have slapped, kicked, or bit him, and I doubted that any of the reactions would have looked as abhorred as what I got from telling him upfront for the first time that his actions actually hurt me sometimes. Part of the reason I was insecure with him was _because_ of him. His lies, the few promises he broke earlier on, the way he treats me like I'm his universe some days and others he turns around and flirts with some other girl. Neal's pain reflected onto me, a twisting in my gut like a knife, and I covered my stomach over the old injuries, feeling as though I was being flayed open all over again.

"Not by cheating," I whimpered, shaking my head, hair falling limply over my face. It reflected my mood; flat and weak, without attitude, bounce, or liveliness. "I know you wouldn't cheat… but… other things." Infidelity wasn't the only way to hurt a relationship. "Everything you do has consequences, Neal." His name fell from my mouth like a blessing to me, but he flinched like it was a curse. "Every time you make me choose between you and my job, I _have_ to choose you. And my job, my integrity, it all suffers for it.

"I'm _ruining_ my self-worth as an agent for you, this career that I've wanted ever since it was an option, and I think the least you could do is tell me the truth!" I bravely raised my voice, crying freely but working on holding back the embarrassment. I was allowed to have feelings. I was allowed to want an explanation. "She was _your_ fence and she's in New York the same day Pierce comes to track the jade _and_ she came to your place, and you didn't think it might have been important to tell me you'd invited your ex over? What the hell happened?"

 _What the hell happened to us?_ Only days ago, I'd been in a dream. The honeymoon stage, it was called. We'd kiss on the couch like teenagers when we weren't conversing about whatever came to mind, playing board games with friends and snuggling up into thickly-knit blankets to enjoy making up for the times in the office when we couldn't touch each other the way we wanted. He sketched me in his bed, I wore his shirts when I stayed late in the mornings, he made me breakfasts and I took him to galleries and craft stores, and for almost a month, our secret relationship had been a beautiful development, one of the best choices I'd ever made, because he made me feel like I deserved the best and he gave it to me while I treated him to the best care I could.

We'd soared high and then fallen hard, and now we were crashing into the cement and shattering into tiny pieces. What did that mean for us? Was it just a consequence of not talking things through, or was it more serious? Were we too different? Was Neal too inherently the opposite of me for us to make it work?

"What was your old fence doing, walking right into my operation?!" I demanded when he didn't have an answer for me, shaking his head, pacing on the sidewalk, covering his face and running his hands through thick, dark hair, unable to figure out what the next step would be.

The artist stopped. He pulled his hands out of his hair, messy and unruly. "Alright," he started, turning back to face me and stepping up towards the curb. "Maybe I should have planned to see her _with_ you, but don't act like I'm the only one who did something wrong here!" I was already against the vehicle, so instead of being defensive, I acted on the offense. I inhaled sharply, pulling myself up and standing straight, proud and angry in spite of the redness of my face. "What were you _doing,_ pulling her prints?! I mean, I welcomed you into my home, and you ran a file on my friend?!"

Neal made a motion like he was going to poke my chest, but he aborted it, instead motioning to me with his hand out flat, expression demanding what the hell I was smoking.

"How sure are you that she's your friend?" I retorted heatedly. He was supposed to _trust me_ if he wanted me to trust him. I was doing my _job._ I was being _responsible,_ getting answers myself, because God knew neither of them would have told me. He was the one sneaking around with career criminals who hadn't been given passes from the government. "How sure are you that _anyone_ is your friend? I mean, damn, not only is your usual crowd working with less-than-high moral standards, but we have this whole music box thing! Possibly abducted sister. You think I'm worried about taking the high road when for all I know the stranger who shows up out of nowhere could be working for Fowler? Aiming to get you in trouble? Discredit me?" I started pushing my fingers back as I rattled off my fears. "Get to Kate, get close to Katie, even go after Derek or Diana?"

Judging by his face, by the time I stopped, I had said too much. Neal's jaw had gone slack, his eyes cold. "You can't trust me," he said in shock, his voice ringing with disbelief. He ground his teeth. "After _everything,_ you _still_ can't trust me!"

"It's not _you_ that I don't trust!" I exploded, throwing my arms out to my sides exasperatedly. I signed up for a consultant, not for a boyfriend, or a soulmate who kept putting me through trials I never deserved to have to handle. "There are four people I trust, Neal – five or six if we stretch – and everyone else, _Alex included,_ is all up in the air." I thought to frame it in my perspective. Neal was quiet, hearing, but glaring at me, so who knew how well he was actually listening? "A stranger comes around town, looks you up specifically, yeah, I'm going to figure out who she is! And I didn't have it tagged for anything. The only reason it turned up for her was because she has an illegal tap on the system to know when her name comes up! I had absolutely no intention of getting her in trouble!"

He scowled at me. "So that's how you wanna play it?" He questioned rudely, not giving me the chance to answer before he went off on me, defending himself. "Alex had an obsession with the same music box Fowler is after," he snapped. I wanted answers… well, I was getting them. "I thought, if anyone could help us find it, it would be her. But no, I guess you just want to live in paranoia and not trust anyone. Live in a box, for all I care."

"How can you say that like it's a bad thing?" My question went up into a squeak at the end, incredulous and amazed. "Trusting the wrong people can get you in prison, and we have no way of knowing who the wrong people are! What if Alex is working with Fowler to get the box? What if that obsession drives her to manipulate you?"

I didn't want to bring it up, but we both knew that it was possible to con Neal. He'd been blinded by his need to find Kate Moreau once before, and Interpol had completely covered his eyes to the reality of the situation. Mei Lin, a complete stranger, had done that. Alex had the advantage of knowing him beforehand – and in a very personal capacity, too.

Neal shook his head. I'd never seen him look so incensed with me. "You think whatever you want, McKenna," he invited scathingly, pointing at me vindictively. I lowered my head and sniffed. "I know Alex. That's not who she is. And if you'd asked, I would have told you that myself."

"You would've told me," I echoed after him, eyes fixing on him, insulted and flat.

He held his arms out. _"Yes!"_ My boyfriend yelled back at me.

I rubbed agitatedly at the drying tear tracks on my cheeks. I was getting too busy being angry to be sad. Crossing my arms, I rose to the challenge.

"Just like how after I repeatedly tell you to keep me in the loop with the music box, you neglect to mention that you're getting in touch with a fence who might know something?" I cocked my head. Neal faltered, balling his hands into fists, lower lip quivering. "Or how about after I met her and said it again, and you kept the discussion to yourself? I am in so far over my head here," I confessed, dropping my arms weakly. I was open to him. All he had to do was come to me. "I'm terrified OPR is going to find some inconsistency with my reports or your tracker or figure out somehow that I'm spending so much time with you. And I'm doing that, I am _choosing_ to be in this awful situation, where I'm scared that the guy redoing my wiring is corrupt, where I'm afraid Katie will get hurt, where I'm almost too afraid to take unknown telephone calls – I'm doing all of it for you!"

Neal kept shaking his head. I felt like I was on trial for violating some ethical code. How was I supposed to know what was and wasn't okay? He didn't _communicate._ He was happy to wax poetic about how much he adored having me in his life, yet he managed to say all of that and never say anything at all.

"You shouldn't have pulled her prints," he decreed, spitting mad. "That's the kind of thing you _never_ do when you make friends with people like us!"

 _Us._ He didn't mean the two of us… he meant career criminals. He was siding with them, detaching himself from me. That simple, silly pronoun hurt more than anything else, except for the wounded expression as though I had tormented him endlessly with cruelty and viciousness, just by opening his eyes to what he did to me.

I hated this. I hated everything about it. I loved that Neal was an artist, always creative and imaginative. I liked how intelligent and passionate he was about art, how he was so adept with his hands and could be both strong and breathtakingly gentle. He was always seeing the beauty in simple things that I took for granted. Because of him, I saw the good in my job, the value of being demoted. He made my life more vivid, more colorful.

Except not all of those colors were bright and lively. Some of them were dark blacks and blues, blood-colored reds and deep, depressing greys that shaded over the normal pinks and oranges that signified a scorching romance. He made me feel _more._ He made me feel more of the bad things, too, and had more power to kill my spirit than anyone else ever had, and that scared me.

He could tear me apart with his job. If he just did it the right way, hurt himself, hurt someone else, made me lose faith that he was the good man I thought he was, then I might never recover. I didn't _want_ him to be a career criminal anymore. I was fine with picking locks and – and being good at lying, because those helped with his work-release, which ultimately protected him from things like being beaten by thugs, but when he started conspiring with other criminals, getting sucked back into that life? I would lose him to a world I wasn't a part of and might never truly understand.

Sorrowful and frightened tears welled up again. Neal didn't notice, too pissed off and enraptured with his tirade. "Did you take Mozzie's, too?!" He asked, jaw trembling with how tightly he held himself.

"No," I answered immediately, shaking my head.

"Why not?" He asked meanly, sounding like he thought I was the one lying.

"I met Mozzie in much different circumstances," I responded, rubbing my elbows uncomfortably. Mozzie had been an unexpected additional friend when I'd acquired Neal, and I had learned to selectively trust the second conman long before I even knew Fowler existed. "You know, before I was looking over my shoulder in my own home!"

Neal sneered. "You should've. After all, we're all just _criminals,_ aren't we?"

"No!" I shouted back at him. Once upon a time, that might have been my perspective, but it wasn't, not by a longshot, not anymore. Neal wasn't a prisoner on a leash, he was my friend, my lover, my mate, a perfect treasure who other people were taking for granted. Mozzie wasn't just an uncaught con, he was a loyal friend with odd, sometimes annoying eccentricities, just like any other person. "I never said that!"

"You might as well have!" Neal roared back. I flinched. He had never raised his voice to me like that before… He took some deep breaths, calming himself down, and moving further away from me. "Forget it," he commanded. "I'm walking from here."

True to his word, Neal turned around, putting his back to me, and started striding off in the other direction. His body language had never been so purely indicative of _stay the fuck away._ His shoulders were squared and rolled forward, his head down, steps brisk and heels landing hard on the sidewalk. His hands were in his pockets, which were bulging from his fists.

It was dark out, and the FBI would want to get his statement. "Where do you think you're going?" I called after him, scrubbing tear-induced blurriness out of my vision.

"Home!" Neal called back, turning around to walk backwards. "Something that _you_ don't have right now!" He held his hands out in front of him and smirked vindictively. I sighed, biting my tongue and glowering. I didn't trust myself to say something; I probably would've commented on how technically his home was a prison, and he was temporarily being lodged on the bureau's dime while we rented him out. Neal turned back around, face dark and sour. "You don't trust me, you can check my anklet!"

"I will!" I declared stubbornly, unable to let him have the last word and see that he'd beaten me down so far with just his words.

"Do it!" He snarkily challenged, getting further away. At least he was heading in the direction of June's house.

I whirled around, getting out the keys Neal had distracted me from earlier. "Bastard," I hissed, jamming the car key into the slot and twisting it roughly to the left. The locking mechanism popped up through the window and I let myself in, slamming the door once my legs were both inside.

The moment the door was closed, it was a free for all on my emotions. I started to outright bawl, throat tight. Trying not to make any noise was difficult; it felt like I was choking. I slammed my head forward onto the steering wheel, pounding a fist on the dashboard a few times. I couldn't understand how to control it, and my car was there for the abuse.

Neal had walked away from me. Literally walked away, and kicked me out in the process. My stomach twisted queasily. Everyone fought sometimes, but I doubted most people had arguments like _that._ What if everything all together was too much for Neal? Would he come back? Unless he went on the run, he didn't have a choice, but it was entirely up to him if he ever said a word to me again. Had I just burned a bridge I desperately needed?

I screamed, throwing my head back and howling in the closed vicinity. My throat went raw and scratchy from sobbing. My left hand flew to my right and started yanking on the Velcro strap securing my glove over my arm. It had felt like a relief to wear after Mozzie had seen me without, but it had become confining, hot, hell – the prop vital to the lie I was living. I ripped it off and threw it to the floor of the passenger's side of the car, holding up my wrist and turning my soulmark to my face.

It couldn't have been more than just a trick of my eyes or the dim, orangey lighting of my car, but it looked like the chains over the feathers were drawn tighter, crushing the wing wrapped up within them.

Tears falling down my face and blinding me, I leaned back in my seat and held my wrist to my mouth, pressing a long, tired, and heart-wrenching kiss to the tattoo that marked me as Neal's. Some days I wished that soulmarks had never existed. Others I wished that I could just show mine to Neal and get it over with. Yet other days, I believed that the universe screwed up and that they had gifted Neal with the wrong person. Just because he was beloved to me didn't mean that it was reciprocated. That was the first time I had ever considered that maybe _Neal_ was the one whose soulmate wasn't perfect for them.

* * *

After getting kicked out of my temporary residence, I grabbed fast food from a drive-thru chain restaurant and returned to the office. No one would think twice of me working late. No one would think three times about it if I happened to be asleep when they came in, since it was such a late hour. I didn't really have anywhere else to go, except for to go see Kate and Derek. I was sure they'd happily let me stay if I explained that Neal and I had fought, but I really wanted them to have their time together as a couple before I started intruding.

I stretched and yawned and shifted in my uncomfortable office chair because my thighs were hurting and my calves were stiff, and my back was aching from slouching over an office chair and drifting in and out of sleep. The lights in the bullpen had brightened since the last time I'd been jolted awake out of a rest that was fitful at best.

So someone else came in. Whatever. Behind me, there was still very little light coming through the window blinds, so it wasn't time for me to wake up and go get coffee yet. I crossed one arm over my face to block out the light and closed my eyes.

What felt like seconds later, the door to my office was abruptly thrown open. I groaned and tried to push my face harder into the desk, but that didn't work.

"Neal cut his anklet," Diana flatly stated, effectively waking me up. I sat up bolt upright and blinked at her, trying to clear my eyes. The agent looked a little tired herself, as if she'd only just been woken up and called into work at this hour. I checked the clock when I thought about it. It was just before midnight.

"What?" I asked stupidly, fingers curling in against the desk. Now that my door was open and I was paying attention to listen, I could hear the commotion going on outside in the bullpen.

Neal had to be smarter than to do something like that, didn't he? One stupid, silly fight wasn't going to be enough to convince him to cut his anklet and run. He wouldn't jeopardize himself like that! People do stupid things when they're upset but this is insane, and I couldn't – I couldn't protect him if he had run!

 _"_ _After all, we're all just criminals, aren't we?"_

 _"_ _I never said that!"_

 _"_ _You might as well have!"_

He had been so upset, so offended – what if he was angry enough to actually do something stupid like I feared, and had run _because of me?_ What if, because I couldn't hold my temper or let one unknown character go, he had decided to snap his anklet and try to run away? That would be my fault. It would be because of me that he had to go back to prison.

"His anklet," Diana snapped at me to get my attention, waving her hand as she clicked her fingers. "He cut it off. What are you doing in here?"

Shaken, I bit my lip. Strength in my jaw changed unevenly, alternating between dully holding and pinching my bottom lip. "Not sleeping," I said, suddenly wrought with guilt. How the hell could I have been relaxed enough to doze off while my mate was so furious that he was going to run away? What the hell was I going to do?

* * *

Hughes was the person I had to inform about the rising panic in the bullpen. I'd known it wasn't going to be pretty. "Pull every alias Caffrey has," the greying agent instructed, pointing at a handful of agents on the floor, striding purposefully. "Hit the airports and waterways," he barked at another. I hustled to take longer steps to keep up with him, but he was readying up for a manhunt. "We can't let him escape with the jades, or the Japanese are going to be very, very upset."

"I don't think he ran with the elephants," I insisted, trying for a second time to get my boss to listen to me. "He knows better. He knows I'll catch him!"

Hughes stopped, leaning his head back on his neck to look at the ceiling. He held out his hands low by his sides and turned to face me gradually. "McKenna," he began to say with a kind yet stern tone. "I know this must be tough for you to hear…" _You have no idea,_ I wanted to snort. Hughes hadn't ever been a part of my easy partnership with Neal, nor the private intimacies that came from being best friends.

 _June?_ A familiar face entered through the doors of the WCCD, being led by Derek, who looked troubled and skeptical about the woman being escorted next to him. Neal's landlady held her black handbag in front of her while she peered around the movement of the division curiously, seeking someone out.

I raised a hand unsurely to June to get her attention. Was I the person she was looking to find? She was going to have to hear some bad news if she was looking for Neal. June brightened when she saw me, said something to Derek, and he nodded, bringing her towards the mezzanine. Meanwhile, Hughes chastened me on what he thought had happened.

"He set Alex up as a fence for the jade and he let Pierce escape tonight. He put every damn thing in place!"

"But he _didn't,"_ I argued. "He _tried_ to catch her, but she called for help, and a bunch of big guys came over and dragged him off of her. I just barely stopped them before they punched his face in!"

"McKenna," June called. Hughes and I both looked down over the railing at the voice that didn't belong to any agent in the bureau. My boss withheld a sigh, yet June's attention was all for me. "Dear, we both know he didn't run." I nodded, and then pointed to Hughes, as if to say _tell him that._ June hesitated. "There was a woman waiting for him at the house that he left with. I thought it was very strange."

 _Did she…_ It wouldn't have been the first time that someone looking to get to Neal had gotten there through June's hospitality. Mei Lin, from Interpol, had done the same thing. However, unlike Pierce, Mei Lin hadn't had any motivation to commit murder.

I turned towards Hughes, raising my hands in fists in front of me, pleading with him to just listen, at least look into it. Neal was so clever and so invaluable; if this had been a plot, then it was done messily and hastily, which wasn't the way that my conman worked. Hughes didn't _really_ want to jump the gun and focus on hunting someone who actually needed to be rescued, would he?

My boss saw the face I was giving him and the way I pulled at my lower lip with my teeth. His shoulders sagged. "Was this woman short, in a dress, straight blonde hair, brown eyes?" He asked June over the banister with defeat.

The older woman wasn't even minimally surprised that we knew what her houseguest had looked like. If it hadn't struck her as strange that Pierce had turned up there to begin with, she wouldn't have bothered traveling all the way to the field office just to tell me. She only would've been updated on the broken anklet if Derek had told her. I was willing to bet she had asked for me and been redirected to my brother, since I'd been speaking with Hughes.

"Yes, actually." June cocked her head with concern. Her late husband had been a conman like Neal, enjoying sophistication and wealthy material pleasures without a taste for violence or harm. That was why she had taken so quickly to the artist, even knowing that he might bring unsavory characters to her door. "She said she was a friend of his."

I bounced on my heels, dying to get moving. If I wasn't given an okay signal in the next ten seconds, I was going to issue it myself.

Hughes took in a deep breath, rolling his eyes. He knew when he was outnumbered, and he could admit to being wrong when there were lives at stake. He reached over his chest with his hand and made a 'go ahead' shooing motion. I jumped and clapped in front of my breasts, clasping my hands.

"Diana, Derek, get a computer running!" I commanded, issuing orders as their supervisor. Now was one of the times where I couldn't afford the time to confer about what steps to take next. "Pull his tracking history!" I paused. "And could someone show June to the kitchenette?"

* * *

The three of us bent down around Derek's monitor, Derek in the seat and Diana and I hanging over his shoulders. Diana pointed out the steady red pinprick on the digital map, showing Neal's location. "That's Neal at the bar tonight," she said, giving context to the rapid movement through the streets.

_That was the pursuit._

"Fast forward it," I commanded. Derek held down the right buttons to command the computer to speed through the process. In rapid speed, the red dot moved down an avenue, then stopped. For almost half a minute, it stayed on that part of the avenue.

 _That was the construction guys,_ I remembered, swallowing. I knew what was going to come next.

The dot started to move again. If I had been wearing my own anklet, then it would've showed another dot right next to the first. The red cut through an alley, carving a path of most convenience to double back and return to the bar where the surveillance van and a couple of agents' cars were parked.

"That's walking to your car, right?" Derek asked as the shadow that indicated the building I had parked outside of came into view. Neal's dot almost passed the building, but stopped. For a few seconds in the fast-forward view, it stayed still, moving only in infinitesimally small distances on the screen, staying true to the scale of the map. Then the movements became more noticeable.

_That was the pacing._

"What's going on there?" Derek asked, leaning back and looking up at me with his eyebrows raised in question.

 _That was our fight._ My stomach dropped. I needed to rescue Neal. Whether he was running or he was in danger, I couldn't let the last time he talked to me be _that_ nightmare, that car crash that had progressively gotten worse and worse.

 _This is yours._ He had held my hand to his heart and told me that he was mine. Could a devotion like that be severed just with one heated exchange?

"That's us having a fight," I muttered. The red started moving more steadily, continuing past the building, this time without stopping. "There, he's walking home. Fast forward it faster?"

Diana cleared her throat and leaned over Derek. "I'll do you one better," she told me smugly, using a computer trick to skip forward to when Neal's anklet pinged at the manor. "Here's when he arrived at June's address."

It wasn't particularly impressive. He moved a little bit within the house, but nothing alarming or particularly attention-catching. It was only a few seconds before he stilled entirely. I found where the dot was relative to the street and did some mental calculating, using the layout of his penthouse as my more detailed map. Assuming he'd been on the top floor, then he would've been near, or on, the sofa.

Then the fast-forward reached the end of the signal, cutting off. The red dot disappeared off of the grid. Unexpectedly, it came back on, blinking through several counts faster than I could see.

Derek had already sighed and given up on the lead. "He must've cut it while he was there," the agent reasoned in disappointment. "Maybe we should go back to yesterday?"

"Wait! Stop. Rewind." Diana operated the keyboard and did as I said. The tape sped backwards. "Stop!" It had only been a few seconds, and the pinpoint was steady. That should've been close to where the signal failed. "Take it off fast-forward," I instructed slowly. "It was flickering."

Diana did as she was told and the recording started to play again, now in an accurate recording of the time lapse. "It could just be a short circuit," she said, unconvinced that it was anything to be concerned about.

I may have been getting desperate, but I couldn't give up on Neal. I _wouldn't._ Any lead was something. "Since when is anything with him that simple?" I asked rhetorically, eyes locked on the monitor. I didn't even blink.

The signal cut off when it was supposed to, the timestamp in the corner. Less than three seconds later, the red pinprick came back onto the map, blinking on, off, on, off. There wasn't a strict timing that it followed, but it looked deliberate. No electronic short circuited like that.

"No, that's not just random blinking." It meant something. Neal had made it do that on purpose, cutting the wires to sever the connection and then touched them together in that pattern, reigniting the signal enough to send a message. _A code. A binary code – operating only on two modes, represented by the off and on of the circuit –_ "I know what it is!" I blurted, smacking Derek's shoulder soundly. "It's Morse code!"

I didn't know it by heart, but my brother did. He sat up straight, eyes widening as he saw it looking feasibly like an intentional sequence. "Restart it at the beginning?" He asked Diana. Diana scrolled backwards to the last time that the signal was steady and started it playing in normal time again. Derek squinted, leaning over the edge of the desk. He counted the gaps and the intervals of the blinking red. "… P-O-W-E-R." He said the 'R' after there was a pause, but then nothing else came up. That was the end of the message. "Power." Derek leaned back, even more concerned. It didn't make sense to him. "What's that mean?"

 _Power._ Neal and I had been having a power struggle the last time we argued, over who got to claim the rights to do what. Did I have the authority to pull Alex's prints? Did he have the right to keep his meeting with her from me? _No –_ Pierce took him by surprise; he'd have said something useful, not something petty. Much as I reviewed our argument, nothing that had been said could be used to indicate a location, time, or motive, or any other kind of hint.

 _Power._ An electronic signal, a Morse code message using the clipped circuit. _Power. Circuits._

I stood up straight. "It means he didn't run," I breathed, smacking Derek's arm again in my uncontainable excitement. He loudly voiced his complaints and rubbed his arm. "And I know where they are!"

* * *

We took a surveillance van to follow protocol and dialed up a SWAT team while we were at it. I wasn't taking any chances, either with any neighbors getting hurt or with Pierce having the opportunity between the raid and her capture to lay a hand on my mate… or the trigger of her gun.

The windows were all dark. I had my phone out, peeking through the window of the passenger seat and looking to my living room window across the street. I zoomed in through my phone screen. It was hard to see and it degraded the image, but I could see the darker shadows of the curtains, pulled back to let the moonlight and streetlights filter into the parlor. I couldn't see any further inside. _Figures._ The power being out, it would be hard for them to turn on any of the lights – not that Pierce would want to, since that would practically broadcast someone was there.

"We can't get any eyes indoors," Derek reported, face concerned and steely. That worry was for Neal. My heartbeat was nervous and hyperaware of every second that elapsed, but my pride wasn't in myself. It was for my brother, who had learned to care about Neal first, his reputation second. "It's too dangerous for us to just run in blind." A command from the radio, then – that sounded more like something a SWAT captain would say than Derek.

Running in blind might have been our only choice. If we couldn't see what was going on inside, Pierce could grow impatient and shoot Neal before we had even acted. I wasn't going to take that chance, whether I had armored, military-trained tac teams behind me or not. Stumbling around in the shadows was better than not doing anything.

Except it was my own house, so I wouldn't have been stumbling. I knew the layout, I knew where things were, I knew what to watch out for. I knew that there were shoes unevenly scattered in the first few feet of the left side of the hallway, and I knew that there was a table between the sofa and the television that was too close to the couch to try to storm in between the two, because the bulky armor and hurried pace would almost certainly knock against one or the other, and I knew that, much as I adored the aesthetic of my curved staircase, it wasn't the easiest for a stranger to navigate without being able to see.

Just taking Pierce off guard wasn't going to be enough. A startled killer is a trigger-happy killer. Neal might have been alright getting around – lord knew he was over often enough – but knowing his way around the interior wasn't going to stop a stray bullet from hitting its mark, and that was the riskiest part. We had to take the femme fatale out of the equation; had to take her by surprise in a way that stopped her from moving to attack, and running in blind wasn't going to do that.

 _Blind. Of course._ If someone suddenly couldn't see, they would stop moving. It was instinctive. We weren't going to run in blind, but we were going to blind Pierce.

"Then we turn on the power!" I lunged for the radio and established the connection between myself and the other teams stationed on the street and on the other side of my home. "Turn it on and let it flood the place. Flash-bang. She's blinded and shocked by the light and noise, and she has nowhere to run."

 _"_ _What happens when the power's turned on?"_ Diana's voice asked over the communicator. She was out back with Hughes and Cruz, monitoring the back of the house in case Pierce tried to slip out through the rose bushes and over the balcony.

I licked my lips. "Neal brought us here knowing that the power was off," I explained hurriedly, fidgeting. We didn't have the time to waste explaining, but no one was going to cooperate unless I did! It was infuriating. Sure, my home may have been the first place he thought of where there was privacy, but he had thought it through enough to use Morse code and use a single-word message; he'd thought out something more than that. "If I had to bet, I'd say he's turning on all of the appliances he can. Power comes on, TV, stereo, surround-sound, computer speakers, refrigerator, overheads and lamps, fans, air conditioners – they all turn on, too."

The static broke off. Derek took initiative and picked up his gun, holstering it to his side. "Let's get the battering rams ready," he muttered to me, springing out of the car on the curb.

I processed that for a second, frowning, and then gasped, dropping my jaw. I leapt out of the car and closed the door as quietly as possible while hissing. "Um, no!" I caught up with Derek at the back doors, prepared to open them and get said equipment from the back of the van. "You're not taking battering rams to my front doors!" Fumbling in my pockets, I jingled my keyring and held it out in front of me. "I have _keys,"_ I hissed with exasperation. "And you have a set, too, dumbass. Get yours to Diana and her team can take the balcony entrance while we go in the front."

SWAT got on board with the plan. We had to access the power connections from the outside of my home in order to turn everything on at once, but that was simple enough for a full team of FBI agents and government employees to manage. Derek took his key to the team in back while I armed myself in a bulletproof vest. No one was talking me out of being the first one in the house, not when my sweet, precious artist was in danger inside with a relentless blue-collar bitch. My hands already itched to hold his face, feel the warmth in his cheeks and see the spark in his eyes.

Everything seemed like it was going to go smoothly. Three SWAT guys leapt sneakily up the balcony and radioed to Derek, me, and the SWAT members with us at the front of the house that the blinds were pulled, but they were in. I slipped my key into the lock with a pounding heart and turned it slowly to the left, painstakingly undoing the lock without making a sound.

"Ready?" Derek whispered into the radio, shoulders down, gun out.

The radio was quiet with Diana's whispering voice, just as conscious of our closeness to the two as she was of theirs. We were all only thin doors away. _"Ready at the back door,"_ she confirmed. A bad taste was rising in my throat. This cautiousness was taking too long. I'd learned patience when I joined the bureau, and it was imperative for catching killers, but I didn't _want_ to catch a killer; I wanted to rescue my lover.

I looked over my shoulder to Derek. He nodded. I pushed it ajar and moved over the threshold.

It was impossible to see very far into the living room from behind the door. I stayed sheltered by the brown oak shield as much as possible while creeping just a foot into the hallway. The door opened and swung towards the direction of the kitchen, meaning that it was easy to slip along the wall, closer to the doorway between the hall and the living room. Through the gap in the room, I could see movement. We weren't the only ones who were busting in.

As my eyes readjusted, it got easier to tell who was who. The person standing straight with their back to the dining room and the glass balcony doors, suspiciously close to the television, was Neal; the short hair and masculine figure gave that away, as well as the logic that Pierce wouldn't have her own hands up behind her head. All of the noise was coming from her, ripping open the drawers underneath the decorative table between the dining table and the wall, searching through mine and Katie's belongings for something she was never going to find.

I held a finger to my lips and glanced back at Derek. He nodded and raised the gun.

 _She's not even got the gun pointed at him,_ I thought, seeing the outline of the barrel pointed towards the floor while Pierce dragged one of the drawers entirely out of the front of the table, throwing it down onto the carpet. _If I go in right now, I can shoot her and she won't have the chance to take aim._

That thought came too late. Pierce stood up, reached a hand into her thick blonde hair, and held the other out towards Neal. She flicked the barrel between his chest and the stand she'd just gone through. "They're not in here, Caffrey," she said, as deadly as it was sweet.

The sight of the gun on my boyfriend's chest almost sent me into a panic. If I'd had my own weapon already trained on the woman, there was no guarantee I'd have been able to stop myself from pulling the trigger. I understood then better than ever why there was such a strict rule about minimizing conflicts of interest. It was bad enough Neal was my friend and CI. I wouldn't've been allowed anywhere near if anyone else knew how much I really cared.

Even from my distance, I could hear the catch in his breath, terror tempered by honed acting. "If he said they're here, they're here." Neal assured lowly, using the most soothing voice he could manage. "We've just got to keep looking."

Derek reached for my shoulder. Instead of tapping, he pressed four fingers into my upper arm. He knew nothing he said or did could have taken my attention away from what was happening mere feet away. Then he moved his hand, and when he lowered it to my sleeve again, it was three fingers.

Pierce took an intimidating step towards Neal. He flinched back and tightened his hands in his own hair, arms up helplessly. "Please, put it down," he dissuaded anxiously, nerves breaking through the calm façade. He sounded scared, pleading. As soon as he was safe I was going to never let him go again. He was going to take a well-deserved rest and I'd be right there with him, making sure he felt safe.

The extents of the powerful, blinding sense of protection startled me, but not enough to make my resolve waver.

Derek's nonverbal countdown reached two.

Pierce's gun cocked.

Neal took an involuntary step back, turning his head to the side so he didn't see.

"One!" Derek yelled. I was in motion the instant he shouted, our position given away anyway, and ducked into the living room at the same time as the glass doors were shoved open and the blinds thrusted away, spotting lasers finding their way through the room.

The entire house came alive. For a second it was comparable to being in an explosion. The TV started shrieking at us in its loudest volume about the disc only just beginning to play. The music speakers blared through the house where they were mounted on the wall of the living room, an old iPod plugged into the auxiliary cord, _Walking on Sunshine_ so ear-achingly loud that the sound started to distort and crackle. The overhead lights all came turning on, creating a flash and burn in my eyes, the fire and light from a bomb, coupled with the sudden difficulty to do anything on the bombardment of whining one-way fans and the rumbling of the ice maker in the kitchen and the intro selection on the DVD.

From the first sign, Neal had gotten out of the way, moving behind the television and away from the SWAT team bursting in. Pierce's arms had gone up – not in surrender, but to shield her eyes and ears. The red lights from the team with the long, big guns moved over her front, covering her chest and face with crimson indicators. She squinted, gun above her head, and looked away, hair swinging to cover her face.

She knew if she attacked, then SWAT would shoot her dead on the carpet before she even had the chance to point her gun at anyone, so she stayed still, arms up, and part of the armed cavalry went right to her, ripping the gun away, handing it off to someone else, dragging her arms down and letting Diana cuff her wrists together.

I looked over to Neal, able to see again without spots in my vision. His arms were down, his back to the wall, eyes blown wide, lips parted and gasping breathlessly. My lover's chest heaved with fright and shuddering relief, anxiety assuaged by the arrival of saviors, hair mussed from his hands' antsy and fearful gripping.

His pink tongue appeared, licking his dry lips nervously, and disappeared back inside his mouth as he panted. His face seemed so open, but so… surprised, I guess, and I didn't think it should have been a surprise that I had saved him. We had fought, yes, but I would _never_ let something as dumb as a fight turn me against him. God, I adored him. The anger and the tears and the heartbreak didn't mean anything as long as he was still breathing.

 _I used to think maybe you loved me, now baby I'm sure!_ I turned off the stereo before I turned back to Neal again. Derek was turning off the TV already, crossing to shut off the things in the parlor that were making noise, including one of the stand-alone fans in the corner of the dining room. Pierce was being escorted out, dragging her feet while she was taken by annoyed officers to a carrier vehicle for dangerous suspects.

As the threat was forced out of my house, I turned my head back to my Neal and looked to him, breathing heavily myself. It had taken a toll on me, too. I'd almost lost him. I bit the inside of my cheek. What I wanted was nothing short of running to him like in those dumb movies.

Neal looked around the parlor, indicating the ransacked drawers, moved coffee table, upturned chests and decorative boxes. Change, knickknacks, cords, souvenirs – they were all a huge mess that I would have to clean up before the job was finished and Katie got to come home. Books were strewn on the floor from Pierce looking behind them, framed photographs taken down. One was broken, glass shining in little, miniature pieces nestled in the carpeting behind the couch.

"Welcome home," Neal dryly said.

I made a small sob I wasn't very proud of and covered my mouth. Neal held out his arms, looking to be as hungry for touch as I was. Who was I to deny him?

I practically catapulted into him, wrapping my arms under his and hooking my arms up, reaching along his shoulder blades and grasping my fingers into the material of his suit jacket over his shoulders. I pulled him down while he wrapped his arms tightly around my back, lowering his head to press his face into my shoulder. I rubbed over his upper back, stroked his neck, felt all the way down his spine to the elegant dip in his back and then back up again to feel his pulse reassuringly pounding against my fingers.

Neal sniffled against my neck, turning his cheek to my shoulder and hiding his expression in my throat. I reached up to his hair and pushed my hands into the mop of wavy strands, scratching at his scalp and cupping his head as comfortingly as I could while I shuddered myself and pressed a kiss to his shoulder, shutting my eyes and just letting us hold each other, feeling alive in the wake of my mate coming so close to death.

Humans were very mortal. Strangely, my own mortality had never been a big deal to me. I was always more pissed off at the principle of someone trying to kill me than scared that my life had come close to ending. It was another story entirely with Neal. His life was everything to me, and needed to be preserved at all costs.

* * *

I saw an opportunity and I seized it. As I waved the Japanese ambassador into the conference room with welcome, displaying all five of the jade elephant statues, I clasped my hands in front of my stomach and sank down into a bow.

"Yoshida-san," I greeted. The Japanese, who was probably a little bit younger than Hughes and wore a look of excitement, stopped himself from rushing to see the treasures, making himself return the courteous gesture and bow back to me. "Anata no midori no sou wa koko ni arimasu."

I stepped to the side of the doorway. Yoshida and Hughes both entered, the latter sending me an annoyed scowl for communicating in another language instead. Yoshida gasped softly, raising his arms to the table in awe of the elephants. _That's right, you'd better appreciate them,_ I thought at him smugly. _My boyfriend went to all that trouble to get them for you._

He was so pleased to have the jade in safe possession that he blinked away wetness in his eyes. "Arigatou gozaimasu," he said to me emphatically, bowing deeply again. Hughes cleared his throat, looking up at the fluorescent ceiling panels. Yoshida switched to English. "You have done a great service to our country."

I smiled gently. I never could have gone into foreign relations and dealt with all of the bureaucracy, but I was never going to disregard how much I loved travel, how much I adored the cultures and histories of other locations. Japan was welcome for my services. I didn't even need my paycheck from the bureau in return for this case… although I wasn't going to say that to Hughes, because I did like to be paid, regardless of how necessary it felt. I'd call it compensation for mine and Neal's emotional trauma.

"My pleasure," I answered, dipping again in mutual respect.

"Indeed," Hughes agreed.

I stood at the side demurely while the administrators exchanged a few short words on how their organizations were going to handle the preservation and protection of the pieces until a time when they could be safely sent to Japan. It would be done quickly, but it would take a few days. The Japanese would want to secure overseen transport on their side of the trip, too, and establish a good means of keeping the elephants safe from theft once they were delivered. The FBI was a pretty safe place, but I wouldn't have been shocked if Hughes avoided some questions and allowed them to be stored in the Japanese consulate in the meantime.

"If you'll just give me a minute." Hughes held up a hand towards Yoshida when he took another sideways glance at me. I was getting bored with the proceedings.

"Of course." Yoshida nodded politely and took out his phone as Hughes dismissed himself. "I will inform my contacts in the homeland that the artifacts have been recovered."

My boss nodded and turned to me. He held an arm out. I turned to fall in step beside him, close enough for him to touch me. We acknowledged the social norms that Yoshida subscribed to, but we were still in America. If we'd been in Iran, that might've been a different story.

The supervisor placed his hand on my upper back, rubbing the heel of his palm between my shoulder blades, pushing against my spine. I rolled my head around on my neck and let his commending and escorting touch shepherd me out the door to the railing over the mezzanine.

"Great job on this one, Anderson," he praised, giving me a pat before he dropped his arm to his side.

His left elbow was brought up to the rails and he looked over the edge of the mezzanine proudly at the agents. A small group of Yoshida's coworkers were hanging out to the right of the steps down to the level floor, entertained by Neal. The charismatic conman glanced up at me, hands in his pockets, fedora tilted back on his hair, and winked conspiratorially.

"And you know what?" I told Hughes, turning my head to look at him while my eyes lingered on the lively, animated CI just a few feet away. All of the life signs… the winking, the talking, the way he took his hands out and gestured to emphasize his story to Yoshida's company – they were all signs that he was still alive, still safe, and maybe a little bit shaken, but ultimately unharmed. "No way we could've done it without that man down there." I nodded to Neal.

Hughes grunted, less than thrilled. He knew Neal had become a vital part of our team, just didn't like to acknowledge it, lest it be held against him via some secretly-recording phone app.

Neal chose that moment to start snickering. We both looked down to watch his storytelling. "Kanojyou wa, sakasama barukoni no ue ni kare wo hanguappu suru to odoshimashita!" He laughed, gesturing furiously with his hands and mimicking wrapping his long fingers around someone's throat. The Asian woman who came with Yoshida's group just freaking lost it, giggling into her hand and bending over the nearest desk. One of the others patted his friend's back hard while they all chuckled.

They looked up at me, saw my arched eyebrows, and started laughing even harder, tears leaking from a few of their eyes.

Hughes looked at me in wry question. I ran my tongue over my teeth and then held up a hand, finger pointed up. "The point stands, even if he is mocking me," I maintained adamantly, reaching out to give his upper arm a solid pat when I crossed behind him to travel down the stairs, hopping the last several. "Hai, hai, kare wa okashiidesu," I agreed sarcastically, slapping Neal's lower back and grinning as he winced.

"Watashitachi wo iiwake," he said, bowing, excusing himself from the group. I kept my hand over his back, but slid it further across his jacket. Neal stretched his shoulder, raising his arm up and reaching behind us to get in a position where he could comfortably hold his arm over my upper back. I led him towards the elevators. "She negotiated the jade for a four-year sentence?" Neal complained, having heard about the deal already. "I got four years and never killed _anyone!"_

"Yeah, and there are rapists being let off with warnings and nineteen-year-olds serving years just for ingesting marijuana. Don't know what to tell you, pretty boy." Pierce had agreed to talk in exchange for a reduced jail time, and she sang like a bird, naming the person who had put her up to the thefts with a promise of the cut and the selection of contacts whom had given away the identities of those who owned the elephants. They were not going to be treated leniently, although probably made off better than Pierce, whom had actually been the violent perpetrator.

Neal sighed. "I guess she just had something better to work with than I did," he nostalgically referenced their brief interaction in the bar before everything went downhill. I rubbed his back sympathetically. Neal felt it and pursed his lips. "I think I can be okay with that," he decided.

I raised my eyebrows. That was unexpected. "You mean this _isn't_ something you're going to whine about?"

"Nah," he shrugged maturely. "Getting out when I did meant that you were sent to catch me, and that's what brought us here now… you with more prestige with the Japanese embassy, me with the most important woman I've ever met at my house while I tell her I'm sorry…" he trailed off, deliberately avoiding my eyes. He stepped forward to punch the button for the elevator, arm slipping off of my shoulders.

 _You're telling_ _ **me**_ _you're sorry?_ I was shocked. Neal probably owed me one, yeah, but only as much as I apologized to him. I still didn't think I had been wrong to do what I had, but I should have handled it better. I definitely shouldn't have let my skepticism fester about Alex. That jealousy which I could have told him needed to be addressed in more detail had a large influence on how I had approached the topic.

I laughed. If Neal wanted to say sorry, I wasn't going to dissuade him. Maybe we could just put everything behind us and enjoy the rest of my stay with him. The subtle invitation back wasn't a clue that I had just missed. "Some indulgences would be nice," I remarked sagely. "Including a massage?"

 _Wouldn't that be great…_ After the week I'd had, I'd have loved to be close to Neal, have him close enough to feel his body heat soaking through my skin, his hands expertly working away knots and tension, leaving behind kind kisses from his lips and the brushes of his fingernails across itching, sore skin.

"I shouldn't have gone off on you like that," Neal admitted, turning to me entirely while we waited for the elevator.

I dipped my head. If he wanted to be explicit in what we'd done wrong, I could do that. He had had his life threatened; if he felt like the reminder of his vulnerabilities mandated that we clear the air, then I could respect that. "And I shouldn't have run Alex's prints without telling you." Neal started to turn his head, eyes sharpening. I held up a hand flat on his chest. "No, don't do that," I scolded firmly before he could say anything. "I'm not going to regret doing it, but I do think I should have told you. I'm looking out for us. You'd be suspicious of new cops, right?"

A little bit glummer, Neal was reluctant to admit that I had a point. He wasn't too prideful to disagree, especially not when he wanted to make up so that we could just enjoy each other. "I guess so."

"So I'm allowed to be suspicious of new cons," I stated decisively.

"Technically, she's a fence," Neal corrected.

I rolled my eyes and pushed my hip out, falling to the side to lean heavily against the wall. "You watch my back on my side, and I'll watch yours," I promised. We both had biased views about our own sides. Neal expected law enforcement to distrust career criminals, and I automatically made the assumption that the majority of the people I would see in the bureau were going to be decent. The bottom line was that we had to work together in our fight, not separately. That included deciding who we told what. "So we're okay?"

Neal grinned warmly and held out a hand. I slipped my fingers into his palm and he squeezed. "We are _so_ more than okay," he promised lowly, his face lit up with mischief and fun and delight. He smiled, a genuine grin, showing his teeth and dimples. "We have reservations at a very classy restaurant at almost seven," he went on to say. I raised my eyebrows. He had gone as all-out with this apology as he could with the watch on us from the FBI. A restaurant wasn't a big deal, but given that we avoided high-end dining establishments, it would be special for _us._ "And since we now have at least three more languages in common, it's almost a guarantee that wherever we are, we can mock other patrons behind their backs without being understood…"

"That's how you want to spend your time?" I laughed, smacking his shoulder while he giggled and rubbed the back of my other hand.

* * *

We returned to the penthouse after a filling dinner, giggly and relaxed, plied with drink and food. I had been entertaining actually letting him give me that massage, maybe climbing on top of him and returning the favor. The mood was killed and the fun stopped when we entered the front of the suite and encountered one of the people I _least_ wanted to see.

My smile fell abruptly and the excitement I'd felt about our temporary cohabitation started to fade, dimming like a dying lightbulb in my chest. I couldn't resist snidely crossing my arms.

Neal, who had followed me in while lowering his head to kiss playfully down the side of my throat, didn't see Alex at first. His face was to my throat and his hands were on my hips. For a second, I thought I saw envy on the fence's face before her expression changed to hostility and she focused on me. My lover felt the change in my demeanor and picked his head up, blinking indolently before he saw the problem.

"Oh, lovely," I drawled sarcastically, curling my fingernails into the soft flesh in the heels of my hands. "It's the bitch that almost got you killed." Neal cringed when I pulled out the harsh language.

Alex's lips thinned and her eyes narrowed almost unnoticeably. I'd been trying to provoke a reaction, so I was sure to see the change. "Oh, look," she returned, equally snarky. "It's the _fed_ that tried to blow my cover." When she called me a fed, her intonation suggested that that was supposed to be more insulting than _bitch_ had been.

My lips pulled back in a sneer. "I've got nothing on you, princess," I mocked. If she didn't want to get in trouble, she was the one who should've chosen a different career path. "All I did was pick up your fingerprints. It wouldn't have been a concern at all if you had kept your yappy, high-pitched whines to yourself!" My temper was one to be reckoned with. Alex was increasingly offended, scoffing incredulously as I used words that were typically associated with dogs. "I arrest you and hold you for a couple of days and then you're out none the worse. Your petty, childish actions were not only against the wrong person, but they got the homicidal assassin mad at Neal!" I knew, at least on some level, that Alex had no way of knowing exactly how much trouble she had caused, but that didn't make me any less furious. "Homicidal assassins are pretty violent when they're angry!"

Neal stepped past me, taking up a stance like a mediator between Alex and I. He was smart enough not to stand directly between us, but his intentions were clear. "What do you want, Alex?" He asked wearily.

He might as well have just stayed back for all the good it did. Alex wasn't willing to just let me have the last word. "You arrest me at all and I walk without charges, and it looks like I talked and got a deal!" She summarized for me, pointing and tossing her head back, shaking her loose and flowing hair out of her face. Her heels clicked on the hardwood. "It's bad for business!"

I made a shocked face. "Here's a thought – _I don't fucking care!"_ Neal grimaced, looked up at the ceiling, and ran his hands through his dark hair awkwardly. Alex laughed harshly, stopping about two feet from me. She was wearing a cream-colored shrug that made her shoulders look sharper and her waist smaller. I cocked my head and warned, "Next time you endanger _anyone_ under my protection, I will personally ensure that the entirety of the criminal underworld knows all about Alex Hunter and her loud mouth!"

"That's a big threat for someone who wants information only I have!" She retorted hotheadedly.

What Alex had failed to consider was that I could be petty, too. I didn't want to lock her up; I wanted information. How I got that information didn't have to match up with what the bureau would typically prioritize. I was fine with essentially shaking her down, as long as that didn't necessitate undue harm.

"I'm willing to bet the box is pretty expensive, right? With no one willing to do _business_ with you," I held up my hands and finger-quoted to show exactly how little I thought of her job. "The only choice you'll have is to help us recover it for whatever shares you get." When she realized that I had a point, Alex stilled and pursed her lips tightly, the gleam of scarlet shining off her frustrated mouth. "I'm not scared of you, sweetheart." I vowed at a much more controlled volume. I felt impressive and powerful, and I liked it. I didn't have control over Pierce or Fowler, but I wasn't helpless. "You try to bully me, or threaten my friends again, and I will make you hurt. That's a promise."

Neal pushed his hands into his pockets. "Even more of a reason to just put this behind us," he pleaded, intervening a second time. While Alex, flustered and fuming, couldn't think of a logical refute, I crossed my arms at him. She and I both glared at my boyfriend for getting in the way. We both had problems with each other that he couldn't help. "Both of you," he said firmly, looking from me to Alex, chastising. "The sooner we get the box, the sooner we can all part ways."

He sounded like that couldn't come fast enough. Alex lifted her chin and made a small noise of agreement, not looking at me. I glowered at her. _You make me out like the bad guy, but I haven't risked anyone's life in the last twenty-four hours because I'm a selfish brat._

"As if I would ever tell someone working for the feds." Alex looked down at Neal's left leg, very intentionally letting her eyes linger on his ankle.

There was no initial reaction of surprise, irritation, or disappointment on Neal's face. Instead, from the moment she started to indicate his tracker, he was grinning at her persuasively. "You know me," he told her, sounding like he was convincing an old friend to go along with a scheme.

Alex chuckled and put a hand up to stop him. "We have too much history for me to trust you, _especially_ when you start saying that I know you." I set my jaw hard. It seemed to me that if anyone was untrustworthy here, it was her. "No one _really_ knows you, Neal." She gave him a long look, somewhat piteous. "Not even Kate."

Neal's expression faltered. It made my blood boil again. _I'll be damned if you just get to stay and rag on him about her._ Moreau was his pressure point, and Alex was intimidatingly close to hitting it. She was just there, standing in _our_ space, and saying things that were mean, intentionally trying to dredge up unpleasant feelings.

"Why come, if not to just be a general pain in my ass?" I demanded rudely. She showed no sign of coming for any particular reason, and it pissed me off more and more that she had created an unwanted blip in my date night.

Alex gave me a condescending smile, but she didn't answer me. She turned back to Neal. "I won't work with a fed," she told him in a deadpan, acting as though I weren't capable of understanding her.

To my relief (and quiet pride), my thief wasted no time in setting Alex straight. "Not an option." He stated firmly, shaking his head. "Kenna's in this."

She scowled at him mutinously. For many seconds, we all just stood there in a painfully unbalanced triptych. Alex wanted the music box more than she wanted to avoid me. Neal wanted to prove he trusted me more than he wanted to suck up to Alex. I just wanted Alex to go away until we had further use for her. I think we all knew how it was going to end; the question was how soon it would resolve itself, and how gracefully the fence would take it.

The brunette opened her mouth, licked her lips, and shifted her weight. After closing her mouth again, she finally swallowed and decided to go a different direction. It could've been a messier concession. Her eyes darted down to Neal's anklet again. "Your jewelry," she eventually said factually. "It's a beacon. I won't play."

Neal, whether consciously or impulsively, took a step back with his left leg and pulled at the fabric so that it covered more of the plastic. "Come on, Alex," he protested exhaustedly. His tiredness was more than just from having a long couple of days, and the stress was even more of a reason to want to pull Alex out of the penthouse by her ear and slam the door in her face.

 _"_ _No,"_ she solidly insisted, putting her foot down. She might be willing to hypothetically proceed if the federal agent was handled a certain way, but deals and compromises couldn't be made with technology. "I'm not risking it," she continued, twisting strands of shiny hair around her long, dexterous fingers. She backed up, away from both of us, and took a slightly longer route to the exit, ditching us so she didn't have to spend a second longer in our company than strictly required. "You ever find a way to get yourself detached from the snappy mutts you call the FBI, and maybe we can talk. But I'm not saying a word."

 _Entitled, spoilt bitch,_ I silently seethed, face heating. _At least we deserve the money we have._

I was happy to see her leaving. She dawdled in the doorway as she unlocked the door and pulled it open, sending a final, cursory look around the penthouse. "Be careful who you trust, Caffrey," she called. It sounded like a taunt. I couldn't help but feel like maybe she was referring to me.

"Stay out of my way, _princess,_ and your prints won't find their way back to anyone you should worry about," I called to her, not even giving her the respect of looking over my shoulder. I couldn't _believe_ anyone could be so – so – _ugh!_ I prided myself on my composure, but Alex had made it fly out the door.

The door clicked shut after she left, and Neal and I looked at each other. His expression was vaguely disapproving. I shrugged; I wasn't the only one who had responded poorly. But now she was gone, and though we would probably hear from her again (hopefully later rather than sooner), I wanted to forget that woman I didn't even have mean enough names for in favor of savoring the short vacation I had left with Neal. The power was turned on for the moment, but the company would have to shut it off yet again while the replacements and upgrades were finished.

"So, I vote we sit on the couch, turn on the TV, and pretend to pay attention while we make out." I suggested brightly, rolling my shoulders back and trying to force Alex out of my mind.

An hour later, Alex was the furthest thing from our minds. My Netflix account was waiting for us to start the next episode, but all I could care about was the man I was snuggling up tight with while we shared kisses back and forth. My knees were folded up under me, and my legs were starting to get sore, but I was finally content, finally lounging in luxurious self-indulgence with my partner.

* * *

Neal may have laughed earlier, but I totally got a massage from him. My body had never felt looser. Ten out of ten. As long as I had Neal around and had some way of convincing him to help me out, be it through good will or bribery, I would never have need for a chiropractor again.

I laid on my side, facing Neal with my back to the rest of the penthouse. The gorgeous man was exhausted, lying on his side facing me, eyes closed, breath even and coming in gentle puffs through barely-parted pink lips. The blankets were pulled up to his shoulders, tucked in around his throat, keeping him toasty warm and secure, like a little Caffrey blanket burrito.

 _You're so cute when you're asleep and not back-talking,_ I thought at him with adoration, then frowned. _Well._ That was certainly an interesting knee-jerk response.

I wiggled a little bit closer. I was tired, yes, but my mind was still running too quickly, too fired up over the risk that had come to Neal's person. With a gentle hand, I reached for his face and touched his cheek, dragging my knuckles kindly along his cheekbone, to his ear, and down his jaw, stubble on his chin tickling slightly. He didn't react. Scooting a little bit closer still, I pushed one of my arms under one of his, jostling the blankets slightly, and touched his back, gliding the tips of my acrylics over the tanned flesh of his back, the gentle curves and the strong definition. He was so precious, so heated and supple and _alive._ With every touch of his back, I could feel the inhale and exhale of his breath, the slow shift of his body as his chest expanded, and when I touched the right place to the side of his spine with a little more pressure, I could feel the faint beat of his heart.

Pierce had come way too close to stopping that treasured heartbeat.

"I thought you were going to go to sleep," Neal rumbled, startling me. I opened my eyes, unsure when I'd closed them, still lazily stroking my hand behind his heart. His bright blue eyes were half-lidded and tired, voice low with sleep.

I stopped petting him and kissed his lips gently, brushing my mouth over his, sucking his bottom lip between mine and running my tongue over the soft, plush flesh. Neal sighed softly in contentment, lifting his head to follow when I started to pull away, a quiet groan of protest in his throat.

"Does that mean you don't want to be touched?" I asked with feigned disappointment, rolling onto my back and crossing my arms over my chest. I liked the blankets, but they were a little messed up on my side. Neal had more of them. That was okay. I was wearing a camisole, but Neal had opted to sleep shirtless, which was more common. It was comfortable for him, it just left him a little chillier.

Neal sighed and turned his face to the pillow. "I didn't say that," he mumbled.

Grinning, I looked over at him. He'd been through a lot in a short period of time. Teasing was always fun, but he deserved to get some sleep.

"I'll touch you all you want tomorrow," I promised softly, fidgeting until I was on my side again. I extended an arm out over his back and draped myself half-over his prone body, fighting with the duvet over which of us had the right to be pressed closer. "As long as you let me watch over you tonight."

* * *

**Man, I'm exhausted. Mom took me shopping today. It was a very stressful ordeal.**

**Mom would never voluntarily enter a place that sells normal clothes, and she has a daughter, so obviously her offspring should never be in a store that sells pants. The only thing I need for my legs is nylons or a pair of tights, so that I can wear dresses and skirts all the time to express my femininity. I like suits. I don't like dresses. Why is that such a bad thing? No one ever criticizes men for wearing suits, so obviously they serve the purpose.**

**I don't mind some dresses, I suppose, but I detest the ones my mom has made and tailored for me. They're always too fancy or too thick or too revealing. When I was thirteen, she forced me to wear this God-awful outfit with way too many ruffles and itchy lace on my arms. When I turned sixteen and was forced to go to a debutante ball, I had to wear a disgustingly pink, sleeveless, backless, low-necklined thing that, despite being eager to show off my upper body, made me trip over its skirts several times.**

**Being in my family is hard. Everything always has to be about fitting in and playing roles, never about what I want. I never signed up for this life, but I'll be the first one to ask for a way out. If nothing else, my childhood has taught me how to adapt to anything and how to be whomever I'm supposed to be for anyone who asks.**

**Love (and lie well, if you're gonna do it at all),**

**Zarra L**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Love it? Hate it? Let me know!


	25. I'm Imprisoned, I've Been Living a Lie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> McKenna knew her past would haunt her and Neal knew that his decisions might hurt him one day, but neither of them expected for their ramifications to simultaneously manifest themselves in the form of the violent, high-end thief, conman, and murderer Matthew Keller.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Lucy Hale's "Extra Ordinary."

**_Chapter Twenty-Five – I'm Imprisoned, I've Been Living a Lie_ **

June wasn't there to let me in, but the cleaning service was, and by now she recognized me. Alexandra let me inside with a pleasant wave of her feathery duster and locked the door behind me while I tapped an envelope from the porch against my hand. I climbed the stairs up to the penthouse suite carelessly, mostly just excited to see Neal. We had the day off and since Katie was seeing to the administrative duties of owning her own daycare, I thought I'd take my boyfriend to an art museum that was out of his radius.

There was a light on underneath the door. Once I knocked, I only had to wait for a few seconds. Neal pulled it open, already dressed in a comfortable-looking button-down and slacks, hair styled neatly and with a subtle hint of cologne wafting from his throat. I smiled and pushed up onto my toes. Mozzie was visible over Neal's shoulder, playing chess versus himself on his own portable game board on the dining table.

"Hey, Moz!" I called to him cheerily, in such a good mood that even the typical banter sounded like fun. Turning my smile to Neal, I offered him the plain white mail envelope. "This was waiting for you out on the front door. There's no return address, but it has your name."

Neal glanced down at it but didn't seem too invested. Slim fingers plucked it out of my hand while I stood up on my toes again. Neal turned his head so I could give him a kiss on his cheek before brushing past on my way inside.

"Thanks, sweetheart," he told me with a warm smile that reached his eyes. I patted his shoulder and pulled my arms in through my sleeves, stripping my hoodie over my head. It was a thick coat, plain black with _Aida!_ written in bolded white across the front, a token from Broadway.

Ever since spending the few days living with Neal while my house was being fixed, I'd been that much more comfortable at Neal's. It turned out that a lot of my worrying about cohabitation had been for nothing. We had a lot of the same preferences, and the excuses we had for spending time together were limited as it was, so it was hard to get fed up with each other. Both of us preferred to have the air conditioner on and leave us a little cooler (better than sweating), and both of us preferred to keep things orderly. He dealt with me tossing my layers over the couch since he knew I'd pick them up before I left.

"Ew," Mozzie declared, staring at me with the same look of revulsion since he'd looked up in time to see me plant one on Neal's face. "The two of you are disgustingly domestic, have you noticed?"

It was like having a teenager be appalled that his parents did, in fact, kiss one another. I pulled out a chair and sat down across from Mozzie while Neal padded up the room in his white socks. "I don't think he appreciates our romance," I told Neal thoughtfully, smirking.

"I don't think so, either," Neal agreed, grinning at Moz. "He can make the rules when we're in his house." Just to bother his friend, he set a large hand on my shoulder and bent down on my other side, kissing my cheek right in front of Mozzie.

"The suit in my house," Mozzie retorted. "Ha!"

I rolled my eyes. "What are you guys up to today?" No point in interrupting their time together, and if Neal had plans with Mozzie, then an unscheduled trip to the museum wasn't really necessary. I could always phone Diana and see if she and Christy wanted to meet somewhere.

"Still at a standstill working on the music box," Neal reported with a disappointed sigh.

I pursed my lips. That was not what I had meant. _Not everything has to be about the music box._ Admittedly it seemed like more and more had to do with it, though.

"Realists don't fear the results of their study," Mozzie quipped while pushing around the pieces on his chessboard.

"He's being a fortune cookie again," I whined to Neal, expecting him to do something about it.

Neal looked down at Mozzie with a little bit of feigned annoyance. "Why don't you find me more favorable results, Dostoyevsky?" Slipping a fingernail into the slight crevice between the fold of the envelope and the glue strip, he started to rip it open.

Sighing, Mozzie looked up from his game and crossed his arms on top of the table. "I've hit up everybody who would or _could_ know about the damn music box," he affirmed, looking irritated that things weren't going our way. Normally I would share the feeling, but it was my day off. I wanted to enjoy it, not get sucked back into concerns about Fowler and Kate Moreau. "Nothing's coming up."

"The more we talk about music boxes, the more I want to _destroy_ music boxes! Is it just me, or is anyone else getting absolutely sick of the obsession with this thing?" I looked between both boys expectantly. Neal looked like he was seriously considering smashing some. Mozzie just looked like I was being too impatient. I had stopped even winding the music box I kept my rings and pins inside because I didn't want to hear the tune. "I mean, Fowler and Kate, Alex, and now it's even spreading to us."

My boyfriend (I love thinking that) grimaced. "Don't think of it as an obsession. Think of it as a case. Just… not one you can file a report on," he advised oh-so-helpfully. I gave him a very flat look. It was hard to consider something a case when it missed the very crucial part of casework that involved full explanations.

"That's just the way you like them," I said shortly and wittily, then nodded to Neal's mail. "Who's it from?"

Instead of answering me, Neal looked from the back of a cardstock New York postcard and checked out the chessboard. Not Mozzie's – his own, the one he had set up on a small nightstand table which had been stationed decoratively in front of the wall adjacent to the sliding door out onto the rooftop. The pieces almost never seemed to move. It could be an entire week between one change and the next. I frowned. Honestly, I'd kind of assumed that it was decorative, not practical.

"Ah, your anonymous chess opponent again," Mozzie said knowingly.

I held up my hands for everyone to stop and backtrack. Neal went forwards, literally, striding over to the table and moving a black knight further towards the center of the board. "Wait, what's been going on?" I asked. They had forgotten to tell me anything about an anonymous chess player.

"Neal's been getting postcards with chess moves." Mozzie explained to me, giving me what felt like a slightly longer story in a very simple note. I surveyed him skeptically, wondering if there was an aspect I wasn't being told while Mozzie turned around in his chair to watch Neal study the chessboard and inquire, "Why aren't you more curious about who's sending them?"

Neal rolled his shoulders. "I like the mystery," he answered vaguely.

"Your sister's missing and you can't find the one thing that looks like it might free her. Your relationship is known to all of two people because if anyone else finds out, you're both toast. One could say there's enough mystery in your life." His friend's flat expression and deadpan tone fell on seemingly deaf ears to Neal, but I found myself nodding along with Mozzie, in complete agreement – for once. I was just glad that he hadn't slipped in some hidden comment on how his soulmate mystery, the one everyone carried with them, could have already been solved if it weren't for my withholding information, but when Mozzie had claimed to be unwilling to have anything to do with that, he had been serious. "Where's the postmark from on this one?"

Without checking the card or its envelope, Neal murmured, "There isn't one." He still seemed focused on the board, intent on something about the way the pieces were positioned.

Mozzie and I both shared alarmed glances with each other over the table. "There isn't one?" Mozzie repeated, voice rising. "As in, someone hand delivered this card to your door?"

I shuddered, shoulders jerking. The thought of someone coming up to Neal's door, but with intentions shady enough to keep their identity concealed, spooked me more than I would have liked to admit. I was very shakable where home invasions were concerned, and although the penthouse hadn't been invaded, it was only one step away from porch delivery to picking the lock.

"This is odd," Neal remarked offhandedly.

My eyes practically bugged out of my skull. "If someone is anonymously hand-delivering things to your doorstep, _odd_ is a little bit of an understatement!" I rubbed my eyes and felt my good mood seeping away. It had been nice while it lasted. Work didn't ruin my mood, but I had been looking forward to a day with as little stress as possible. "Why didn't you tell me about this?" I switched to asking, scolding. "Someone knows where you live."

"Your definition of odd and our definition of odd vary. It's all in the perspective," Mozzie announced. It was hard to tell if he was being literal or philosophical. I decided that both was probably a safe bet.

"The other cards have all been blank." Neal turned around to the table and held up his postcard. _New York City_ was still written in the top left corner in red, but the cover was a building that stretched widely in both directions from the front entry. White pillars on both sides of the doors helped it live up to its Gothic Revival style and trees were planted and tended to on both the right and the left. Long posters, ruffled and unsettled by a breeze, draped down in scrolls from their mounts high over the ground floor. "The new one has a picture of the Museum of Natural History on it. A good mystery makes life interesting."

Mozzie frowned cynically. "You know the old Chinese curse, _may you live in interesting times?_ " He asked sardonically.

Neal half-smiled. "That's the first of two curses," he reminded.

"What's the other one?"

"'May you find what you're looking for,'" my artist quoted with a smart smile, clearly believing that by embracing the mystery, he was just facing the lesser of two evils with a graceful approach.

I pointed at him. Mozzie was bad enough, but Neal, too? "If you're going philosophical on me, I will stop letting you watch existential television dramas in my presence," I threatened. I only tolerated them because I got to play with his hair while he laid down or because he rubbed my feet on autopilot while he concentrated on the TV, but I could just as easily get him distracted with some art documentary with the same results.

They both acted as if I wasn't continuing my habit of complaining whenever one of them started quoting proverbs or lines from dead people. "What's the move?" Mozzie questioned.

Neal turned his head back to look at the table again, narrowing his eyes. "Knight to D-seven," he replied apprehensively.

Mozzie had had his elbows propping up his hands, but when he listened to Neal's tone, he lowered both arms to lay flat on the table. "You've done this move before, haven't you?" He asked lowly.

Something sparked. The gears turning in Neal's mind made a connection. He swung back around to face us, leaning over the table. "Moz, I know who I'm playing," he realized aloud. "Keller. This is our last game."

 _Keller._ Being career-oriented towards criminals, my first memory of the name was someone whom I didn't want to consider having been out front of June's and Neal's residence sometime between his arrival at home the night prior and my visit.

 _"_ _Matthew_ Keller?" I specified with an uneasy turning in my stomach.

Mozzie pointed at me. "That's the one."

His reaction wasn't nearly negative enough. Matthew Keller was no H. Holmes or Jack the Ripper. Hell, he wasn't even a Tobias Køhler. There was nothing to suggest he got off on his crimes or went out of his way to kill people for the sole purpose of murder… but he made his presence known, loudly, and he was clever enough to get away with having a wide reputation without being caught. Keller was primarily a white-collar criminal. That was how he classed himself, anyway, yet he didn't quite seem to understand how that categorization worked, because he bumped himself from white- to blue-collar with practically every crime he committed. His motivations where white, but his methods were blue.

Keller was quite a character. I'd never met him and never been assigned to his case, but he was the kind of person I would have tackled head-on any other time, before I had a civilian CI to worry about and a department that wasn't going to back me up as a whole thanks to my demotion. Classy and high-maintenance, he went for the gold. Literally. His victims were typically killed quickly and efficiently, without elements of torture or psychological sadism, but that didn't take away from that he was a dangerous acquaintance to have, and the idea of Neal and Keller playing long-distance chess tickled me in a lot of bad ways.

"What the hell are you _doing_ , playing chess with Matthew Keller?" I lifted my voice into a yell and scolded Neal, who seemed disappointingly unaffected. "That's like playing chess with James Moriarty!" Not to _mention_ that he wasn't just playing chess, but Keller had _hand-delivered_ it!

"We've met a few times," Neal answered, blinking his blue eyes, not as wise to how problematic this could get. I would have to enlighten him on that. "Started playing chess a while back, but we never finished our game. He's like the blue-collar version of me."

I wanted to take his collar and (as compassionately as possible) smack his head against the wall. _Don't compare yourself to this guy! You're so much better than him!_ "He's a _killer!"_ I exclaimed, because that was an important part.

"He's a smart guy," Neal defended, although said nothing to refute Keller's status as a homicidal freak.

"He's a _killer!"_ I reiterated in disbelief. Neal, defending a murderer? What? Was Mozzie going to ask about the FBI training process? Was Fowler going to call me up and apologize for being a bitch? Were fluffy animals falling from the sky outside? All I could come up with was that it must have been one hell of a chess game.

Mozzie looked at me, exasperation written on his face, and asked, "Do I need to explain moral relativity to you again?"

"Do I need to explain _humanity_ to you again?" I threw back heatedly. There was no call for being friendly pen pals with Keller! Keller had been _here_ within the last twelve hours because he was playing a board game with Neal!

Realizing I wasn't going to relent, Mozzie huffed. "So Keller is back in New York," he reasoned. I crossed my arms and glowered, discontent with most of the situation. The thought of that bastard anywhere _near_ my friends set me off. "What next?"

"Figure out what he's doing here," I cut in before Neal could do more than open his mouth. I challenged him with my eyes to contradict me. He looked down sheepishly. "Arrest him, if possible," I added to Mozzie sternly. "You said that postcard was different?"

Neal held it up again. "It's the only one hand-delivered, and the only one with the picture."

I inhaled deeply. Well, at least that was a small consolation: Keller had only very recently started making unnerving and uncalled for trips to June's front porch. God, just the thought of him coming close to Neal while my artist was sleeping upstairs made my skin crawl. "People like Keller are always very deliberate with their hints. Let's go to work today."

Neal's face fell. "But we're not due to go in today!" He objected, throwing in a cute pout for good measure. _Well, now you know how I feel! This entire morning is just a letdown in the Safety and Caution department!_ "Don't we get days off anymore, or is that a thing of the past?"

"I want to look into the museum and see what the significance is," I determinedly held myself straight and picked myself up from my chair. No matter how alarmed or comfortable Neal was with his buddy, I was not going to tolerate it, either as an FBI agent or as his lover. "If you'd like to hang out here, playing chess with your psychotic opponent and listening to Moz being dreadfully philosophical, be my guest!"

Mozzie started to look offended but then just gave up and nodded. He couldn't argue either of the descriptors.

Neal's shoulders slumped. He set down the card and its envelope by Mozzie's chessboard. "Kenna, it's like seven in the morning, on a Sunday! No one else is going to be in!"

I held up a fist stubbornly. "Justice never sleeps!" I declared, insistent. The office may not be busy, but it didn't just shut down because of what day of the week it was. There would be enough people there to function as a fully-qualified WCCD unit, I could assure him.

* * *

"It's nice that you decided to join me after all," I told Neal with a silly, happy grin across my desk, folding my hands underneath my chin.

Neal frowned. "I couldn't let you come to work all alone," he justified, sounding as though leaving me to sort through Keller's new interests was just as bad as committing some heinous crime. "Who's going to have your back if I'm not here?"

I smiled at him warmly. He knew perfectly well that I wouldn't have been alone. None of my usual partners were around to help out, but the FBI contained a lot more than just three agents. The unwillingness to stay home while I looked into a potential threat was sweet. Very sweet.

My computer loaded a news article first on the search results when I typed in the name of the museum on the postcard. "Ah, this must be it." I turned my screen so Neal could see from the other side of my desk. "The museum was robbed Friday evening and an arrest was made almost right after – civilian Manuel Campos."

Neal bent over to read without sitting down. "They caught him stuffing his backpack," he summarized about an entire paragraph's worth of press writing. "He's out on bail."

Switching over to the FBI digital archives, I looked up the man's name and found the more detailed case against him. There were very few Manuel Camposes in our system. Neal's frown deepened while I just shook my head. Campos needed to get out more if his end goal of robbing a museum had been for some relatively worthless items when there were much more expensive displays to steal from.

"What the hell does he want with antique cork ducks, wax-sealed supply lists, and soil samples?" I scoffed.

"Not just any soil samples," Neal corrected me. Evidently that was worth being more precise about. "Sealed French samples from the private collection of Dr. John Bartram, the father of American botany."

I leaned back. Stealing those… _huh._ The components that set a bunch of dirt apart from the dirt in modern-day France would've been the chemicals and the subtle forensic evidence. I couldn't think of any reason why someone would want those in particular, but the weirder the crime, the harder it was to solve – I refused to believe Sherlock Holmes that it was actually the other way around.

"Either he has something very specific in mind, or something is wrong here," I concluded.

"We could go talk to him and find out," Neal suggested, pointing over to the open doorway.

I didn't jump onboard right away. Campos was presumably at home, since his bail had been put up right after his arrest, but while he had clearly committed a crime, I couldn't see how that tied him to Keller. What was it about stolen French dirt, corks, and supply lists that would appeal to Neal's _frenemy?_ Could it be a deliberate misdirect? It wasn't hard to figure out that Neal was working with the feds, and maybe he had just wanted to send us on a goose chase while he pursued a more serious action.

Even worse, what if it _wasn't_ a misdirect, but instead a clever diversion? What if the entire point of leading us to Campos and the museum theft was to get us out in the open? Did Keller want Neal for something – want to stage up some setting where Neal was injured or implicated? Or maybe he had predicted that I would get involved and was trying to play an angle against the fed that held his acquaintance's leash.

I didn't know Keller any better than Neal did. Having actually interacted with him, I guessed that Neal would have something of an idea for how the blue-collar rival played. "Do you think Keller is involved, or is he just pointing you to it?" I questioned, second-guessing the pen pals' relationship. "I mean, some guys, they treat opposition like a game. If he's playing chess with you, he almost certainly does, so maybe he's thinking of this as something funny to show his friend."

Neal shook his head, tightening his mouth subtly. "Keller is _not_ my friend," he stated firmly.

Well, in that case, Keller probably wasn't trying to help out Neal by attacking his handler, and if the postcard wasn't a joke, then it probably wasn't supposed to be anything physically against my consultant, either. No henchman working for Keller would be dumb enough to try anything with an agent right at their mark's side, and Keller wasn't bold enough or dumb enough to do something himself out in the open. I hoped.

"Then let's go see what we can find out," I sighed. This had all the makings of a real brain-twister. Keller was going to be a pain in the ass, I could already tell.

* * *

We walked from the nearest parallel parking space down the few blocks to Campos' address. He was on the opposite side of the street, but the neighborhood was residential and it was a crowded place of one-story houses, small gardens, and shared driveways. A few mailboxes were in disrepair. These things aside, it was still a sunny, friendly place, with family-friendly cars parked both in driveways and off of the curbs, many homes with yard decorations and growing gardens, and painted trellises up the siding of the houses.

"What's the big deal with ducks, supply lists, and soil?" I asked Neal, unable to get those out of my head. What was even the _point?_ It was such a weird list.

Neal cocked his head while he considered. "The supply lists are ancient and for someone to know they're here, they were probably on display," he reasoned. "It's probably the wax that was more important."

 _Right, the wax they were sealed with. Wait, no, hold on, that doesn't make sense, either._ "The wax?" I repeated skeptically.

"Yeah," Neal confirmed animatedly. "Wax can be used in a lot of ways, especially in…" He glanced to me to make sure I was listening and he caught himself before he said something to imply he had experience he shouldn't. I raised my eyebrows and tried not to laugh at the "oops" expression on his face. "… Certain capacities that you may want to be able to claim you don't know about," he muttered, turning to stare at the sidewalk.

I snickered but touched his back, guiding with a hand over his lower spine. "Not wanting to know and not needing to know are very different." He might have to tell me eventually, and I wanted him to be prepared for that. I sucked on my tongue, cheeks drawing in, and huffed. "I want to stay with you tonight."

"Okay," Neal said a little bit too quickly. I glared at him for being so enthusiastic. He laughed. "I'm not going to object."

I rolled my eyes. I should've known that he would assume I wanted to stay over for the usual reasons. We weren't in a typical situation, so was it really weird that my motivations were atypical? "Game or not," I went on, making sure he got the message. "I don't like that he has your address."

The light came on. "So… you don't want a date night, you want to sleep with a gun under your pillow," he interpreted with exasperation. Was it sad that I might have actually, literally slept with my gun underneath my pillow?

"If you don't convince me to sleep on the bed, it'll actually be just under the couch," I said impishly.

"That must be him," Neal said off-topic, nodding towards a Hispanic man coming up towards his house from the adjacent block with brown paper bags full of groceries, wearing jeans and a plaid shirt. He came up to the crosswalk while the engine of another car prompted him to look around. "Look, much as I think it's sweet that you want to be my bodyguard, it's a little much. If Keller wanted me dead, I'd be dead. End of story."

"No, _not_ end of story," I argued. I wasn't going to put Neal's safety up to the chance that Keller's temperament was the same as it was during a game of backgammon. "Keller's not unlike some other guys I've gone up against in the past, and I'm not taking the risk that you'll be hurt because he has some temper tantrum."

Campos looked both ways and was satisfied that the engine was far enough away. As he walked out, the roaring behind me got louder. I looked over my shoulder and stopped walking. A black minivan sped up, rocketing over a speedbump and flying along, tires skidding. I put my arm out in front of Neal to get him to stop, protective even though we weren't in the street.

"Whoa!" Neal stopped and turned away from the car, watching it in shock. Campos heard the engine getting closer a lot faster than it should have and looked up. It had been on the other end of the block when he'd started into the crosswalk. Now it was less than half that distance. "He's _got_ to be going fifty," Neal worried.

As the car passed us, I could see the back as well as the front. I looked for the license plate number to refer them to the NYPD for reckless driving, but there was none on the back. That was when I realized I hadn't seen any on the front, either.

"No plates," I warned, because not having any legal means of identification was only a signal of sinister intent.

Campos was struggling to keep his groceries in hand, but he dropped them intentionally and started at a sprint. I ripped my gun out of the holster and flicked off the safety while raising it up to aim with both hands (we were in a residential neighborhood; kids lived here, I didn't want to hit anyone, just the car). Campos wasn't in shape and his dead run wasn't too much faster than my heavy jog, but he would've been fast enough if the automobile hadn't sped up again, slamming on the accelerator and veering to the left side of the street to hit him.

I fired a shot towards the car's tires. In response, Neal clamped his hands over his ears and ducked behind me. That wasn't just speeding and reckless endangerment – that was attempted vehicular assault. The first one popped and hit _something,_ but it most likely ricocheted, because none of the tires seemed affected.

The second noise wasn't as loud as my gunfire, but it was more sickening. A loud crunch and the screeching of brakes led to the man's body being rammed into and then thrown up over the top of the car. Limply, he rolled off the back and collapsed onto the asphalt motionlessly, the car speeding up again and turning so sharply that it went up on two wheels.

Someone who had come outside to see what was going on screeched and woke up the neighborhood from its morning tranquility. I kept firing at the car for as long as it was in sight, and I knew I must have hit it at least once. My aim was excellent. The issue was that it wasn't enough to make the car stop, and although I did think to shoot at the back and shatter out the rear window, the car was already turning, and I couldn't see anyone in the backseat, just the shadow of a driver in the windshield.

I lowered my gun and looked at the man lying in the street. "Here!" I started shoving my gun at Neal, forcibly wrapping his fingers around the handle. Neal whined in his throat in protest but took it with more stability, adjusting his hold. "Don't shoot anyone, just shoot at the car if it comes back!" I hated putting him in that position, but Campos needed immediate attention and I knew for a fact, thanks to his threatening skeet shooting, that Neal was an _excellent_ marksman – just as good as I was, so I could trust him to be responsible with the weapon.

I raced out into the street, making a beeline to the man lying on his side. The white door to his address slammed. Another screech. A Latina woman with her black hair bound up covered her mouth and started shrieking and sobbing. I yelled over her to call an ambulance, the police.

Campos's leg was twisted brokenly. Bone didn't pierce through the skin, but there was very obviously a severe break in his femur that bowed the muscle. He was unconscious, blood at his mouth, his breath coming in rough, raw gargles. I leaned over his mouth and listened to his breath, decided it sounded like there was blood in his lungs, and correspondingly opted to leave him on his side so he was less likely to choke.

While I did what I could to stabilize any injuries, a man from the neighbors came out asking to help. Neal came to join and stood over us, looking everywhere for the car to make a repeat performance. Neal held my gun with one hand long enough to chuck his phone at the neighbor and told him to call Derek's cell phone number, telling him to report an attempted murder and an immediate medical emergency. Then I sent him inside to collect damp cloths and the materials for a makeshift splint. Neal kept guard (I would've let him help, I knew the gun made him uncomfortable, but I didn't trust anyone else with the firearm) while the neighbor and I splinted Campos' leg to help ensure that the broken bone wouldn't pierce any arteries.

I hated myself for feeling so useless and making a damn _splint_ when the man's chest was already coloring lividly and blood was dripping down his face, with obvious head and internal trauma, but I wasn't a doctor and I did what I could, even though it wasn't much. I did more for the neighbors that came running out than I did for Campos; knowing I was an FBI agent helped them calm down and feel safe a lot more than it helped my patient.

* * *

"Yes, sir." I knocked a pen back and forth between my fingers and held my desk landline up to my ear. "Thanks for letting me know." While a troubled-looking CI knocked on my door, I replaced the phone on the receiver and waved him inside. Neal pushed the door shut behind him and slowly walked up to sit down across from me.

I put my head in my hands over my desk and sighed deeply. If I'd had any doubts about this being one big headache waiting to happen, they were put to rest now. My day off had very quickly become a very important work shift. Caffrey, Dorsett, and now Keller, all in one year. Sure, it _sounded_ great in theory, but in practice, I really could have gone another few months without taking on another big name.

"That was the hospital," I told Neal wearily, shoulders fallen. Robber or not, Campos shouldn't have been a victim of vehicular assault. "Campos died on the operating table. Severe internal trauma included several broken ribs, one of which punctured and collapsed his lung." I had done what I could, and probably done a bit to keep him alive long enough for the ambulance, but he'd been coding before they even got to the emergency ward. The only way I could have done anything more was if I'd been trained in giving improvised tracheotomies and had been able to staunch internal bleeding I wasn't even certain existed. Rubbing my hands down my cheeks, I looked up to my consultant, who looked even more upset than when he'd come in. "Internal bleeding made it messy, but fast. His wife didn't see the driver, and NYPD is out of leads. Tinted windows, no plates, common model. Is this Keller's handiwork?"

Neal hesitated. "He's always been less sophisticated," he reluctantly nodded, hanging his head afterwards and worrying his thumbs over the sides of his hands. "To him, vehicular murder is just as entertaining as a cipher… or a game of chess," he added. I rolled my eyes. "There's a reason Keller's never been caught." _Because anyone close to him gets silenced._

I hadn't been exactly content to just wonder to myself the extent of Neal's familiarity with Matthew, but now I had a professional obligation to start thinking deeper into it. "Tell me about your interactions with him," I instructed tiredly, resigning to listening with as little judgment as possible. Neal didn't always have the luxury of being too picky about his company. Safety had to come before ethics, especially if Keller had ever been in a position to hurt him.

Neal pursed his lips and lifted his shoulders as if to say that it was all really very simple and it was a short story. "We met at the Grand Casino in Monaco while both working the world backgammon finals," he told me a little bit guiltily, looking past me to the window to check the reflection, making sure we were still without company. "The last thing I heard about him was that he ran an airport robbery in the middle of Stockholm."

Confirming what he'd heard, I bobbed my head. Once Campos had been hit, I'd sent word to Diana to look into everything recent about Keller and his movements. It seemed prudent to be on top of things, especially if he wasn't just passing through. The last thing I wanted was to be blindsided by him.

"He threatened staff unloading a plane full of gold and drove off in the middle of the daylight," I explicated further, unable to help but sound a little like an angry parent. Honestly, Keller was crude in his methods, so their effectiveness drove me a little bit mad. "No one followed him because he had gotten his hands on a lot of _toy explosives,_ and everyone thought they'd go off if they got too close. He's a real charmer," I snorted, and then threw up my hands. "And _you_ met him playing _backgammon."_

With wide, innocent eyes, Neal said, "It was simpler times."

 _Of course it had been._ It would've been years ago, before Fowler, before the music box, before me, before prison – before Peter caught up with him after years of trying and held him accountable for forging the bonds to a company. Hanging out in casinos, enjoying simpler cons and basking in the heady success of getting away with what he shouldn't have. Maybe they were simpler, but they were also lacking in a lot of the components of life that I couldn't have tolerated being without – friends, a home, connections, and any sort of honesty or responsibility.

"You know, most people, they go to casinos and they meet friends. One-night-stands." Sardonically, I ticked off some options on my hands. "Sometimes the odd celebrity! _You,"_ I pointed at him decisively. " _You_ go gambling and you manage to make pen pals with an internationally-wanted psychopath." No one would ever be able to say that Neal Caffrey did things halfway. Having a similar thought, Neal smiled sheepishly. "Congratulations; I don't know whether to applaud or scold you."

He held up a hand to give his two cents. "If you have to do either, I'd prefer the one with less negativity."

He was just impossible sometimes. His cheeks were dimpled with a hopeful smile that I wouldn't get on him too badly about his choice in company, hesitantly giving me a charismatic and toothy grin. All he needed to go with it was a rose pinned to his lapel and he could've been asking his crush to prom.

"Campos's bail was posted in the wife's name, but I don't think she could've come up with the money so quickly," I moved on reluctantly, letting it pass – at least for the time being. Being Neal's girlfriend was a lot more work than it seemed on the surface. I had to choose my battles carefully and keep in mind that we were practically from different worlds, where different rules applied.

He wasn't surprised in the least. "Keller probably paid off the bail so he wouldn't be in custody," Neal theorized. "Easier to get rid of him."

 _Right, yeah._ It bothered me a little bit that Neal could so quickly come up with a good reason for murder, but he wasn't exactly sheltered, especially not since someone ended up dead in a lot of the cases we took. Sometimes we were the ones that came closest to being the murder victims, a fact which still shook him to the core on occasion – though he was intent on letting as few people know as possible.

One person was dead already, and the body count would only rise if Keller was permitted to continue through America unchecked. "What does Keller want with ducks, wax, and dirt?" I asked, wrinkling my nose. It seemed like such an unsavory list. What was he going to do, open up an exhibit on dust?

Neal started to shake his head, as clueless as I was, but just before he started to follow through, he stopped, lips parting with a soft inhale. His tongue darted out and was pinched between his teeth, eyes focusing in on the mug of coffee and looking through the ceramic, really thinking of something completely different. His expression lit up but he appeared hesitant to commit.

My chair squeaked as I sat up on the edge and crossed my arms on the table. "Alright, I see the lights turning on in there, pretty boy. Spill," I instructed.

Neal looked away, avoiding my eyes. That, more than anything else, told me that he was about to tell me something that he knew I wouldn't be very impressed by. "It was a bet Keller and I made a long time ago," he led with, cringing when I predictably huffed. _A bet. Great. That's how all the bad decisions seem to start._ "To counterfeit a bottle of wine owned by Ben Franklin."

"Wine. Should've guessed." Sarcastically, I flicked my middle finger against the pen I was still holding, listening to the full story but unable to resist the easy quip.

Shooting me a look to shut up about his vices, Neal continued. "Queen Marie Antoinette gave Franklin a bottle of Château Du Mons. It's rumored to be in private hands, but it's never gone to auction. The point is, the Franklin bottle _can't_ be counterfeited."

In that case, it didn't make much sense to make a bet on which of them could pull it off. Instead of pointing this out, I arched an eyebrow. "And why not?" I prompted. It was probably some technicality that they thought they were clever enough to work their way around – Neal as a masterful forger and Keller as a professional at threats of all kinds, they probably figured they could manage it (or, in Keller's case, get someone else to do it for them).

"Chemical compounds," Neal said simply. I blinked at him. He expounded. "Cesium one thirty-seven wasn't in nature when the bottle was corked. It wasn't released until we dropped the first atomic bomb on Japan." I gestured for him to go on, signaling that I was following along, while making a small mental note that he included himself as part of America. Yet another point to that he grew up an American before he changed his name and got up to all sorts of unsanctioned mischief. "The compounds scattered and spread across the world. Anything bottled after the bombing will have cesium traces. The Franklin bottle doesn't."

"And you can't just move the alcohol from an older bottle, even in a vacuum, because it tampers with oxygen saturation." I snapped my fingers. "Interesting." Although it still didn't explain what the hell kind of skewed sense it made to make that bet when it wasn't even chemically feasible.

Neal smirked. "May the best forger win."

_Or the one with the most ability to get the actual bottle and then claim to have made it themselves…_

Shaking my head in disbelief, I put down my pen on the table and went to start dismantling Neal's pride. He did not need to seem so pleased by his own challenge when it had resulted in someone dying. His ego had better not get in the way of this investigation. Luckily, I knew all I'd have to do to keep that in check was remind him that Keller had already crossed a line between white- and blue-collar offenses.

"I have the utmost respect for your white-collar games," I started to diplomatically promise.

Scowling at me, Neal cut me off. "No, you don't," he accused.

"You're right, I don't," I quickly confessed. "But I was trying to be polite." I didn't think that there was any _game_ or _rivalry_ worth committing crimes for. They were crimes because they hurt people. Admittedly it was worse to kill someone than to steal their wallet, but while some offenses were more serious, that didn't make some of them condonable. The list of excusable reasons to commit legal violations was short, and their personal entertainment wasn't on it. "He's the killer. Even if he didn't kill Campos, he is still _a_ killer, and I want him in custody before more people are hurt."

* * *

It seemed like I had the fortune of speaking to the manager of every alcoholic auction house in New York State before I finally hit the gold with one that actually claimed to have the famous Château in their lists, and I wasted no time before I politely asked… and then demanded… that the manager travel to the FBI for a face-to-face chat. The man was stuffy over the phone and balked at the idea until I threatened to come to him with a warrant. I didn't specify what kind of warrant I'd get because I wasn't too sure at the time, but it did the trick.

If I'd thought he'd seemed stuffy on the phone, then that was nothing compared to how he was in person. He dressed similarly to Neal when the latter wasn't wearing one of June's late husband's suits – dark trousers, a button-down, and a vest, but where Neal's were intentionally tight and well-fitted to show off his body, the manager of the auction wore his close looser. He was portly and stout, somewhere between his early and late fifties, and already had thinning and lightening brown hair. His vision was corrected by thin, metallic-framed prescription glasses, and his attitude left a _lot_ to be desired.

Still, I had to try to be polite, as a civil servant. Sometimes I wished I had thrown in the towel on the bureau and just become a bounty hunter instead. They didn't get in trouble for being mean when it was called for. I had to be smarter about holding my tongue, which was the last thing I wanted to do when confronted with this whiny little man.

"Mr. Cattigan-" I left the conference room door open and walked in, having dreaded doing the interview once Diana had come and told me that I should talk to him first, because she might say something she shouldn't.

Cattigan held himself higher, arrogant. " _Sir_ Roland Cattigan," he amended me stiffly, British accent haughty and offended.

"…" _Wow, already off to a terrible start._ I yanked out a chair with my foot and sat down in it, sitting at an angle to the manager of the auction house. "Right, whatever, I saw a man be hit with a car today, I'm not feeling very obliging." In fact, I _really_ wanted to restart with another statement of 'Mr. Cattigan.' "What do you know about the Ben Franklin bottle of Château Du Mons?"

Immediately after asking, _Sir_ Cattigan puffed up and held his chin higher. "More than most, I'd certainly say. It is currently in the safe legal protection of Weatherby's Fine Wines' collections. A seller will be presenting it on Friday and we will be adding it to our auction."

I added the days up very quickly in my head. That wasn't very long; if Keller's point was to get it passed in the auction as authentic, then he'd be out of town before Saturday morning even dawned. "I want the seller's name," I said firmly. If Keller was using his own, then great; that would be plenty of probable cause to seize it. If not, then it was another lead to get to him.

Cattigan narrowed his bushy eyebrows at me. "May I ask why the FBI wants to know?" He primly said, clearly suspecting me of something sinister.

"It's a forgery," I told him bluntly, enjoying the way he spluttered, personally insulted. "And it's connected to the murder I mentioned," I offered as an afterthought. There. I thought those were both pretty good reasons.

After staring at me for a few seconds with his eyes incredibly wide, Cattigan reached up to slide his glasses off of his face and scrubbed at the lenses with the hem of his grey tweed vest. "It's quite impossible that the Franklin bottle is anything but legitimate," he defended unconvincingly. I looked up to the corner of the room the same way that the exasperated characters looked at the cameras on _The Office._ "The bottle-"

"Can't be faked," I cut in. "Blah, blah, I heard."

"My seller would wish to remain anonymous." The manager pushed his glasses back up onto his face, the translucent plastic pads covering up the pale impressions that his lenses were leaving on his nose. His voice had such a tone of finality to it that I understood it was more of a refusal than just a comment.

"Sucks to be him," I said reproachfully, warning him not to be difficult.

Cattigan scowled at me for my lack of compassion. "Tell me, Agent," he said staunchly, holding his back perfectly straight, his arms looking stiff as he rested his wrists on the edge of the table. "Do you fancy yourself a wine aficionado?"

 _Oh, for God's sake._ I could've slammed his head into the table happily. What _was it_ with people who constantly seemed to think that murder paled in comparison to their businesses and reputations?! I was never going to hold alcohol higher than I held human life, no matter how old or rare the drink was.

"Not personally, but do you see this?" I held out my hands above the table, palms together. Cattigan leaned forwards and peered at my hands as I opened them, slowly spreading them and showing the empty air I'd been cradling. "These are all the fucks I care to give," I announced grandly.

Going off of the look he graced me with, which was quite similar to the way the Westboro Baptist Church looked at openly gay people, I had just cursed his firstborn.

"I understand you have a reputable business to run, but I'm far more concerned with the lives and safety of citizens who are apparently now being run down with suburban cars," I said pointedly, trying to give him a little bit more perspective.

Which didn't work the way that it was supposed to. He shifted in his chair and angled himself sideways to me, his objectionable priorities becoming crystalline. "You're seeing sideways," he accused.

**_I'm_ ** _the one seeing sideways?!_

I almost smacked _my_ head into the table. I would have, if it weren't for the tactic that occurred to me just in the nick of time before I dropped my face towards the wood.

I leaned forwards, bringing my shoulders with me, and settled in on the table sideways, elbow up on the desk, using my fist to prop my head up. "Have you ever contacted the LaMontagne family in Europe?" I asked languidly, crossing my legs and using the toe of my shoe to knock the chair side to side. "You know, they're fancy and elite and have a lot of money? I know for a fact that the matriarch has a taste for old wines, and you've got one of the most reputable auctions in North America."

Cattigan pursed his lips when I dropped the name and he was careful of how he answered, very picky with how he addressed the topic I'd brought up. "Without violating the confidentiality agreements between myself and my sellers, I can't answer that the way you'd like, Agent." He scratched the side of his nose. "I can, however, say that I am aware of the name and find it preposterous to think that anyone carrying the name has anything to do with any forgeries or manslaughter."

 _Well, that bit's at least somewhat nice of you._ The LaMontagne reputation proceeds them in certain circles. He mistook my meaning, though, and misinterpreted the reason why I was asking.

"I'm not sure you understand the difference between murder and manslaughter. You can't use them interchangeably." I told him, turning down my lips. "I have personal connections to the LaMontagne family," I threw out there for whatever effect it may have had. "And I know quite a bit about your business, so if you could refrain from treating me like a fool, that would be awesome, thanks."

And we were back to being defensive and righteously affronted. "My palate is insured by the lords of London for a million euros!" He wasn't _boasting,_ exactly – his tone wasn't right for that – but he was certainly trying to make a point about his own dignity or integrity or whatever. "You may understand the subtleties of my business, but your loyalties don't have the same ties."

Did he expect that to bother me? I was proud of that, given what his priorities seemed to be! "Right, because I value human life more than I value stuffy bottles of Château." He squinted at me cynically. "I really don't like people like you, sir – privileged elitists who brag about their taste and class are annoying enough, but when you start prioritizing your minor struggles over the deaths of other peoples' loved ones, I get really _done,_ really _fast._ I'm going to make this very simple for you." I uncrossed my legs and crossed my arms in front of my chest. "You give me a name, or I shut down your business – and, yes, you _will_ have to inform your clientele – and search your offices very, _very_ thoroughly with a court-issued search warrant."

Cattigan's eyes looked filled with a longing to reach between us and throttle me to within an inch of my life, yet his dignity prevented him from causing a scene. Shifting, he clenched his fists and the muscles in his arms tightened underneath his shirt sleeves. His face turned a little pinker as he took slower breaths, doing self-control holds of his breath.

"I don't know the seller," he grudgingly confessed, glaring icily at me for wrangling it out of him. "But the broker for the bottle is a woman named Grace Quinn." I smiled sweetly at him. He was not impressed. "Are you satisfied?" He snapped temperamentally.

"No," I retorted, getting mouthy. "But I am thankful for your… _cooperation._ " That word might have been a stretch, all things considered.

* * *

I rocked back onto my heels, standing right in front of Neal's desk and smiling down at him over the top of his computer monitor. Locking my hands behind my back, I waited for him to look up. I was staring at his thick, dark brown hair for almost a full minute before he finished drawing on a post-it note that he'd stuck onto the top of a written statement regarding the vehicular attack. When he looked up at me, he smiled cheekily like he hadn't left me waiting.

 _Not today, Neal!_ His attitude in the workplace wasn't going to get to me today because I had already gotten to vent some of my frustration out onto Cattigan. "I have the broker's name!" I announced proudly, beaming down into his gorgeous blues and holding my arms out in celebration.

Neal blinked and started to give me a smile. "That was fast," he said bemusedly.

"I got irritated."

"That explains it." Neal smirked. "Didn't take you very long."

I scowled down at him. Okay, so maybe he was just as capable of getting under my skin as he had always been. "Shut up," I snapped eloquently, and then went back to grinning, determined not to let him take away my triumph. "Grace Quinn owns a wine cellar called Bin Nine-Oh-Three uptown. Very nice, very exclusive, and my bet is that getting to her is _crucial_ to getting near Keller."

Just like Neal, Keller had a notorious eye for beautiful girls. Unlike Neal, Keller didn't see a problem with using them as shields, so while I did want to talk to Quinn under the assumption she was in on it, I also wanted to make sure she acted alright. I wouldn't have put it past our killer to be forcing her hand under duress.

"Excellent." Neal put down his sharpened pencil and moved his wrist surreptitiously to cover up the shaded pink post-it, thinking maybe I hadn't already seen it. As long as he was getting his work done, I didn't care. I wasn't completely guilt-free of doodling during boredom. "Let me go talk to her."

I leaned back, perturbed, and corrected, "Don't you mean _us?"_

Neal sucked in his cheeks, making his face narrower while he shook his head. I felt more than a little excluded and pushed my hands into my pockets. "If you ask around with a badge, you'll scare Keller away," Neal explained, looking a little too mirthful as he took in my put out expression. "He's a rat. He likes toying with me, but if he thinks the FBI are getting wise to him, he'll back away before you have anything more than circumstance for the prosecution. I'll tell her I'm representing a client who's interested in the bottle, and see what I can dig up." He lifted one shoulder, smiling reassuringly at me.

I sighed. _What a disappointing turn of events…_ I couldn't argue with Neal's logic, and though I hated the idea of letting him go after anyone even possibly connected to the psycho on his own, that was part of the deal of his work-release: having a CI who could use his skills to get information that agents couldn't.

I had no grounds to refuse him, but that didn't mean I had to be happy about it. And I wasn't. Fussing about it for a few seconds, looking in other directions unhappily, I bounced harder on my heels until I finally realized I didn't have a better alternative.

"You promise to be careful?" I asked in defeat.

Neal graced me with a much sincerer smile; a subtle turn of his lips, a warm expression in his eyes. "Promise," he vowed emphatically.

I fidgeted. "Share what you find?" I also asked.

My consultant stuck his right hand up and pressed his left over his heart. "I swear."

"Don't approach Keller without backup if you see him." I established. It seemed like common sense, but I couldn't be too careful with Neal.

He kept doing his mocking pledge. "Cross my heart," he vowed, and then cracked a grin and actually crossed an 'X' over his heart.

Did he think he was helping? He was actually making me more nervous by not taking it seriously. "Okay," I said, gripping the edge of his desk and wishing we weren't in public, just so I could smack his face lightly and then kiss his lips gently. "Be _very_ safe, and _very_ careful."

* * *

I opened the door expecting to see Katie, but found my consultant instead. "Neal," I said, surprised, stepping aside on impulse to let him enter. Giving me a modest smile, Neal came through the front door and let me close it behind him. "Hey…" I hadn't expected him back so soon, and doubly expected him not to show up right at my house. I'd kind of expected a phone call, not a house visit.

Once the door was closed, Neal reached for my face, taking both of my cheeks in his hands and tilting my head up. "Hey, beautiful," he murmured sweetly, dipping his head down to meet our lips softly.

I raised my hands up to his shoulders and passively held on, rubbing my left hand along his throat, following up to the back of his neck and curling my fingers through his hair loosely. The quiet sound of kissing was nearly all I could hear in the quiet, and the heat of his hands flooded my face, making me feel pleasantly feverish. As our lips parted and he touched our foreheads together, I let out a contented, breathy sigh.

I swallowed and released his hair. "How did your meeting go?" I asked, unwilling to let him go, but my house wasn't as secure as his, as Fowler had aptly proven _twice_ , and while I expected Katie home at any time, Neal was proof that just because I expected someone didn't make them the next person to come by.

Neal had the same thoughts, and after turning his head to bump our noses fondly, he stroked my cheeks with his thumbs and dropped his hands from my face. "I didn't find anything on Keller," he said, sounding disappointed. He looked around the hallway. "Hey, where's Katie?"

"Out with Dana," I answered. "We have the house to ourselves for however long it takes her to get back from Dana's."

"Dana _Mitchell?"_ Neal asked, eyes glimmering brightly with recognition.

"That's the one," I said, crossing my arms and smiling slightly.

"Huh." He shrugged it off. "Good for them."

Dana and her husband, Captain John Mitchell, had been the victims of a scheme trying to deflect the blame for grand larceny from a state department employee and onto some innocent citizens. It came to my attention through Katie, who was Dana's friend from back when they went to the same high school, and it was the first time I'd met John. Neal and I had solved the case, and with a little help from Mozzie… and his car… took down the person responsible and exonerated John.

"How long would it take him to forge the bottle?" I took a deep breath and hooked my thumbs through my pockets, looking curiously up at Neal through my fringe. I'd already changed out of my suit and into some comfier civilian clothes, but I'd go get redressed if I needed to.

Neal's face was uncertain. "I don't know," he admitted. "It depends on how much he had done before the museum heist." I motioned to him that it was okay. I didn't expect him to have all the answers about someone else's crime. For all we knew, Keller didn't have anything started before using Campos to get the supplies. Conversely, he could have had everything _but_ the wax, soil, and cork materials already finished. "Did you find anything?"

I held my arms out like a target. "Nothing on him in America." Which meant that we couldn't use the convenient excuse of other charges or a Wanted tab on the FBI website to just nab him whenever we saw him; we needed probable cause even just to hold him for seventy-two hours. However, I _had_ figured out his motivations for taking on their counterfeiting bet now as opposed to when it was actually made, or later on, when his opponent wasn't an FBI associate. " _But,"_ I said sharply, and Neal looked up optimistically. "I _do_ know why he's trying to put an expensive bottle to auction. There's a hit on him from the Russian mob."

" _Really?"_ Neal gasped and his eyes widened. There wasn't as much admiration for Keller as there had been before he'd been wanted dead by a foreign mafia. "Wow."

"The gold he stole in Stockholm was bankrolled with Russian mob money." I smirked as I explained. I felt like this was karma at its finest. Maybe that would teach Keller not to threaten people with toy bombs. "He _probably_ took it without knowing who it belonged to…" Although having someone killed right in front of an FBI agent was a pretty bold and ballsy move, so maybe he wasn't all that smart and knew exactly who the gold belonged to… "But the Russians are really not happy. They felt cheated that he left the continent without paying up."

"If they catch him now, they'll kill him," Neal said with a worried frown – not so much for Keller, but for the murder of another human.

It made me feel warm that he was still so opposed to murder, even the murder of someone who had killed more people than we even knew of, so I pretended not to be enjoying the irony quite as much as I actually was. "Right, so why draw attention to himself? Answer: he's using this forgery to get enough money to not only give them the original amount, but extra to cushion that he skipped out on them."

"He's going to pay off the debt with the money from the bottle," Neal agreed, convinced.

"We have to find him first," I said stubbornly, and not entirely free of concern, nor was it simply out of possessiveness for the claim of having caught Matthew Keller. If the Russians found him first, then they'd kill him, and they'd quite possibly do it painfully. I wasn't going to say that Keller didn't have it coming, but as a decent human being, it was my responsibility to at least try to prevent it from happening. I'd rather he be chained up and locked behind bars than slaughtered. "If the Russians do, then he's dead; if he pays them back then he's given out a fraudulent bottle for hundreds of thousands of dollars."

"Something tells me that finding him won't be an issue," Neal sighed. I perked up. He produced a slip of a trifold flyer from the inside pocket of his blazer. It was a dark rust-colored advertisement. "I found this in Quinn's. It was hidden between the pages of a book."

I took what he was offering. It looked like it belonged to a history guide's tour group, highlighting their stops. "A brochure?" I turned it over to see the back and unfolded all three sides.

"Look at what's circled."

On the second third of the front side, the calligraphy of a bar's name was circled with red ink. The black "King's Crown" was inscribed inside a light brown oval, and the tail of the K underlined the word "King's." To the right and close to the fold of the thick paper was _8:00 PM_ in the same colored pen, handwriting slow and deliberate but with some characteristics of generally messier and faster penmanship.

"King's Crown, a tavern once frequented by George Washington, was long since buried and now lays under Water Street." I read the summary underneath the name and then darted my eyes back to the time. That was as clear a message as any. "Eight PM." I checked my watch. We had more than enough time to get there. "Let's go."

I pushed the ad back to Neal so that he could keep it and I could go get my gun and a jacket to protect my arms from the chill as the sun set. Neal took it without objection, but he seemed surprised by my initiative. "You're coming with me?"

Avoiding spooking Keller was one thing, but there was no way in all of the seven hells that I was letting Neal go meet with him on his own. He didn't have to know I was a cop, if that would keep him in town long enough to get him on something official. Plenty of people carried guns without being law enforcement – himself included.

"I don't trust him alone with you," I told him flatly. If he refused to take me with him, then I might have actually handcuffed him to some furniture and made Katie scold some sense into him. "We don't have to tell him I'm a fed."

* * *

The King's Crown tavern had long since been sucked down out of the city's modern landscaping, but it was a lot easier to access than usual – the corner of Water Street had been pulled into some construction site, leaving a large chunk of the neighborhood looking unsightly and eerie, especially once night had fallen and we were seeing our way via the streetlights and warning tubes of light lining the edges of the dangerous property.

There was a bright yellow _No Trespassers!_ sign pinned to the ten-foot-high wire fence posted in the soft ground right along the edge of the cement sidewalk, but the construction crew had to have some way to get themselves and their equipment inside, so the fence had plenty of entry points. I looked at the sign angrily until it occurred to me that we had probable cause to trespass – we had good reason to believe that a crime (incidentally, trespassing) was in progress, so as a federal agent, it was practically my duty to trespass to apprehend.

The floor was covered in soil, flooring all pulled up, ground raked and dust puffing out under my shoes in the lighter areas. It wasn't completely disorderly, but it was chaotic in the way that only construction zones can be, with hardhats on a rack and only in an order that made sense to their wearers; CAT machines turned off and hauntingly looming over the lot, shadows casting dark shapes on the ground that moved spookily when a car's headlights roved across the block; objects and tools which would play integral parts in the building set around in an order according to when and where they would be needed.

I stayed very close to Neal's side, my gun tucked in a shoulder holster underneath my blazer. I'd pulled on a black coat over my civilian clothes, skintight, ripped, dark jeans, and a tight-fitting grey shirt with lace shoulders and midriff. The straps were concealed by my extra layer, but I could feel the pressure of the suspenders being yanked on my shoulders and uncomfortably pressing against my breasts reassuringly. There was a reason I usually wore a belt holster instead.

We walked towards the corner of the block, looking down to avoid stepping on anything. I was particularly on the lookout for snakes, rats, or sharp objects. Hands between us, fingers loosely wrapped up in each other's, Neal and I looked around intently. I was beginning to worry that we had come into a trap or a bluff when something clanged loudly – the fence, as something was thrown hard against it.

We both looked to our left. Against the ground near the fence, a shadow moved, like a human arm. The human himself was obscured from view by the shadow of a stack of metal sheetrock.

In between the two of us and the man against the fence was a construction pit. It had to be over ten feet both ways, was square-shaped, and had yet to be filled in. A long steel beam less than a foot wide crossed it, three feet of either side on the opposite edges of the pit. It would theoretically be safe to walk across, if your balance was kept… it looked too heavy for someone to shove in the time it would take to walk across.

I eyed that beam and memorized where I was relative to it. Someone could come bolting across, or it could become a shortcut in a pursuit.

"Matthew Keller!" Neal called, knowing full well who was waiting for us and trying to get our attention.

The quiet chuckle made the hair on the back of my neck stand up. "So you got my postcards," a Scottish brogue drawled humorously, a casual lilt to his tone that reminded me unsettlingly of someone who wasn't taking anything around them seriously, who saw consequences as below them.

Neal advanced. I tightened my grip on his hand to slow him down. He may have personal experience with Keller, but _I_ was calling the shots. If I decided it was too dangerous, Neal was getting out. I had the experience with killers, and a lot can change in a murderer in the at least five years since they last saw each other.

"Thanks for keeping in touch," Neal called across the pit to our adversary, his foot still forward like he wanted to bolt for the man, itching to do something.

"We never _did_ get to finish our game." Keller sounded pouty and disappointed, a kid who was told to go to bed before their TV show was over. "Aren't you curious to see who wins?"

He stepped out of the shadows, taking slow but long strides out into the open lighting of the streetlight to the left of the pit, over the side of the fence. His face looked narrow and clean-cut, hair short and dark, in the outline of a suit like Neal's preferred variety. I'd thought he'd look taller. I also thought the first time I'd see him, I'd be able to make out his face more clearly.

Neal tightened his mouth and stared across the pit with disapproval. "Not anymore," he said firmly.

Keller smirked. The subtle turn of his lips wasn't as easy to read as his demeanor from our distance. He turned his head more to me, looking at me. I felt like I was on display. The killer licked his lips. "Since when does it take three to play chess?" He asked with a curious tilt of his head.

I growled low in my throat. He was going to address _me_ while he talked about me, _not_ Neal. I am _not_ a possession. "It's not exactly traditional chess when your move involves mowing down a civilian in broad daylight," I sneered. A warning bell went off, telling my body to flee; last time I'd been so mouthy to someone like Keller, I had been attacked. Køhler might have left me alone after he escaped if I hadn't been so rude. "Manuel Campos died in surgery this morning."

He leaned his head the other way on his shoulders and spread his legs, standing with a wide stance that spoke of comfort and confidence. "I'm sorry, who?" He asked smoothly, intentionally ignorant.

I could practically _see_ Neal's mood darken. "Your thief," he said pointedly, voice louder and a touch deeper. "He had a wife."

"Still afraid to get dirty, huh, Caffrey?" Keller asked, clucking his tongue. His voice itself wasn't scary – actually, it was slightly higher than Neal's, and his accent was pleasing to my ears. It was just the fact of _who_ he was that made it a sound I didn't like.

"Violence requires no imagination," Neal calmly dismissed, writing it off as a brutish activity with no intellectual rewards, not just a preference for pacifism. The lie was given away by the tightness of his grip on my hand. I could feel his palm getting warmer and sweaty. He was nervous, no matter what he said to Keller. "Anyone can use a gun."

"Or a car," I snidely revised. "Given the circumstances."

Keller lifted his arm and looked at his wrist. He played with the cuff of his sleeve while he played around with us. I knew that's what he was doing – playing. "That's why you'll always be second-rate," he stated sadly, presumably to Neal. "You're too weak to do what's necessary to get what you want."

 _And you're strong? Well, beat me._ After everything that my psycho Norwegian killer had done to me and the fallout from that, both personal and professional, I was completely sickened by anyone, least of all some pathetic bastard like Keller, treating me like I was the subpar one because I would rather honor life than commit homicide just so I could live comfortably. I took my hand away from Neal in spite of that he tightened his hand to keep his hold.

"Kenna, don't," Neal hissed.

I wandered up to the edge of the metal beam over the pit and glanced across to Keller. Yes, he was still several feet away from the edge. And he didn't have a firearm out. I stepped up onto the edge and held my hands behind my back, walking out one foot in front of the other. Two steps on the steel, and I was balancing over a pit deep enough to break a bone or two if I fell.

"I feel like I should point out that violence is crass and simple." I stated to Keller brazenly, keeping my feet centered on the beam as I walked across. My heart thudded just from survival instincts. Every step felt precarious, even if I had a few inches on both sides of my foot. All it would take was one slip… "It's a very shallow victory when you have to win a fight with blood." It measured your ability as a caveman, not as an evolved member of a species. Halfway across the beam and Keller raised his chin to me, narrowing his eyes. I kept going, locking eyes with him in a challenge, a shiver of delicious adrenaline racing up my back. "I think anyone who gets what they want through force is pretty God damn pathetic."

I safely hopped off on the other side of the pit and freely stalked up to Keller, taking away the space and standing within a foot of him, peering at him. We were the same height. If I was any taller, then it was because of our shoes. Brown eyes looked back at me with a sort of fascination that reminded me of someone looking at a special needs child.

I raised my proverbial hackles and turned my back to him, a blatant insult that I wasn't afraid of him. I held my arms out and called across the pit to Neal, "He's not very scary up close!"

Predictably, my comment on violence being pathetic made no lasting effect, and as soon as I bit my tongue and smirked at Neal, I had something cold being shoved into the small of my back. Neal couldn't see the gun hidden behind me, but he looked as anxious as though he could, and he put his hands up to his head in surrender.

"I could shoot you right here for nosing your way in," Keller told me, growling meanly. I smiled insolently, showing him my expression over my shoulder. He pushed the barrel of the gun harder against my spine. I felt satisfaction for having revealed his true colors. He would kill me with no remorse; he wasn't as gentlemanly as he liked to believe. "It's cheating to get help, Caffrey."

Keller kept the gun on me with his left hand, and with the other, he took my right arm and held it away from my side. In contrast to the firearm, his hand was gentle and warm, like a friend or a lover. I suspected he didn't want to risk me pulling another gun on him, and since he wasn't actively breaking my wrist, I didn't rip my arm away.

I knew better than Neal _or_ Keller that my life was in the latter's hands, and for the life of me, I couldn't think of a single time in the last year that I had felt more _alive._ Not drinking, not sex, not buffets of my favorite foods, or entire pots of coffee and sleep deficits had given me the same rush, the same consciousness of my own mortality. People like Keller ran from their vulnerability. I embraced it. Taking the ultimate control of my own life by putting it in someone else's hands was a thrill, if not a secure one; I had no intention of letting Keller pull the trigger, but in some twisted, masochistic way, I _enjoyed_ being where I was.

"I may be a bit unimaginative sometimes, but I think little would be more satisfying than harming you while your man can't do anything but stand by and watch." The Scotsman said conversationally into my ear, glancing across the pit at Neal and leaving him in suspense, wondering what was being said. He smirked at my boyfriend. "I think _that's_ pretty pathetic, sweetheart."

Something in Keller's face was the last straw for Neal. He bounded up to the edge of the pit, took a leap, and landed solidly, impressively, right on the beam, and stalked forward, rolling his shoulders. If anything was going to interrupt, I expected it to be the cocking of the gun. Instead, it was a shrill beeping that frantically went off.

We all stopped, Keller even loosening his gentle hold on my wrist, and Neal bit his tongue. He pulled up the leg of his pants to show the tracker. The green light had turned and was rapidly flashing a panicky orange, emitting a shrieking assault on our ears that echoed over the construction pit.

Neal stopped, visibly conflicted. On one hand, his tracker being activated would bring police screaming right to us, which could catch Keller. On the other, more risk to Keller brought more risk to me, too.

"Oh, I, uh, I should've warned you," Keller delightedly bounced. "But we're, ah, at the edge of your leash." _How did you even find out his perimeter?_ "You might want to take it easy. Imagine how I felt when you, of all people, were working for the feds." He whined.

I held my left arm out, opening my fist, indicating for him to stop where he was. Surreptitiously, I also twisted my left foot behind my right, posing as if I was about to curtsy. "Don't," I told him easily, despite that there was a bullet ready to fire into my back. "I have the situation handled." Keller snorted as if I was joking. Neal leaned onto his back leg, licking his lips fearfully. I rolled my neck and spoke directly to my vicious holder. "You know, I really don't like people like you. It's not the first time I've had a gun at my back. And it's really your own fault for not making sure I couldn't do this."

The polite criminal's kind hold of my arm served as his enemy, because in a second, I had acted. He had no chance to prepare for any kind of assault. I'd been so compliant that he hadn't thought anything more than a gun was necessary to ensure the continuation of such obedience.

After yanking my arm away, I spun, using the ankle behind the other to drive the twist. Once my feet were spread again, I was facing Keller. Simultaneously, I grabbed at the barrel of the gun and shoved it down towards the dirt so it couldn't hit any of us. Closing my fist, I slammed the heel of my hand into the side of his face, striking over his cheekbone and close to his eye. Keller's head was thrown back. I ripped the gun out of his hands, unloaded the magazine, and stuffed the cartridge into my pocket. I gave the unloaded pistol a toss and sent it flying into the pit.

Keller raised his head from his hands, feeling over his face. "On the other hand," I said, smirking at him. I didn't take out my own gun, but felt like I'd proved my point: I was not just Neal's pretty face. "If you'd like to set off your tracker, Neal, we can tell the police that this idiot was trespassing. There's a sign over there."

"Trespassing?" Gingerly touching his cheek, Keller's face fell. "What do you think you're doing?" He sounded truly disappointed in me. "That's _weak."_

Neal chuckled with relief that I was safe, and it was a little amusing that I'd hit the guy in the cheek. "Hey, if it works…" He took another precautionary step backwards, avoiding setting off his tracker.

"Neal…" Keller grimaced and checked his fingers for blood. There was none. I wasn't wearing anything on my hands that could have cut him, and I hadn't hit hard enough to give him that bad of a broken face. He would've definitely felt it if I had, and checking would not have been necessary. "You're clutching at straws here."

Neal shrugged. He didn't really care if Keller was impressed. If it worked, it worked. "They caught Al Capone on tax evasion," he pointed out.

Keller exhaled through his nose, touching one final time at his face before he got over it. His ego was probably more injured than his body. "You flatter me with the comparison," he said humbly, taking a quick bow. Then he glared at me. "You know, it kind of hurts to be beat like that."

 _You expect me to care? You threatened me with a gun!_ "Sucks to be you," I retorted flatly.

Keller broke into a sideways grin at Neal and chuckled. He looked back to me with eyes full of mirth. "Yeah, you'll do alright," he decided.

I tried to stand taller. "For what?" I asked threateningly. I wasn't going to be another playmate.

"Let's play the game." The man wiped his hands on his trousers and looked between Neal and I enticingly. "Up the stakes."

Neal and I both shared an apprehensive look with each other. Upping them couldn't be good. How much higher could they get when people were already dying for them? "What are the stakes at now?" I asked, open to either of them answering. There was still a degree of information I was lacking that was all built on their former alliance.

Keller waved it away as unimportant. "Oh, now it's an intellectual pursuit."

"To do the impossible and forge an un-forgeable wine," Neal elaborated, louder, still standing over the middle of the pit, unwilling to complete the path and unwilling to stand back and retreat.

"Exactly!" Keller pointed at Neal's chest and took one single step past me, towards the pit, but made no motion to get any closer. If he had, I'd have body checked him, full-on tackle football style. "I want you to play the game. I want to know who's best." _Whoever can go longest without committing homicide_ seemed like a good measurement of that. Keller cocked his head and held a hand out to me demonstratively. "I'll even let you have your cat burglar girlfriend accomplice here."

"Oh, you'll _let_ me?" Neal asked incredulously.

I scoffed. "Just _try_ to stop me."

With a pleased grin (he was not having the appropriate reactions to me and I didn't like it), Keller lowered his hand towards hand-shaking height and wiggled his fingers, inviting me to take the formal invitation. "Doesn't take skill to smack a gun out of someone's hand. You talk big, but do you even have claws?"

_Would you like me to scratch your face so you can find out?_

I aggressively moved closer. "You're going to become very closely acquainted with them, if you're not careful," I swore, holding up my hand to strike again.

Keller mocked me, "That's what I like to hear in a rival, Kitty."

"I don't know as you realize it, but I _will_ punch you again."

He made a deal of brushing himself off and lolling his head back, stretching. Then he stretched his jaw, moving the muscles in his cheek, feeling the ache from the hit. My eyes sparkled delightedly as he made a face of discomfort.

"Sorry, but in this match, violence is just the hissing." Keller condescendingly smiled at me. At least he put some effort into pretending to have sportsmanship. "Claws are the smarts." He tapped his temple wisely. He raised his voice but kept his eyes locked on me. "Learn to follow through, Caffrey. That's always the part you seem to have the most trouble with."

He turned his back to leave. Neal and I both looked at each other and had an argument while Keller retreated with leisurely slow steps to the fence and the encompassing shadows. I could have arrested him, but trespassing was a weak charge, and with a good enough lawyer, Keller could get out of it like a slippery little weasel. Technically, his citizenship still laid in Scotland, so he could also go that route unless we had something more serious.

I wanted to lock him up for murder, Neal probably wanted to lock him up for attempted murder (of me), but both of us wanted him locked up for longer than three days, so I just shook my head slightly and Neal nodded, though he looked frustrated.

The footsteps changed direction. We both saw Keller coming back, this time holding a Belgian vintage canvas bag. His hand was wrist-deep inside and he took out a bottle too quickly for me to react by pulling my gun. The bottle was empty, still had the paper wrap around the circumference. He tossed it to Neal. My CI ducked and reached out to catch it without moving his feet out of his radius.

"Now, let's play." Keller nodded. That bottle was significant somehow. Maybe that was the same kind of bottle that he'd used for his counterfeit copy? "Your move."

This time, when he melted into the surrounding darkness, his footsteps faded out, picked up again with louder, crunching gravel, and grew too far away and too varied in sound to have just been him faking it. Sure that he was gone, I turned back to Neal and motioned for him to get back on his side of the pit, jumping up onto the beam to walk back across. I ground my teeth the whole way. Letting the bastard just walk went against everything I knew. I was supposed to hold him for the seventy-two hours and dig up more dirt, not let him walk for the purpose of letting him commit more white-collar crime to arrest him on those, instead.

Although forgery was definitely more serious than a misdemeanor.

I leapt off and stuck the landing. Neal was quick to wrap me up in his arms, holding one arm tight against my upper back and the other around the back of my head, keeping my face pressed into his neck. I touched his back kindly, feeling along his shoulder blades while he relaxed, his heart coming to the same conclusion of his mind that I was okay. His shakes subsided, held back until we were alone, and he picked his head up from on top of my hair, breathing deeply.

"I really wanted to punch him again," I whined into his neck.

He laughed uneasily.

He didn't let me stray more than a few feet from him on the entire walk to his penthouse, keeping our arms locked tightly, pulling his own closer to his body and limiting the leeway I had when I started getting too distracted to keep up.

* * *

I squinted at my computer, groaned, and threw my head down into my hands. This website wasn't being particularly helpful, and neither of the two friends I'd emailed at New Scotland Yard had gotten back to me. Despite that New Scotland Yard isn't actually _in_ Scotland, I knew that Scotland and the UK had close ties, and any officers at the Yard were more likely to have easy access to quick, accurate information on extradition request policies than I did. I'd also sent something to my friend Emily, who had transferred to Interpol from the Quantico base, but my message had been forwarded back to me with a message that she would be answering all emails at her earliest convenience. Which meant she was probably undercover or injured or something.

I made a mental note to check on that. If she _was_ injured, she might be too far overseas to go visit, but I could always Skype or have some flowers delivered or something.

What I could glean from the FBI's online website and the internet was that the likeliest clause we could get to hold Keller was if we got a request for provisional arrests from his country of origin. All I had to do was get someone in the Scottish law enforcement to send one of those over to us, officially deeming him a flight risk, and I would politely oblige with feigned shock and arrest Keller. Then we'd hold him in custody until things could be worked out internationally, which could take up to three weeks? Something like that. There was a reason I needed to talk to someone who actually knew these things.

Knocking on my door was nice, but the purpose was defeated when it was pushed open. I didn't even look up, but clenched my jaw until my teeth hurt and said tightly, "For the last time, if you want dating advice, use _Cosmopolitan!_ I'm busy trying to manipulate international extradition laws to catch a psycho!"

"Dating advice from you seems like it would defeat the purpose," was the responding quip. My head jerked up. That was not the voice I had been expecting. Neal stood half inside the doorway, a witty grin on his face, his bright teeth over his plush lower lip trying not to snicker.

"Oh." I released my fists and sat up straight, grateful for the distraction from the web. If I'd known that Scottish law was going to be so relevant, I might have actually studied it at some point – no, I'd just been all, _well I know exactly what I need to do, I'm gonna join the fucking FBI, America's got more serial killers than anywhere else, I'll never be bored._ "Hey." I smiled meekly. "Sorry, I thought you were Derek coming back again."

Neal took me talking to him as an invitation (he wasn't entirely wrong) and came further inside, slipping the door closed behind him. He pulled out a chair.

"I think it's starting to really sink in that Kate's his soulmate," I told Neal, relaxing. I wasn't a gossip queen, but I didn't think it really counted as gossip when it was about our mutual friends and an important event in their lives that we were both privy to through their choices. They'd been soaring in the honeymoon stage for the last several weeks, and I was pretty sure the condoms I'd thrown at them both while Katie moved in with him and I moved in with Neal had been put to good use, but now that they were both being faced with the reality of its permanence, they both, and Derek in particular, were starting to get a little nervous. "And he thinks that Kate has these really high expectations, when really she's just super psyched that this time it's someone she can trust and someone that I trust, too."

Yeah, that was another thing; she had started asking me if it was okay if she went out with friends and then specified who they were. Me being insistent that Fowler was dirty before he, surprise surprise, turned out to be dirty, had left an impression that I was trying to shake. After the first couple of times, I cottoned on and stopped saying "yes, of course" and started saying "it's your decision, and it doesn't inconvenience me one way or the other."

Neal folded his hands and leaned his head onto his shoulder. "Katie's a wonderful girl," he stated plainly, and I was certain that he meant it. "And I don't think Derek has a lot to worry about, as long as he treats her well." He breathed and thoughtfully considered. "You know… she's a romantic, but she understands how reality works, and he's still gonna go above and beyond that, too."

 _Yeah, I know._ I'd caught him looking up when Katie's favorite musical group, StarKid, was going to be in the city, preferably on Broadway, when he was supposed to have been checking his email.

"Yeah, just go tell _Derek_ that," I urged, half-serious. Maybe he might actually believe it if it came from more than one person – and someone whom, at that, wasn't practically obliged by friendship bonds to tell him that of course he'd do fine. Or it might be a guy thing. I don't know, as long as it got him to stop freaking out over nothing.

Neal smiled proudly. "We are very lucky men," he announced affectionately, staring at my face. His smile widened, dimples imprinting in his cheeks when I started to blush.

"Yes, you are," I agreed, mostly for Derek's sake. I could think of half a dozen things I had done wrong or was still doing wrong that Neal didn't deserve to deal with, but Katie was truly as close to perfect as I thought anyone could be. I cleared my throat and tried to stop blushing. "Um, Diana got back to me on Cattigan's stores. He got Keller's forgery early this morning."

 _Now, where is it… um…_ I stared blankly at my desk before I made an "ah!" noise and moved aside the same book on warrant law that I'd leant to Neal right after he was released. I'd been looking into it (not the chapter on exigent circumstance) to see about the policies of alien travelers and their arrests.

Underneath the book was the laminated photograph. It was a bottle that looked like the same shape and size as the one Keller threw at Neal, but it was filled with alcohol that sat calmly through the glass. It didn't _look_ special enough to be worth as much as it apparently was… or even worth the trouble that Keller was going through to recreate a copy of it… but it was definitely wine.

"Wow," Neal said, impressed, holding the picture up underneath the light of the overhead. He was seeing something more remarkable than I was. "It's good."

 _I'll take your word for it._ I didn't want the whole explanation of how great of a forgery it was. "It's our only evidence that links him in any way to Campos' murder, and yet it's locked down tight in a vault." I planted my chin on my fist. "We can't get to it, and it's just increasing my desire to punch him in the face."

Neal waved the photo and fanned a breeze at his other hand. "Unless we can use another reason to convince him to take it out of the vault," he said slowly, peeking at me to see my reaction.

I rubbed my eyes. "We can claim it's a fake all we want, but even waving around some big names like last time won't convince him to let us get our hands on it."

"We can submit a Franklin bottle of our own," Neal tentatively suggested. I eyed him warily. He grew more excited and wriggled in his chair, re-crossing his legs. "There's only one in existence, right?" He practically thrummed. I nodded the answer he knew too well already. "If I turn in a fake that's just as good as Keller's, they'll have to test them both."

 _Well…_ I wasn't too psyched about giving him the go-ahead to engage Keller by participating in their bet, but if it was a foolproof way of getting Keller's version where I could get it and use it as evidence against him, then I didn't have much of a choice, professionally.

"What kinds of tests do these entail?" I asked carefully, giving it some timid thought.

"Standard stuff." Neal promised. Exhaling deeply didn't do the trick, so I narrowed my eyes at him. It still took him a couple of seconds before he realized that I didn't know what "standard stuff" was. "They carbon date the cork, run a molecular test on the wax, spectroscopic refraction on the glass-"

It sounded like a bunch of superficial analyses to me that didn't even open the wine. In that case, I didn't need him to list the entire gambit. "But nothing that compromises the integrities, right?" I interrupted to save time.

Guessing my concerns, Neal shook his head quickly, hair flopping with him. It resettled normally but I still thought it was cute. "No, not at all! Everything would still be admissible in court. His bottle will pass those, and so will mine." _Overconfident much?_ I thought about teasing. "That'll force the auction house to run a cesium test. They don't like to run them because they're so expensive, but it's the only way to determine the age of the wine in the bottle without opening it."

"You force them to run the test, then it'll fail," I reminded him importantly before I got the point and almost smacked myself. "But then so will his, which proves it's counterfeit, and we can get him on that."

My consultant smiled at me, a little shyly for having planned a con in which he committed crimes to prove someone else was committing crimes. "Yeah… it's not murder, but it's a start."

It was a better start than I had. I glowered at my email home page. I'd keep on that path and see if it would lead anywhere, but once Keller was done, he would skip town. We needed to get him before then. "How long will it take you to forge your own?" I asked in the interest of time, already planning a way to phrase it so Hughes was less objectionable.

He broke into a secretive smile. "I already got a man on it," he confided, winking. I rolled my eyes. Of course he did. _Way to get your extracurricular activities condoned, Neal. And Mozzie._ "Wanna come by later and see?"

* * *

I thanked Neal courteously for holding the door for me and was already pulling off my jacket as I came inside. I twirled around and right after he had twisted the deadbolt, I had my coat in my arms and was kissing his cheek. Neal laughed and turned his head to kiss mine, too. At the last minute, I turned my face so he kissed my lips and I giggled against his. Kissing him was heady, and without Alex Hunter getting in the way, I could happily do it any time I wanted… while we were in private.

We stood in the doorway, kissing chastely, while I stripped his jacket off of him. Mozzie was over at the table, his back to the door, working with a reading lamp angled down at the table. White cords ran up to his ears, so it wasn't shocking that he didn't hear us, but I distracted Neal from calling too loudly for his friend's attention by persistently chasing after his mouth, possessively refusing to stop kissing him for more than a few seconds at a time. Neal rolled his shoulders back and threw his jacket in the other direction to grab me tightly in his arms, showing off his strength in an uncommon display by picking me up and spinning me around, then carrying me a few feet past the couch before setting me down again.

Not that the play wasn't fun, but the fruits of my… I didn't want to call it labor, because that has a very not-fun connotation, but my _efforts_ came in the form of skipping over to the table, leaning over Mozzie's shoulder, and saying loudly, "How's it coming?"

Mozzie positively _shrieked,_ spinning around so quickly that he almost knocked himself and his chair over, wielding a pair of metal tweezers like a weapon. His face looked so terrified that I doubled over and practically fell myself, howling in laughter.

"Moz!" Neal scolded, lowering his hands to indicate hushing up the volume. I cackled madly and bent over the table, sliding over to the nearest chair. Neal sent me a betrayed look for taking advantage of kisses to scare his friend. I gave him a thumbs-up. "Overreact much?"

"Those are tweezers," I panted. "What are you going to do, _tweeze_ an intruder?" I started laughing harder all over again, pounding my fist on the table while both men looked at me with disapproval ranging from an amused "you minx" to "you Satanist."

Mozzie picked up his hand and glared at me through his glasses, twitching anxiously. I wondered how many times I could do something like that before I had to start feeling guilty about the associated health risks. "The Shonobi ninja can fashion a weapon out of anything!" He scathingly replied.

"But you're not a ninja!" I snorted unattractively at the thought of him spinning down a rope from a skylight.

"That's exactly what I want you to believe!"

Neal braced himself with an arm against the table. I eyed his arm and tried not to be too obvious about wanting to feel up his bicep, the rippling, strong muscle under the flesh as he flexed. I loved when he wore the tighter sleeves. "How'd the bottle coming?" He asked resignedly, forced to suffer with the knowledge that his girlfriend and best friend were probably never going to be traditionally nice to each other.

"Oh." Mozzie flicked something on his glasses. For the first time I realized that he was wearing an attachment to the arm of the frames that functioned as a magnifying glass. He turned the magnifier up out of the way and put down his vicious, fearsome tweezers of mass destruction. I snickered into my fist and Neal sent me a look to behave. "I, uh, I paid off a guard at that Maritime exhibit for a French cork made before the industrial revolution."

"Is this our newspaper?" Neal leaned down, sliding some inked paper off of the table and rustling it as he read the headline. I saw his shoulders arch, the scapulae standing out elegantly in his back, and looked away. Clearly my brain was not in an appropriate enough mindset to let myself keep looking. " _The New York Gazette_ from seventeen eighty-five."

"They use it for insulation in the walls of the Colonial Ale House," Mozzie said proudly, holding his chin high and awaiting praise from Neal for his innovation.

He got it. "This's perfect," Neal praised, clapping him on the back.

I felt really left out, and attributed it to my own karma for making Mozzie fear for his very life for about three seconds. I covered my mouth with my hand in case I started to giggle again, but I seemed safe. "It is?" I asked, risking it.

Mozzie leaned back, mournfully surveying the table. The bottle stood upright, perfectly centered in front of him. "Well, almost." I thought it seemed uncharacteristic for him to so willingly admit to a flaw in one of his designs. "There's still an egg missing from our basket." Oh, so it wasn't a flaw in his design, just his inventory. That made more sense.

"Wax," Neal murmured. Mozzie nodded agreement solemnly.

"Okay, then we get wax. Wal-Mart has lots." I suggested it seriously but already supposed that it wasn't going to be that easy, or Mozzie would've already collected it. And, whoop-de-doo, both of them rolled their heads to look at me like I was being intentionally dense. "What kind?" I asked, now the one resigned.

Mozzie seemed happy with my exasperation. "Preferably eighteenth-century beeswax from the Château Du Mons vineyard," he said with the attitude of someone asking me to pick up some Ben and Jerry's from the store.

I blinked once, twice, and then sarcastically said, "Oh, yeah, that should be easy. I think they sell some at the mall." Neal smiled and tried to hide it by looking down at the table, but I still saw the peaceful turn of his lips, the lift of his eyes, and instead of snapping at him for it, I just admired him.

He made a cute little giggle before he could talk normally again anyway. I liked that he didn't try as hard to maintain his poker face when he was around me and Mozzie. It meant he felt safe with us, like he didn't need to hide his personality, and I enjoyed just reveling in the knowledge that he had people to feel safe and comfortable with.

"Grace, Keller's broker, has a few Château Du Mons in her vault." Neal rubbed at his chin while he looked up, the ghost of a grin still hovering on his lips. "How much wax do we need?"

"Not much," Mozzie optimistically promised. "I can make it work with just a few shavings." _Exactly what are you doing with this wax? Well, sealing the bottle… how come you need so little to make an effective seal? How large are these shavings?_ "How's the security there?"

The discussion took an entirely unexpected turn, but Neal didn't seem blindsided by any curveballs. "Good," he reported dully. "A keypad with a rotating code, a biometric scanner plate-"

"Oh, so you can just-"

"-With a pulse monitor."

Mozzie winced and sighed. "Oh… that makes it trickier." I unfolded my arms and stared between them in shock. Were they – were they really doing this _right in front of me?_ It wasn't _that_ long ago that Mozzie wouldn't even _look_ at me, and now he was discussing their full intention of committing a crime in the presence of an FBI agent sitting right next to him?! Sometimes I missed the days when my friends gave me plausible deniability. "So how do you get in?"

"Um, you _don't_ break in," I testily suggested, on edge and a little offended. I mean, sure, I wasn't going to arrest my friends, but they could at least _pretend_ I still had more loyalty to my work ethics than I apparently did. "Because it sounds really risky and not like a good idea, even a little bit!"

"No, we can't break in…" Neal told Mozzie, who looked down and snapped his fingers unhappily.

"Thank you."

"We ask Grace to open the door." Neal looked back up with a cocky grin.

Mozzie and I both were skeptical of that claim. I'd like to have seen him try! "You made that good of an impression?" Mozzie cynically questioned, likely about to ask exactly what they'd talked about that warmed her up to him so much.

"No," Neal responded, and sent me a reassuring look that he was on the same terms with Grace Quinn that he was with any other woman that wasn't me. "But for my client, who can buy from the auction."

 _Oh, so now Mozzie has a role to play. Cool._ I couldn't help but be a little worried, though, after Moz's frankly alarming acting for Melissa Calloway as June's family attorney. I smiled pleasantly at Mozzie in a gesture of wishing him good luck. He was looking right back at me. And so was Neal.

_…_ _Oh._

I huffed and my head fell back. "Oh, great," I moaned. "I'm going to be doing the conning thing again." Mozzie nodded factually, like it actually wasn't a decision that I got to make, and Neal made big, hopeful eyes at me. "No?" I tried, just to see if they would actually take it as an answer.

Neal's adorable attempts at the puppy dog face ceased instantly and he scowled with as much amusement as it was possible to scowl with. "That's your favorite word, isn't it?" He inquired.

"You want to talk about my favorite word? Because I say yes _a lot,_ especially where you're concerned," I sassily returned. It wasn't even an innuendo – although I certainly could've made it one just by wiggling my eyebrows – but I genuinely seemed to have a hard time telling Neal flat-out _no._

"We're not breaking in, we just walk in and you'll be shown around… with me. And we're not _stealing_ anything," Neal persuaded unconvincingly. I glowered. _You were just talking about how to break in and steal wax. Don't you dare tell me you have no intentions of committing theft._ It was hard to see how stealing some wax compared to catching a killer, but the principle stood. "Of value," he amended quickly, seeing my stubborn expression. "You heard Moz, all we need are some wax shavings. It's like taking a lock of hair from the floor of a barber shop."

 _Ew,_ I balked, and thought personally that it was kind of a weird distraction. Hair cells were dead anyway. I certainly liked playing with Katie's and Neal's enough, so obviously it didn't bother me until it had been cut off. _Still, what a weird simile._

I adamantly sat still. They were going to have to try harder. If one of them would just like to remind me that we were trying to catch a murderer and prove that they had their priorities right, then I would possibly consent to being an accessory to their crime.

Mozzie puffed irately, residually ticked about the whole scaring thing. Which I was totally going to do again if I got the chance. "Do you want to force the cesium test or not?" He asked rationally.

I shrank back and looked away from them both, staring at the window meanly and blaming it for my moral frustrations. "I do…" I grumbled.

"Alright," Neal soothed coaxingly. "We can call this a grey area." I held up a hand to tell him to shut up. That was not helping. "It's not doing any car slamming, just… dressing up, playing with other dressed up people, drinking fine glasses of Port…"

 _Oh, yeah, sounds like a great time for you._ It just wasn't my idea of having a blast. "I don't think you have the right to call a grey area," I sniffed. If they got to call grey areas, then nothing would ever be white or black anymore, and while most things were colored in hues, there were a few that were strictly off-limits. Again, it was the _principle._ Those were _important,_ damn it.

Mozzie held up his hand to ask to speak and didn't actually wait to be called on. Katie would've trained him to hold his tongue until he was given permission to speak, if he were four years old. "If lawyers can call grey areas, then I'm going to go ahead and call it a grey area," he declared.

I cocked my head, taking note. _Interesting. Implying you're a lawyer._ The more times law and lawyers came up, the more convinced I became that Mozzie actually had a somewhat legitimate history of law school before he decided to go all… _Mozzie_ -ish. There really wasn't a better word for it.

Whether he realized he'd given something away with a slip of the tongue or just honestly suddenly realized something, I'd probably never know. I just got to see Mozzie widening his eyes and looked up at Neal with reservations. "Ooh, unless she doesn't know enough about wine," he shared with his friend. "That could be a little telling."

"I can – I can get the name and look to get in, and I know how wine tastings work." I motioned again for them both to slow down and addressed Mozzie while I tritely established that I was a perfect candidate for this role – it was just a matter of not wanting to. "I've been to a lot, believe it or not," I added to Moz.

"Not," he said under his breath.

I huffed and slunk down in my seat, covering my front with folded up arms and petulantly looking away. I wasn't going to win and I knew it, but whoever said that good people conceded gracefully to defeat had clearly never been in my position. If I was _too_ graceful, I wasn't putting up enough of an argument for the law's sake.

With it decided that I would be going, I straightened my legs under the table and crossed my ankles. "I don't like Port," I complained to be a pain for them to deal with. I had to get the last word. Truthfully, it was more to be a pain in Mozzie's neck than anything else, but I wasn't fully willing to say that, even to myself.

Shaking his head and wondering what he'd just gotten himself into, Neal patiently reminded me, "It's a wine tasting, love, there'll be other options." I stopped sulking quite so much when he called me his new choice of pet name, but as soon as I realized, I started to scowl with renewed determination.

* * *

We stood outside of Grace's office, waiting for her to finish a phone call inside after her secretary led us to the hall. Grace Quinn was a broker who only took upper-class clients, and she had her own winery storage. The building was used in exhibits and similar displays on several occasions throughout the year, and the hefty pay that she received from her clients allowed her to keep the space to herself without needing to rent it out.

Neal fussed with my clothes. I was wearing the same chiffon dress I'd worn to go to the tennis club with Melissa Calloway and Wayne Powell, except this time, instead of wearing sandals, I had on short black suede boots with three-inch heels and a lightweight, loosely-knit scarf with shimmering glitter woven into the pinks and greens. It could wrap twice around my throat, but I'd wound it once tightly and then taken both ends and tied them in front of me like a necktie, the longer end of the scarf in front.

"I _do_ know how to dress myself, thanks," I promised Neal, a little annoyed by how he seemed unable to leave my scarf alone. It did not need to be perfectly centered, and the sleeves of my dress were perfectly fine how they were.

"I'm just trying to help," he said defensively, brushing my hair out of the way while his fingers lingered in the folds of soft, light-catching yarn. "I know this isn't really your thing."

I pushed his hands away. My hair was styled the way _I_ wanted it. If Neal expected me to pull off a con, then he should know that I can do my best when I am most comfortable. If I was comfortable in a teddy bear suit, then for best results… well, no, actually that didn't work in context, but my hair was such a little thing that it shouldn't have really mattered if I wanted it in pigtails or braids; it was fishtailed over my shoulder and it would stay that way.

"I can do the job perfectly well," I assured, losing patience both with him and with Quinn for leaving us to wait. Hadn't Neal made an impression on her with his wealthy and private connoisseur client?

"Doesn't make it something you enjoy," Neal pointed out to me, but he stopped screwing around with my scarf.

I locked eyes with him and rebelliously off-centered the hanging tails of my scarf. He puffed through his mouth.

"That part's true," I admitted with a smirk as I trailed my fingers over the edge of the fishtail. I liked feeling the braids in my hair after they were made – it was making them that was the pain in the ass.

Neal wound his arm around my shoulder and moved to stand next to me instead of in front of me. "Then the sooner we get Grace to show us to the cellar, the sooner we can get you back into your favored clothes again," he promised. I was going to hold him to that. I slid under his arm and into his side, leaning my cheek onto his shoulder while we waited. He lowered his voice. "Some long sweatpants and one of my silk shirts, okay?"

"I've already agreed to what you want, you don't have to keep bribing me with the most comfortable clothes in your closet." Yeah, I was one of those women who liked to wear their boyfriends' shirts. Neal seemed to have zero problems with it.

The locked office door clicked. Neal and I sprang apart to maintain our façade of client and hired assistant. A blonde woman peeked out and smiled at us both, showing pearly teeth beyond bright red lip gloss. A burgundy scarf covered her neck and she wore a champagne-colored dress to her knees, accompanied with white pumps. Quinn's hair straight down, as long as her chin, and her eyes were bright green highlighted by winged mascara.

Her face lit up. "You made it!" The mascara really made her eyes pop. Her mouth stretched into a wide grin and her scarf's ends both dangled over her back, wrapped twice around her throat. I hadn't realized scarves were in season. She left her office door open while she came out, her shoes clacking loudly on the linoleum floor, and held both arms out. "You must be Miss LaMontagne." She hugged me, perfume flooding my nose, and pecked my cheek overly friendlily. "It's lovely to have you."

A classic technique of getting information out of people was to match their tone, so I kissed both sides of her face enthusiastically and held my hands on her shoulders, mirroring her embrace of me. "Call me McKenna, please," I invited.

"Grace Quinn. I hear you're a lady of quite discriminating taste." We shook hands, her filed nails pressing lightly into my palm. Both of us glanced over at Neal, who rocked back and looked pleased that he had matched his client with someone she was already getting along with. Quinn warmly looked back to me. "I hope we find something to your liking today." _I'm sure we will… not what you think we will, but we will._ "Oh, I love your dress. Is it French?"

"From a boutique in Versailles," I confirmed, looking down at it.

"Versailles," Neal said aloud in fitting surprise, nodding appreciatively. "Really? How much was the shipping?"

 _June's donations aren't enough for you now?_ I didn't think she was letting him keep that much of the seven hundred he was getting to pay for housing and food. International shipping was pricey, and clothes like he enjoyed were much worse.

"None," I said, smiling at Quinn. "I bought it in person."

Quinn waved me into her office. I happily went inside, walking slowly as it wasn't my space so that she could easily overtake me once she and Neal were in, as well. Glasses of champagne were already prepared on her desk, near her phone line. Either she'd been multitasking or she'd been leaving us to wait a little longer than necessary just to impress with some alcohol right off the bat.

She handled them by the neck and passed one each to Neal and myself, and kept the third, with significantly less in it, for herself. It must've been nice to run her own business; she got to make her own rules, and drinking on the job was permitted, according to her rulebook.

"We'll be starting with a nineteen eighty-five Château Pétrus Pomerol." Grace curved her lips and raised her glass in a toast. The two of us gingerly touched the bodies of the glasses together, drinks swirling around inside.

I sipped at mine while Neal tucked his free hand away in his slacks pocket. "That was a great year for fine drinks," he said admiringly. "You're not holding back." At least in this instance, he wasn't wrong. The wine was rich and tasteful, and that was all I really sought out in a wine, but it also reminded me of the particular kind of flavor that went along with a lot of fancy talk from my parents that I never really understood.

Quinn nodded her agreement with Neal casually, swallowed, and lowered hers down to her stomach. "What do you think, McKenna?" She asked politely with an expectant smile. I imagined it wasn't very often that she got poor feedback.

Surprising Quinn and I, Neal opened his big mouth to talk, looking into the glass as if scrutinizing the very molecular makeup. "I'd say it's woodsy," he began. I almost rolled my eyes at how quick he was to fall into the habits of old aliases… _especially Steve, whom you still think I don't know about._ I was saving that one for a good reveal; Nick Halden had been a nice surprise. Well, I say _nice._ It was nice for me to see his reaction. "With a medium body and hint-"

I cleared my throat and sent a stare at him, mildly conveying him to mind his place. _I pay you to do your job,_ I scolded mentally, and luckily, the humor I couldn't quite suppress over my internal lecture was fitting for the context of an advisor and client whom had known each other for a long time. _Not to be me. If I paid you to be me, then I wouldn't have even had to come and you could've taken care of this yourself while I played with my Corgis on my veranda._

Neal looked between us and then hid his face by looking down. "Sorry…"

"No, go on, McKenna," I played, motioning and sharing a secretive smile with Quinn, who giggled, lips at the rim of her glass. "I'm curious of your opinion."

"Alright, you've made your point," Neal told me, not finding it as funny as either of the women. He drank heartily while Quinn covered her mouth and chuckled.

Smiling with satisfaction, I turned back around to face the broker and gave "my own" opinion. "The use of wood is made evident by the broadness of the flavors," I started to say, and nearly made a face. _When did I turn into my mother?_ For the first time in years, I heard the similarity between my voice and hers. "There's a long persistence in the mouth, and the taste opens up well in the glass." _Not that you'd be able to compare it to how it tastes before you open the glass, because we're not going to drink straight from the bottle because that's not classy enough._

I knew my recitations had impressed her, though, because she seemed pleasantly surprised. Had she thought that Neal was bluffing about his client? I mean, he was, but she didn't know that. "I would agree."

I coughed into my elbow and put down my half-empty glass on her desk, carefully moved far away enough from the edge of the table. I still wanted to stay at least a little bit sober for the duration of the afternoon. My eyes lingered on the post-it note next to her closed laptop. It just said _nine,_ and in the same handwriting that wrote the "8:00 PM" message on the brochure by King's Crown.

Turning back to face her, I put the note out of my mind as well as I could. There was more to it that I wasn't getting, but I doubted I could pry it out of her. Anonymity was a selling point for people in her business.

Tactfully, I clasped my hands in front of my chest. "I've been reliably told that you have a more substantial, and, uh, exclusive collection," I started, visibly confident but truthfully a little unsure that I was approaching it right. I hadn't been in this environment since I'd been eighteen, and I hadn't been the one doing this part.

Quinn showed her teeth again in a one-sided, smug smirk. "Well, a LaMontagne would certainly know," she jested. I faked a sheepish expression and nodded. "Would you care to accompany me to the vault?"

When I appeared interested, I wasn't faking.

* * *

I held my hand in my purse, moving my wrist back and forth to make it look like I was searching for something. The contents of the handbag rummaged around to make a convincing sound like it, too. Quinn led me down the stairs into the basement cellar, hand on the railing delicately. While twisting my wrist, I held onto the end of a piece of tape in a rolled-up dispenser and pulled it slowly out, trying not to let it make any noise.

We reached the bottom of the stairs in front of the vault. A tall, steel doorway was guarded by a passcode entry pad in addition to the heavy door handle. Quinn turned around and looked up the dual flights of stairs we'd just descended, realizing that we'd lost someone in the process.

"Your friend's not coming?" She asked me, blinking.

It was strategic. Neal was scouting out the rest of the gallery and the wine tasting to see if Keller was around without the scrutiny of the person who had the authority to call security. At the same time, I was the trusted and nonthreatening face of a potential buyer who would sabotage the security preventing Neal from getting into the vault on his own.

I couldn't tell if it was one of those days where I hated or loved my job.

"I really don't need a babysitter," I pointed out to her, raising an eyebrow. I ripped the tape off against the spiked razor-like edge of the dispenser and wrapped two fingers around a slick tube of lipstick. While I angled it so that the lipstick covered the clear, see-through tape, I took my hand out of my purse. "Ah-ha!" Like I'd finally found what I was looking for. I bent one finger to stick the tape to my palm, out of sight, and uncapped the lipstick. "We spend too much time together anyway. As you saw, he's beginning to think we have the same name!"

I applied a fresh coat of dark pink lipstick over what I was already wearing and popped and licked my lips, then casually dropped the tube back into my little bag.

Quinn covered up the pad with one hand while she entered the code with another. I heard three small beeps, so that was how many digits there were, but other than that they were on the lower half of the number set, I couldn't tell which ones. I went to the door and opened the handle as the light above the pad turned green, and I held the door for her. It was heavier than it looked.

"Let me," I said, making a sweeping gesture with my right hand, propping the door open wide with my left, palm turned away so that she couldn't see the tape. " _Bienvenidos._ "

Quinn curtsied a little and walked in over the threshold. "Thank you," she told me respectfully.

I looked up to the stairs again, saw no one watching, and pushed my shoe up against the door to keep it open. I peeled the tape off of my palm and pushed it down over the latch, smoothing the adhesive over the door to hold down the mechanism so it wouldn't get the chance to lock again, even when the system was reengaged. I moved quickly and after a last brush of my hand, I moved my foot and came inside, letting the door close slowly on its own behind me.

Quinn flipped on a light, bringing on several overheads in a chain reaction. The wine bottles were dark greens and deep reds close to where we were standing at the entry, organized by type, with labels on them with the details. The light basked us in a yellowish glow that took on some hint of the colors of the bottles. It was pretty, kind of like mood lighting.

The broker held her arms out to show off the rows and rows of champagnes in cabernets. "As you can see here, our security system is state-of-the-art. It's preposterous to think any outside competitor could manage to worm his way inside."

 _No, it's not. All it takes is a little bit of an inside job._ I looked over my shoulder at the door. With that attitude, she wouldn't even think to check. With her security system, even if she suspected me, she wouldn't check for something so dumbly simple as tape on the lock. She'd check for electronic fraud or something.

"Oh, do elaborate, please," I said, and jokingly added, "With any luck, I might manage to understand half of the vocabulary."

* * *

We didn't have to wear nametags, which was a relief. I didn't recognize any of the names I heard dropped, and some people did insist on talking to me, but at least they didn't flock to the LaMontagne and start chattering about wines that I would struggle keeping up with. I stood in the corner of the cleared gallery room where people were mingling, standing guard over the vault surreptitiously in the meantime. The stairs descended from the other side of the room, and I knew Neal had already snuck downstairs to take advantage of my premeditated tape job.

I looked at my watch and then sipped from my glass, feeling terribly out of place. It was ironic, really – the place that people of my backgrounds were supposed to stereotypically be, and I felt like everything I did stuck out like black on white, thinking my hair was wrong because no one else was fishtailed, wondering if I was in the wrong social circle because I was among two people under forty, nervous that the French dress was inadequate for the setting.

I was trained to arrest Keller, not to taste wines and act like I had never stopped owning my parentage.

"I haven't had a Pinot this old since my wedding," some woman said to her companion whom she was trading opinions with, swapping stories back and forth of the richest champagnes they'd ever had the delightful privilege of tasting. They'd have been disgusted by the beer I kept in my house.

_So would my parents… it's been forever since I thought this much about them…_

Looking down at my proffered beverage from Quinn, I sighed, let my shoulders fall, and ducked my head, the tail of my braid loosely molding to the curve of my shoulder. I wished I could've blamed my straying thoughts on the influence of the wine, but I'd been going back to it for months, more and more since I met Neal, and especially since speaking with Cattigan. I could have been stone cold sober and I probably still would've been thinking about my estranged family.

I pressed my tongue to my molars and resigned to stop drinking. Sobriety was going to be a better look on me in case my tongue started slipping. I was already being loose-lipped by using LaMontagne as my alias, and Quinn's recognition of it had already told Neal that it wasn't some generic or television-inspired name, like Hastings had been. I wasn't so opposed to telling him my backstory anymore – he already knew the worst part of it – but part of me wanted to pretend just for a little bit longer like I had privacy and could separate who I was from who I was supposed to have been, if other people had gotten their way.

As I raised my eyes from the drink, I caught sight of a head of hair disappearing down the stairs. I stilled into a human statue for a second before I sprang into motion, setting down the glass on the nearest table and dashing for the steps.

"Excuse me," I called, seeing the back of a man's short-haired head and then Quinn's more recognizable blonde hair and dark, satiny dress. "Miss Quinn! I have a question about the Château Pétrus-" I stopped halfway down the stairs behind them when both of them turned to look at me. For the second time in twenty-four hours, I was face to face with Matthew Keller.

Keller was in a grey tux, dressed for the occasion of an elite wine tasting party, a drink in hand. I feigned a polite smile to him, since Quinn could see my face. She couldn't see his, though, his back to her to look at me, and he looked up my body at the dress and raised his eyebrows at my face, unimpressed with my hasty interruption. I had very few doubts that he had intentionally tried to slip into the vault, knowing that this would have been a prime time for Neal to steal components to the forgery.

"Oh." I looked apologetically at Quinn and smiled some more at Keller, this time genuine. I was smug to have caught him before he succeeded in outing Neal. "I'm sorry to interrupt."

"Oh, please," Keller said, dismissing it as nothing. "It's company."

Without blowing that we knew each other, I couldn't do anything but let him take my hand, brushing his palm warmly over the back of my knuckles and raising my hand to his face. We were uneven on the steps, myself higher than he, which just made it easier for him to kiss the back of my hand with soft lips, slowly giving me back my arm, looking up at me through his eyelashes with a smirk. He kept his left hand holding onto my right wrist.

_Grr. I hate when killers are attractive._

"Do I know you?" Keller asked me, narrowing his eyes.

Quinn was watching us both closely, prepared to mediate. I dared him to make it necessary. "I can't think of how," I said, pretending to be completely oblivious.

"Is everything alright, Miss LaMontagne?" Quinn asked over Keller's shoulder, addressing whatever had sent me running down after them. Keller recognized the name. I'd have been more shocked if he hadn't, but the amusement in his expression made me want to hit him even more than I already did.

The two of us shared a look. _LaMontagne?_ He seemed to be asking. I forced some fire into my eyes and returned with a silent threat that if he _dared_ to out me to the broker, then I would make him pay for it. I doubted she was aware that she was working with a homicidal fugitive, and to enforce it, I twisted my hand around to hold his wrist similar to the way he was holding mine. I could probably break his bones from the angle I had.

"Everything's great," I told her reassuringly, squeezing Keller's hand tightly.

"Hm." Keller dragged his teeth over his lower lip and then nodded decisively. Simultaneously, he started to dig his fingers into my wrist. I bit my tongue to stop from either verbally protesting or pulling away. He was stronger than he looked. "Yeah, I guess you just have one of those faces." _Touch of a lover – the hell was I thinking?!_ I seethed. _Well, he started it._ I returned the favor, and I had the advantage of acrylic fingernails. The bastard was probably going to leave bruises. He extended his glass to Quinn. "Mind filling this up for me?"

She nodded quickly, skirt sweeping over the backs of her knees. "Of course," she dipped her head, and, looking at us a few seconds longer with confusion for the obvious tension, padded up the stairs past my side, leaving both killer and cop on the stairs alone.

 _I could just shove you backwards and see if you get badly hurt,_ I contemplated, trying to decide if that was stooping too far close to his level. Also, if he _did_ leave bruises, then couldn't I use those as evidence that I was responding to assault? Self-defense.

Keller released me first. I let go of him and yanked my arm away, hissing and holding my wrist close to my body. The long gloves to my elbows were covering any discoloration or prints, but I rubbed over them and glowered. Keller blew on the indentations of fingernails in his skin, then shook his arm out.

"LaMontagne," he repeated my alleged surname, staring me up and down again. "Yeah, I see it. I saw you, too." Although I was questioning how annoyed I should be that Keller thought the name that wasn't technically my name fit me, he cocked his head. The entire thing was a game to him, and he was such a dangerous opponent, one with such a violent history, that I was eager to meet him halfway and play along to my inevitable triumph. "You came in with your friend. Where'd he get off to, anyway?"

 _As if you don't know._ "I'm not his keeper, and if he needed one, then I'd have someone else doing it," I lied. "Who do you take me for?"

Talking with him on the stairs was surreal, like the construction site had been. He wasn't dumb enough to pull a gun on me here in public (which was good, because he probably wouldn't let me do the same trick twice), but if I announced that I was anything more than Neal's conniving partner in crime, then he was going to blow the whistle on Neal. We were at a stalemate that practically forced us to be civil with each other, a situation which I had never gotten myself in with a serial killer before.

Keller licked his lips and looked down at my shoes. He chuckled and shook his head to the side. "I'm wondering, personally – call it a curious inquisition – what would happen if I asked a security guard to check the vault, right now." I cocked my head and crossed my arms.

"You wouldn't dare," I growled, conscious of how close we were to other people.

"Wouldn't I?" Keller smirked. "What does that do to your public image if Little Miss LaMontagne is an accomplice to a fed's errand boy breaking into somebody's private property? Not to mention what it would do to your pretty boy." I glowered. Keller was hitting me where it hurt – but not through threatening Neal. That was a bark, but if he were going to bite, he'd do it quickly. He knew exactly who I was. Would Neal have figured it out if he hadn't met me as McKenna Anderson?

He thought he had me. I leaned quickly to my right and caught myself on the wall, blocking his path, and Keller twisted his lips up mirthfully, knowing that for whatever I might say, we were at an impasse. It was play. He wasn't going to be hurt unless I hurt Neal, and while he wouldn't have hesitated in my position, I wouldn't risk it.

"You compromise the vault, you delay the auction," I reminded him lowly, searching for any deterrent. "No matter how curious you are," I grit my teeth, "You won't have the chance to find out before the Russians catch up with you."

"You think I'm afraid of those big, butch Europeans? Nah." Keller snorted, rolling his eyes. He was taking them a little too lightly, in my opinion. _And to think – I had wanted to keep you safe from them._ Not from a legal court, but from the mafia, yeah. The chess player rubbed his chin, crossing one arm. "They got the brutes, yeah, sure. What they _don't_ have is my smarts. I can stay three steps ahead of them, easy." He shrugged.

"You're very arrogant," I observed cuttingly. "Do you really care to test it?"

Keller condescendingly leaned forwards and stepped up. He grabbed onto the rail and set his toes on the stair I was standing on, pulling himself up and balancing on the front of his feet. At an even height – almost, I was taller with my heels on – he smirked at me, our faces only a few inches away.

"Life is full of little games, and everyone gets bored of playing safely sooner or later." I pressed harder against the wall to keep that arm still and tightened my free hand into a fist. I didn't want him to see that I was starting to get perilously close to shaking – and I enjoyed every precious second of my composure being knocked. It had been too long since I was the center of attention of a dangerous monster, one who could kill me without remorse, without a second thought, and it made me recklessly thrilled.

I shivered. Keller leaned forward and rocked up on his toes to speak into my ear. His lips brushed the shell of my ear while I stayed stock still, unwilling to back down. "What about you, Kitty?" Matthew asked tauntingly, his Scottish brogue and the cocky lilt making my knees feel weak. It was so hard to explain, I didn't think I ever could, but while I'd have really liked to drive his face into the wall next to my hand, his breath warmed the side of my face. "Are you tired of playing with the _good guy?"_

I could've assaulted him, yeah – I also could've thanked him for a rush that no drug could have ever replicated. _Being recruited by Matthew Keller._ I was oddly flattered.

Keller leaned back and looked into my eyes with that self-assured, infuriating smirk. "What will the cops find when they look inside?" He asked, pretending to be clueless, wishing to draw it out of me.

A door closed. Both of us jumped, but Keller was the one with the more precarious balance. Reacting as if he were anyone else, I quickly grabbed onto him so he didn't fall, one hand fisting into his collar and the other closing around him, fingers splaying against his middle back.

The coast was clear. It was the door to the vault, Neal leaving. I was glad it had taken him a while, because I dreaded to think what might have happened if he'd come out while Quinn was leading Keller down. "A cellar full of dusty, overpriced wine," Neal said, sounding angry right off the bat.

Knowing exactly what it looked like, Keller smirked at me, tongue-in-cheek.

"Looks like you're out of time," I told him rudely, giving him a shove backwards. If I got any closer to him, we'd have been kissing. He needed to get out of my space. I liked the ecstatic and dangerous adrenaline hit that I got from him, but unique and threatening or not, Keller was still someone I detested. Keller caught himself on the lower step.

Neal fixed his blazer, shooting fiery knives at Keller through his eyes. "Oh, by the way, Kenna, I forgot to tell you – he's a big fan of himself." Neal stormed up the stairs to meet us and he stopped at mine, inserting his arm between his rival and I protectively, drawing me to the opposite side of the stairwell. "What did he do to you?"

Neal could pull me away, but Keller and I were still locked in eye contact. I touched my wrist without thinking, the one that still ached with forming marks. Keller's smirk widened. On many levels I hated myself for reacting to him the way I was. It wasn't desire or longing or admiration; it was a _thirst_ for what I'd been removed from without my consent, built up over time, desperate to prove everyone else wrong, eager to up the stakes… for myself. Not for Neal. I would never jeopardize Neal, no matter how much I shook, how my knees quaked like I was going to faint, at the thought of another hit, like a junkie in withdrawal.

"Nothing," I told Neal, not looking away from Keller, because the truth was he _hadn't_ done anything to me – just held my hand really hard, but I was a big girl, I could handle it. Everything else was what my own twisted and traumatized mind was doing to itself, and Neal couldn't separate me from that any more than I could train him out of thinking like a conman. "They should make muzzles for people like him. Dogs make less noise."

Neal's arm around me was strong and tight, and he saw Keller watching and tightened his grip. Suddenly I wasn't just the accomplice; I was like the prize, the center of a tug-of-war that went beyond comparing their abilities, and I didn't even know where to begin with that.

"By the way, I heard somebody mowed down a citizen. Right in front of you and your FBI agent." Keller cut me out again to talk to Neal. I was relieved. Then he winked. _I can't wait until you find out I am the FBI agent._ "You might wanna avoid getting too close, Miss, or the agent just might shoot _you._ "

 _If who I used to be ever catches up to who I am now, you might be right._ A year ago, if I could've come forward in time, I'd have kicked my own ass all the way to Atlantis.

"Rumor through the grape vine is that she got a little trigger-happy and started blasting up the tires." He pursed his lips and tutted as if he had any legs to stand on. He'd been content trying to shoot me through the back the night before. "What a shame."

He started to leave. Neal was just determined to keep him away from me, so he just held me to him and watched through narrowed eyes as Keller climbed back up the stairs. I leaned into Neal, startled and shocked by everything that had just happened. Did I need to go back to therapy? Possibly, because I clearly still had issues. With Neal taking us out of our isolated exchange, I felt reason returning.

 _He saw me trembling. I grabbed onto him as a first impulse. I can't let him leave like that._ I couldn't let him leave thinking he'd won me, that he had anything I wanted, that there was even the slightest chance I would ever, _ever,_ leave my mate for him, of all people.

"How's your face feeling?" I called after him scathingly. "It's a real pity the makeup can't cover all of it."

I had to look for it to see, but the shadow of a bruise was visible under concealer that hid away the damage from the typical eye. Keller stopped on the stairs, chuckled darkly under his breath, and then started climbing again, moving at what felt like an infinitesimally slow rate.

When he was out of sight, and out of earshot, I shuddered, letting myself truly react to everything else. _What the actual fuck just happened?_ "Okay… last night I wanted to hit him with my fist, now I want to hit him with a _car,"_ I told Neal, both being honest and venting and acting like nothing had gone down, like he hadn't missed anything of importance to me, so he wouldn't worry or think Keller had some sort of power over me. So he wouldn't think that my desperation and unfair trauma had rattled some self-preservation instincts.

"That would be suitable karma, alright," he agreed tightly, not quite as low now that the threat was gone. Neal looked at me in my eyes, very intent to see as much of my feelings as he could, and offered a small smile. "Just imagine how I feel."

"We're gonna take him down," I promised, needing to do so now not just for Neal or for Campos – for _myself._ I didn't know what would happen if he got away, but I had the sickening thought that I would be _relieved,_ and if that wasn't going to completely abhor me of myself, then nothing was going to.

* * *

**Who do you think I could manage to become if I took off?**

**I'm miserable. I hate it here. I hate what my life has been. I hate what my family is pushing for it to become.**

**What if I cut my ties? What if I changed who I was and reconstructed myself into who I like?**

**Adaptability has always been a strength of mine.**

**There are so many people I could choose to be. Rowan. Sierra. Mikayla. Michelle. Lucy. Jean. Ella. Lorelai. Selena. Even after making one choice, the options are endless.**

**If I change who I am and take away all that makes me hate my life now, I probably won't even be me anymore. I guess I'm okay with that. At least all of those other women get to choose who they turn into. I want that freedom. I deserve that freedom, just like everyone else, even if that means that I have to run away from people I wouldn't mind keeping with me.**

**This is the day that I begin to die, because this is the first physical proof that I want to stop being Zarra. I'm sorry to all the people who might be hurt because of this decision (though there aren't many).**

**I can't imagine how much this is going to hurt you someday, McKenna.**

**I suppose one day, I'll find out.**

**This is the beginning of my end.**

**Love (and remember),**

**Zarra LaMontagne**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Love it? Hate it? Let me know!


	26. Every Day's Just Like Russian Roulette

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Keller's plans become clearer as a wine auction heats up. While wrestling with who she is and what she wants to be, McKenna reveals to Neal a huge secret about her past - one that she fears might change how he sees her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Lucy Hale's "Run This Town."

**_Chapter Twenty-Six – Every Day's Just Like Russian Roulette_ **

Neal had the wax that he needed from the Château bottles and neither of us needed anything else from Quinn, so we left. He was in a hurry to get out, probably shaken by coming out to see Keller having gotten so up close and personal with me, and I just wanted to leave that place – that place that turned my head in twisting and convoluted directions, making me think about my former life, making me _want_ to talk about my life, making me want to be close to Keller just to risk my life over and over again in an insane effort to feel free and liberated.

I hustled on the street, holding my arms close to myself. The sun was out and the day was warm, yet I felt chilly and shaded. I couldn't get away from the wine storage business fast enough, and Neal was just trying to keep up.

He reached out and caught my elbow, cupping my arm until I moved away like a runaway train speeding onwards. Neal made a frustrated noise and broke into a jog, running out in front of me. I stopped and uncrossed my arms, looking up at him weakly. Couldn't he tell I just needed to get away from it all?

"Hey," he said, immediately moving into his soothing, calming voice, the one he used when I woke up from nightmares and tried really, really hard not to cry, until my head hurt and my throat felt raw and Neal told me it was okay, and he let me cover my face and rocked me in his arms. I rubbed at my eyes. I wasn't going to do that. I didn't need the coddling of our personal relationship to make its way into the outside world. "You don't usually use your real name when you go undercover, and you don't usually use remarkable aliases. What was that about?"

I sniffed, heard a horn blare, and looked into Neal's eyes, concerned and confused but very _present,_ very attentive. Neal would never hurt me. He wasn't ever going to be like Keller; would never give me that rush like a drug from risk and terror, but he would also never threaten to shoot me or otherwise harm me, would consider me and my feelings and wellbeing, would persistently look after me, even if I tried to write him off or tell him not to worry. Neal was my safety net, not some imagined freak show where I was drawn to Keller magnetically because he could help me remember what it was like to be _go, go, go_ and survive every step.

I swallowed and looked up at him. I grabbed one of his hands. He was kind and gentle and his hands were strong and powerful, but also so caring and loving. Neal's hands always touched me with understanding and compassion. If anyone was going to listen to me, to not judge, then it would be him… and I _had_ to tell someone, it was _choking_ me. It had been too much and it had driven me to temporary insanity, so I had to get something off of my chest, and Neal would never understand why I _liked_ having the barrel of a gun shoved up against my spine, so I had to explain the other option.

"Ever… ever heard of the LaMontagne family?" I asked, rubbing my nose, taking deep breaths, calming down as I slowly inhaled the air. It wasn't clean – we were in the middle of Manhattan – but we were in the open, in the real world, the place where I lived and called home. And Neal was there. Neal, my anchor and my necessity. Keller was a syringe of toxin, a heroin – Neal was a vitamin pill. Could live without, but could never hurt.

Neal nodded unsurely. I suppose it was a weird approach when the way he had asked had already given me the information clearly that he knew the effect that the name had.

"Who hasn't?" He asked rhetorically.

I chuckled. That didn't help. That was the entire point of it being a secret – a secret which I was giving away, sharing with another person whom I trusted, and I needed to do it eventually because a relationship was always a test of trust and reliability, dependability. Neal…. Neal was stable and trustworthy. I could have him. The world wasn't going to smack my wrists with a ruler. It had already done that when I'd pushed him away; it had led to him stealing paintings and keeping secrets.

"Well…" I looked past him and to the traffic, checking around. No Quinn, no Keller, no Fowler… no Moz, even. Mozzie usually brought minimal stress, sometimes the enjoyable kind, but while being in public made me feel somewhat shielded, being in known company made part of me shrink back. "Look, you and Moz are the only people on my team that don't already know, but if you tell Mozzie he's probably going to go back to quoting Chinese proverbs and making references to _Great Expectations._ "

Much as I sometimes told myself I missed the times when Mozzie had a little more respect for my career, I think reverting back to that coolness and lack of trust and communication would only hurt, especially with so many big things coming up, like Fowler. I owed him a lot, and didn't want our relationship to devolve.

"What is it?" Neal looked alarmed by that Mozzie would've had a negative reaction. I second-guessed and looked away, shaking my head. Mozzie was Neal's best friend. Neal would tell him everything. Neal reached for my shoulders, turned me to him, lifted up my chin and cradled my head in his hands. "Kenna, hey, hey, you can tell me." He promised, nodding to encourage me. "It's okay. Unless it threatens Moz, I won't tell him without the green light from you."

Covering his hands with mine, I could feel my fingertips against my face, but mostly I was touching his hands – his fingers, his knuckles, the backs of his hands, hot and grounding. His eyes, such a gorgeous blue like bright sapphire pools, were open and persuasive and kind. Free of judgment, free of cruelty.

The truthfulness was something I couldn't help but accept, so I braced myself to confess by pressing his hands tighter to my face. "Remember when I told you that Kate may have run away on her own, and how I was glad my family didn't look for me when I ditched?" I asked, wincing, knowing there was no way he would've let that go.

 _"_ _It makes you wonder, right? Is she lost_ _ **to**_ _me?_ _ **Without**_ _me? … Look, I just need a couple of days after this Dutchman thing is over to go to San Diego. You can send an agent with me._ _ **You**_ _can come with me-"_

_"_ _Shut up! Shut up, stop it! How many times are you going to screw yourself over for her?! … I am so sorry. She left you when you were in prison. She skipped town before you got out. She changed her name and erased her tracks. I do not know how to find her, and I can't let you go to San Diego. I know it's scary, and I know it hurts, but I also know that maybe she's running because she needs to run, because that's what I did. And if someone had followed me-"_

_"_ _Who were you running from?"_

_"_ _I met my Kate, made a new life, and God, I wish I had my old life some days, but I am_ _ **so, so**_ _glad that they didn't chase me. I am so much better here than I ever could have been if I'd stayed."_

I missed those days when I had been so sure that my decisions were the right ones, that I was in control of myself and my life, because now I felt like things were spinning out of control and I was just holding on, and the only decisions I could truly make only amounted to when and how long and how loud to scream.

"Yeah," Neal nodded, stroking his thumbs over my jaw, pressing his fingers lightly into my temples, rubbing in small circles. I let my eyes flutter shut for just a second. "It was right after you got me out of prison."

"Well," I paused. "I ran away from my family." _Like Kate ran from you but please don't compare me to her, I'm not her, I didn't run because of some corrupt cop or because I wanted something from someone I claimed to love._ Neal's face was careful to conceal any initial, knee-jerk reaction. "My very important… very large… very _influential_ family. And I changed my name to Anderson." _Like you changed your name to Caffrey._ "Originally, my last name was LaMontagne."

It felt like I'd been struck down to the ground at a flying tackle, or hit the ground from a three-story drop. I'd gone far too long without every saying that; without ever introducing myself as a LaMontagne and meant it as anything more than a convenient way to get entry or information.

The wheels spun in his head. "There wasn't a…" he started to say, eyebrows brought down in thought, a soft frown on his face. I swallowed nervously and lightened the pressure on his hands. He could stop touching me if he wanted. Feeling that, Neal held my cheeks tighter and locked our eyes.

_"_ _Zarra."_

A spike of shock shot up my back and I shuddered. Hearing my given name from his lips for the first time ever… and because of who it was, who _he_ was, it woke up a little girl who would rub her wrist and color all of the wings of the birds in the coloring books with the colors of her soulmark, and she looked at Neal's face for the first time and giggled and threw her arms around his neck, because here was someone who would pay attention to her, teach her, stay with her, hold her and stay up late and get into trouble with her, who would _love_ her like Snow White's Prince Charming.

I couldn't nod, but I bit my lip and begged him to say my – her – our name again.

"You were Zarra LaMontagne," Neal whispered in marvel.

I nodded and squeezed my eyes shut, the world rocking as something hit, and then the calamity of McKenna subsided. McKenna may be conflicted, but I wasn't just McKenna. The other me, Zarra… Zarra had never been attacked in her home, had never been afraid of her soulmate being violent or scary or mean, had never had an addiction to living life in the most life-risking way possible. Zarra just knew she loved Katie and wanted Neal and everything else would fall into place. She also knew that there was a lot of her that was missing, stolen away and molded into someone else.

Zarra had a lot of problems of her own, but they weren't as frustrating or turbulent as McKenna's.

"You're from the French family?" Neal looked like his world had been flipped, and he laughed, anxious and a little overwhelmed, not knowing how to handle it. He picked up one hand, ran his fingers down my face, placed it back where it had been like it was never a means of pulling away, just of getting closer. "What are you doing _here,_ as an FBI agent in America? Living in a residential neighborhood with other people and mediocre internet service?"

I half laughed and half sobbed, tried to turn my head down to look away. "I ran away and refused to take more than the money I needed," I cried to him, holding back the tears, letting my hands roam past his, down his wrists, up his arms and to his shoulders, holding onto him, not just asking him to hold onto me. "I changed my name, met Katie, joined the bureau, and later on, we moved to New York and I joined the FBI.

"I didn't want the politics or the wealth, and that was what my parents wanted for me." I shut my eyes, feeling moisture run down my face. I ran from what Neal wanted. How was he supposed to still want someone who would turn away what he spent years looking for? "We couldn't agree, so I left, more or less amicably… they know how to find me."

Neal was silent but for his breathing, and then he rubbed the tears away with just his thumbs. "Unbelievable," he decided, taking away the evidence of my conflicts and my clashing and merging personalities.

I opened my eyes. That wasn't supportive. Part of me was insulted I'd opened up to him and gotten that as a response… but then I saw that he was smiling with adoration, his eyes bright, lifted at the corners, his mouth in a gentle and loving smile. "What, that I changed my name?" I asked, pouting with my lip trembling. "Because that's hypocritical."

"No, not that." He leaned forwards and, even though we were in public, he kissed my forehead and then pulled me forwards to his chest. If it ever came up, I would lie, say I was shaken and Neal was just being comforting because we'd run into Keller and he'd threatened me. No one would be surprised; Keller was a douche.

I sniffed and rested my forehead against his neck. Neal encircled me in his arms and pillowed his chin on the top of my head, settling over the tightly-pulled strands leading to my fishtail braid. "It's that people can spend their entire lives struggling to get rich," he explained, tightly holding me. If I had tried to get loose, I doubted he would've let me until he'd finished. He wanted me to hear. I wanted to listen to someone else tell me I was okay. "And some of them go to prison." _Like me,_ he might as well have said. "You did the opposite. And it's not like you don't enjoy luxuries, because I know you're a little jealous of the penthouse."

Teasingly, he made me giggle, made my laughter flood over my lips without warning, jabbing his fingers into my side and tickling.

"I love luxury," I laughed, cuddling up to his chest and ignoring all the people passing by, the stray animals, the traffic, the life and rowdiness of the city, because the only life signs I cared about were those of my beautiful Neal, who wasn't mad, who wasn't upset… "But I feel a lot better earning rewards than having them handed to me because of my name." I turned my face to that my mouth was against his collar. "It's a complicated situation, and not one I really like to talk about," I said, muffled by his clothes. "…Is it a problem for you?" I timidly ventured. I was telling him I didn't want to talk about myself – about who I used to be. That could be mistaken for meaning a lot of things that it didn't.

He squeezed me. I hunched my shoulders forward so that he could make the space he held me in smaller, tightening his arms.

"No… no, like you said, we've both got secret pasts." He cupped the back of my head, since my hair was braided and harder to take hold of, and he looked down. I looked up shyly. "I care about McKenna Anderson," he declared strongly, not a hint of doubt or deceit in his voice or face. I wrung my hands while he stayed positioned to sweep me up into his chest again, cover me from the world while I cried. "I don't need to know more about Zarra LaMontagne than you want me to know. You want me for who I am now, and that's exactly the way I want you, and nothing else matters."

 _Except your deal, except Fowler, except Kate Moreau, except the soulmark on your back that you treasure but don't realize I share._ He never objected to having that area of his body touched, which boded well for me because I had a habit of touching his soulmark without thinking, and I didn't know why he assumed I did that but luckily, he didn't seem to have the real reason in his head.

"Nothing except the music box, you mean," I whispered, half Zarra and half McKenna in that moment. I was McKenna in the trepidation and the insecurity, and Zarra in the stubbornness and awe of the fairytale-like plot. I could tell them apart sometimes. After all, Zarra had existed long before McKenna, but McKenna had never existed without Zarra.

His face shadowed quickly and gloomily. "Nothing except the music box," he agreed. On one hand, I regretted bringing that up. On the other, it was good to know where we stood… _nothing else matters but the music box._ I was too scared to ask which ranked higher.

* * *

I glanced up when I heard someone coming in and checked my reflection in my desktop monitor. I was on my laptop, so my work computer was still in its sleeping mode. In the black screen, my face looked normal, not like I'd been crying over… well, I wasn't even sure what the catalyst was anymore for my fit in the middle of Manhattan, but I was relieved I'd had Neal to soothe me through it. The important part was that I was back to being myself, I didn't feel like I'd love to have a murder weapon aimed at me just for the excitement, and Zarra, while as much a part of my life as ever, was not my main focus.

"Oh, no," I exclaimed dejectedly as Hughes came in once he saw me looking up. He'd always been pretty good about respecting my privacy, within the limits of the office. As my supervisor, he had the right to come in, but he had always tried to be sensitive to what happened last time my privacy had been breached and I'd gotten a knife to the abdomen.

Hughes scowled at me, his initially calm and impassive face taking on a mean look. "Why is that always the greeting I get when I come to say hello?" He barked. I didn't want to say _complained,_ because… Hughes didn't really come across as a whiny man… but he was definitely doing a little bit of that, too.

I blinked, then decided to excuse it with one word. "Reflex." I brightened up, put my elbows on the desk, and fluttered my eyelashes jokingly. "Since you're complaining, does that mean you actually have good news?" I hopefully asked.

"No," Hughes said sternly, looking me dead in the eyes.

Although I wasn't shocked he didn't play along, I was still a little disappointed. He could've let me have my fun. "Well, then, that's why, sir," I explained sassily.

"I've contacted the auction house." That was my cue that Hughes was done with my crazy antics for the day. Appropriately, I sobered up. Hughes wasn't one of the people I wanted to push the buttons of. "Unluckily for us, they're closed down to new entries." My boss informed me solemnly.

"Closed," I repeated, shoulders falling. I massaged my temples. "As in, we can't submit our forgery?"

The division chief shook his head with a frown. "Sorry, Anderson," he said empathetically. "I know you like the less morally clear ones." I scowled at him good naturedly. Just because it was common knowledge didn't mean it was nice to point out. "Now, do us all a favor, quit with the fools' errands, and catch this guy."

Hughes squinted at my face as if he suspected something. I gave him a big, faux smile. Suspiciously, he was slow to turn around and leave. Once he was gone, I about crumpled down onto the desk. Didn't he realize that this so-called fools' errand was the best chance we had at catching Keller?

Sounded like I wasn't the only one who was keen on getting the bastard in his new, federally-funded home.

* * *

"You've outdone yourself, Moz!" Neal praised, enthusiastic enough for me to hear through the door. Then he raised his voice and, in response to my knock and call, yelled, "Let yourself in, Kenna!"

I put down my messenger bag and opened the door, propping it with my foot and coming inside. It closed on its own, which was helpful as the hand not holding up my bag was carrying a white paper sack from an Italian takeaway café with stuffed crème cannoli and dairy-free panna cotta. I'd gone out of my way to find a restaurant with the latter.

"I brought desserts and bad news," I announced, giving them warning that there was something unfortunate happening, and shameless that I was making it an easier process with sweets. "Which do you want first?"

Neal looked fresh out of the shower, in grey sweatpants with his hair ruffled and fluffy after being towel dried. Mozzie, on the other hand, looked like what he _really_ needed was a chance to go bathe and sleep for about twelve hours. The poor guy had been spending all of his time working on this project that was being cancelled. Even if it was a totally legal thing and neither of them had anything personal against Keller, I'd still feel like I'd let them down. Hence, I was feeding them.

Mozzie perked up excitedly. "Can we have them simultaneously? And did you get the-"

"Sure, whatever works," I said, cutting him off. If eating while he heard my report from Hughes kept him from whining while his mouth was full, then I'd count it a victory. "And yes, I remembered, lactose-free, Moz. Neal, cannoli or panna cotta, your choice. Mozzie, you don't get a choice. Crème has dairy."

I set the bag on the table a few feet away from what looked like an average bottle of wine, nothing special. Mozzie had the magnifying attachment on his glasses, but had made it extra hardcore by adding on a _second_ magnifier. He had a pick like a dentist's, sharp tweezers, a needle-sharp razor, a lighter, and several other seemingly random tools laid out on a sculpting mat in front of him, and the bright lamp was seated by the side of his chair, although had been turned off.

Both boys went to dig in ravenously, eliminating the paper sack they came in. Mozzie took out vanilla panna cotta in the dish with freshly-sliced strawberries and the plastic silverware that came with it. Neal took out some wrapped-up, formerly-hot cannolis with melted chocolate drizzled over the pastry. I gave my messenger bag a safe home in the corner of the couch before going back to them and taking out some panna cotta for myself, same as Mozzie's. Cannoli just sounded too sweet. I stabbed the wrapped-up spoon on the table, ripped the plastic over the end, and then bit on the spoon to drag the plastic off of it savagely.

Neal and Mozzie both made happy sounds of appreciation. Neal was the first to remember his manners, not that I had particularly cared, and swallowed and grinned at me, chocolate on his upper lip, and said, "Thank you, Kenna!"

"Yeah, thanks, Suit," Mozzie piped up.

"You're welcome," I responded, then crooked my fingers at Neal, holding my dish in the other hand. Neal leaned in with raised eyebrows in question. I kissed him quickly, smearing chocolate on my lips, and licked it off of his.

Mozzie made a disgusted yelp like he'd walked in on us doing it on the table. _God, he acts like an eight-year-old sometimes._

I went back to my panna cotta, licking the aftertaste of chocolate off of my lips and mixing it with strawberry. "Okay, bad news." While we all ate dessert seemed like a good time. They were preoccupied, at least. "The auction house has made themselves closed to any and all new entries. I don't know why, I don't know if this is a usual procedure, but Cattigan is adamant that it's going to remain that way, which means that although it's pretty awesome you managed to put this together, the plug's been pulled. If you try to submit a bottle we all know you counterfeited, you'll actually be arrested for it."

I stuck another spoonful in my mouth and waited for the inevitable protests. I didn't have to wait long, though it could have been taken worse.

"If we don't submit it, they won't run the cesium test," Neal reminded me as if I'd forgotten, rocking back and leaning on the table. _You know, if nothing else, at least all this stress had derailed my libido,_ I considered, looking for an upside. _Because I've been in the same room as him shirtless for almost five minutes now and I haven't had a single inappropriate thought._ All I needed were some wings and a headband with a halo attached. I was practically an angel. "Keller will get away with a half million dollars."

Mozzie threw his arm up and waved his hand around, spoon still in his mouth. Cheeks bulging, he talked around his silverware and dessert. "'n'l'ss it s'lls f'r more!"

I surveyed him with a truly patented look of a civilized human being observing a Neanderthal that miraculously survived into the modern world. "Mozzie." I said, simplifying my sentences so that the lesser mammal could understand. "Eat. Then talk."

Mozzie scowled at me and fake laughed crudely. Neal sighed on my other side.

"He'll probably get out on murder if he gets out on forgery!" Mozzie declared, brandishing his spoon.

"But think about it," I wearily urged. Putting aside all of the anger and vindictiveness that Keller had managed to raise within me, I could see how it wasn't the most foolproof plan. For that matter, it wasn't the safest for either of them in the event that another agent looked into it too closely. "What if he wins? No, even worse, what if you submit it and yours passes without them getting to the cesium test? What then?" Admit it was a forgery? Go through with the auction and break at least two laws in the process that weren't already approved by the bureau? "Keller won't back down. He's the kind of psycho that needs to have the last word."

Mozzie and Neal both looked at each other while I scooped up a strawberry piece, looking down at my bowl. Mozzie was in disagreement, but Neal had, as far as I could tell, kept his promise – Moz had no idea that Zarra LaMontagne had brought him dessert. That was how I wanted it to stay. Not because I distrusted Mozzie – even if I did, knowing that couldn't get me in any trouble – but just because it was a personal thing, and I wanted our relationship to be organic, my trust in him and vice versa earned, not forced because it had happened to come up between Neal and I, with whom I shared a very different relationship.

"That's why we need to stop him. No offense, but your team… hasn't." Mozzie did seem truly regretful to have to say that out loud, which I appreciated. The difference between other cases, when he was happy to dig at me for the bureau's slow approaches and limited success, and this one was that Keller was like the killers I used to take on, and he knew that while Matthew in particular hit close to Neal, it was also very reminiscent of my past.

"Yes, I noticed," I promised, not taking offense. I got what he meant.

Neal finished his cannoli and wiped his fingers on a napkin that came in the bag. "So what do you want us to do?" Hands clean, he dabbed at his mouth and trashed the napkin, leaning his hip against the counter island. "Look for another way to prove it? Keep working on this?" He gestured to the bottle.

I scraped the bottom of my bowl with my silverware and had already run out of strawberry slices. Turning my head, I looked at the bottle contemplatively while I chewed on the spoon, careful not to bite too hard and crack the plastic. If it was good enough to warrant loud praise from Neal, then my inexperience and un-artistic view aside, it must be more than passable. After the trouble we went through to get the wax, even I would've hated to see it shelved or ridden of.

"I want him out as much as you do," I said uncomfortably, tossing my fringe back. "Tell you what; you keep finishing that up." I waved at it vaguely. "I mean, I'll pretend like it's art," I said optimistically, only to be faced with two men who looked like I'd just gravely insulted them and done it on purpose. "I mean legally," I explained hurriedly. Of course it was a form of art, even though it wasn't traditional. That wasn't what I'd meant. I may not approve of their hobbies, but I'd never discredit the effort of creativity that goes into them. "It's okay to make copies as long as you don't advertise it as the real deal. So having a copy in your premises is okay."

Neal understood almost immediately and relaxed his hackles. Mozzie was still shooting me distrustful daggers, but I was about seventy percent sure he was doing it more for effect and resilience than because he was still personally affronted.

"While you work on that, I'll try to look for a way to force Cattigan's hand, with or without a second bottle to challenge the authenticity." I could tell a long night was coming up. Flipping Mozzie off preemptively, I touched Neal's shoulder to keep him still and kissed him goodbye.

 _Would it be juvenile to feel his abs?_ I considered while chastely keeping my tongue to myself. Just because I had few reservations about kissing in company didn't mean I didn't have some morals, and I respected that Mozzie didn't want to see his friends in that light. If we'd been alone I probably would've felt him up. Almost definitely. And I would've been making out, not just kissing cutely. _… Not juvenile, just inappropriate. … So I shouldn't do it._

Exercising my self-control, I broke away from him, smiled, kissed the side of his jaw, and rubbed the back of my neck. "You guys can keep the rest of the sweets," I told them both uncaringly. It wasn't something I'd have minded, they were just a few orders of desserts, but I almost cringed when I realized that now it might be occurring to Neal that it really didn't matter to me, since I belonged to a filthy rich family anyway, and five to ten dollars wasn't going to hurt me.

"Where are you going now?" Mozzie complained about me leaving. _First you complain about my bosses, then my PDA, now my obligations that lie in other locations. You're just never happy._ "We were having a strategizing moment!"

Instead of going for my bag on the couch, like it must've seemed like I'd do, I went for Neal's bedroom. Over my shoulder, I replied, "Neal promised me a comfortable shirt, and I want out of this dress!" I'd just take his shirt home with me. On my body. And then wear it for a while. Maybe sleep in it. Who knew.

* * *

I had the reports right out in front of me, printed from the machine about an hour ago, thumbing the edge of the page and crinkling it between my fingers, but not quite ready to switch it over. The numbers were written with the usual Arabic system, but everything else was in French, which was just an aspect of it. My brain switched into that language easily and I mouthed along with the words exhaustedly, trying to keep up.

"Morning, babe," Derek said, startling me into looking up with big eyes. He laughed at my expression. "Coffee?" He offered, holding out one hand. Both held coffee cups, but one was evidently his own.

 _"_ _Comment est-ce que-_ " I started, but then frowned, pressed my tongue against the inside of my cheek, and tried again, pushing away the French transcripts and reverting back to a language Derek would understand. "How'd you know?"

He took it as permission to enter and came in carrying his precious load of caffeine. My hands were greedily reaching for it before he was even five feet away. Derek gave it to me instead of fighting over how long it got to stay on the desk before it was transferred to my stomach, and I brought it up to my chest, the heat radiating into my hands and rising to my face.

"Remember when you heard your phone ring and it startled your hand into slipping and your face fell into the desk?" Derek asked nonchalantly, putting his coffee down on my desk, dragging a chair over, and sitting to my right.

I blushed. "You saw that?"

"Oh, yes, I did," he chuckled, smirking wickedly. I sighed and just had to be glad that he didn't have pictures of it. It wasn't like I hadn't seen him look like a fool at times, too. "Have a late one last night?"

"Yeah, but not in the way you think," I led him away from that path before he could even take that option from the fork.

Derek looked at the transcripts, turning his head to look at them as straight-on as possible. The French went over his head. Sometimes I forgot that not everyone was fortunate enough to have been raised bilingually, so it was entertaining to see people like Derek get so knocked off guard just by some writing in a foreign language. I tried to look at it like the languages I had to study more as I grew up. When I was ten, I'd still been using a first-grader's Spanish vocabulary, despite being skilled for my age with French and English. I could see how the words could seem shocking from that angle, especially with the intimidating accents.

I pointed to the top and pressed my fingernail against the beginning of the heading. " _Comptabilité par année,"_ I read, exaggerating the pronunciation so he could hear it clearly and closely. "Stock records by year."

Derek nodded, seeing the more commonly known names of some French liquors on the list. "You're still working on this thing? There's nothing on the auction house." _And there won't_ _ **be**_ _anything with that attitude."_ "Weatherby's looks pretty damn legit." He paused and chuckled. "It's a pain in the ass when businesses don't have skeletons."

I chose to ignore that he was convinced. Cattigan had to have something ugly in his business', if not his own, past. Everyone did, even me. "I need to find it," I insistently kept pouring over the papers, starting over at the beginning now that I was woken up by conversation. "There has to be something in here that I can use to threaten – um, I mean, _persuade_ Cattigan with." I fit myself with an appropriately guilty look.

Derek looked at me closely. "Keller's really getting to you, isn't he?" He asked, something warning and another thing concerned in his voice. He probably thought I was putting too much stock on just getting Keller behind bars, but it wasn't just that.

It wasn't just Keller getting to me – it was what I was doing to myself while he was around. Most killers brought out the best in me; my morality, my ethics, my endurance, and the side of me that sought justice for others without bias affecting how effectively I performed my duty. Keller, though – maybe it was how he treated me like I wasn't a cop, or his history with my boyfriend, or how long it had been since I was taken out of that environment which I had been slowly acclimatized to, but he did the opposite. I was losing sight of Campos' inexcusable murder because I wanted to hit Keller in the face for things he said to me or Neal. He made me want to do what it took to get another hit of the addictive rush, which had never seemed so innately _necessary_ until I didn't have it anymore and Keller offered it on a silver platter.

I lowered my voice into a whisper. "I want to sneak into his hotel room and cover the floor in Legos so that when he gets up, he steps on Legos."

Derek gasped, covering his mouth and shrinking back away from me with staged terror. "Satan," he whispered, abhorred.

We both stared at each other, me completely serious and him looking like a mouse being stared at by a cat, and then we both broke character to laugh tiredly, leaning towards each other. I set my head on his shoulder for a few seconds and he bumped my arm with his elbow. I made another reach for my coffee and sat up straight, turning the page on the inventory.

"Satan accepts your ritual sacrifice of the Starbucks cup," I declared in a rougher voice, holding up my cup over our heads like an offering. "And Satan chooses to reward you with good news." I scratched my fingernail down the page to a few lines in particular.

"Are the hellhounds house trained in Hell?" Derek asked optimistically.

"No… Well, maybe, I dunno… but nineteen forty-seven was a bad year for the vineyards in France." I tapped over the word ' _cinq_ ' on the page, smirking with evil delight and leaning back as though my chair was a throne.

Derek looked at it, then back at me, not able to read the rest of the context. "How is that good news for me?"

"I might have skipped right past this if you hadn't woken me up," I explained cheerfully, taking another long sip of macchiato with extra caramel, espresso, and whipped cream. "Praise the coffee Gods!"

* * *

The auction started at ten, so we had plenty of time to get there. Neal and I accompanied each other, holding each other's arms with my hand on the inside of his elbow like his date so that we didn't stand out. I was one of the only women wearing a suit, but I was alright with that. I had gotten used to it; as Zarra, I'd rebelled against the conventions of wearing skirts and dresses.

The open hall had a podium at the front with a microphone attached. A spokesperson in his early forties with thick black hair and shining silver glasses was running the room with Cattigan standing to the left, overseeing the event. Both betters and brokers were in the dozen rows of seats (divided into three sections – two aisles and the sides of the room) and standing against the wall. Neal and I were one of the latter couples, hovering by the door to step out.

"Forty thousand dollars?" Animatedly, the auctioneer jumped around on the balls of feet, agile like a soccer player. He threw his hand out, pointing at a sign raised in the audience. Some seats were empty and the auction wasn't exactly cluttered, but they had a more than decent turn up. "Forty-five thousand dollars, thank you very much, fifty thousand, thank you sir. Fifty thousand dollars with the gentleman on my right. Fifty thousand- fifty-five thousand dollars, fifty-five _thousand_ dollars with the lady in the back, fifty-five thousand dollars."

I had forgotten why I hated auctions so much when the crowds were relatively calm, but now I remembered why.

"Fifty-five thousa- _sixty_ thousand dollars, thank you sir, sixty thousand dollars. I have it at sixty- _five_ thousand dollars!"

I pulled on Neal's elbow to get him to look to his left at me. "This looks like a few hedge fund guys and hotshots from Europe and the West Coast, but I'm not seeing any psychopaths in suits," I whispered, getting a rude look from a trio in one of the rows closest to us. I took out my badge from my pocket and shoved it in their direction and they went back to minding their own business.

Neal's arm tensed. I could feel the tightening of his muscles, even though it was subtle and visibly unnoticeable through his jacket sleeve. "Keller wouldn't miss the chance to see my face when this goes down. He must be watching from somewhere."

"But somewhere could also mean _anywhere._ " With a little bit of effort, I worked my wrist out from between his arm and his side and instead covered the small of his back with my hand, fingers splayed wide. If Keller _was_ spying on us from somewhere, he was going to see that Neal was under _my_ protection, so good fucking luck getting to him.

"No," Neal secretly whispered back shook his head, standing up straighter as he felt my hand. "He'll want to be nearby, just in case anything goes wrong."

"That doesn't rule out enough to do a quick search." I tightened my other hand into a fist around my badge. All I wanted was for this to be over and Keller to be in custody. Was that really so much to ask?

Both of us kept watching the proceedings as the auctioneer coerced the price higher and higher, talking fast and loud. It would've been easy to accidentally volunteer to pay more than you had or were willing to blow on some alcohol that wasn't going to get you any drunker than a case from the store. In their own way, the audience was fanatic, fanning themselves and sitting on the edges of their seats, paying rapt attention.

It was like I'd joined the chess club and they celebrated by grinning and snapping their fingers instead of standing up and yelling like normal people.

Neal turned to me, angling his body away from the doors, lowering his head to speak quieter. "Do you think we can get into the auction?" He asked. I had to work to hear. "We intervene and he'll know for sure something's going on. He thinks he's got it in the bag." Even Neal sounded pissed at Keller.

I looked up at him serenely. "Thank you for asking," I politely expressed my gratitude. "I _do_ have a certain trick that you might appreciate, and I got it with no help of any alleged criminals."

It was nice to feel like I was finding my own breaks in my own cases once in a while.

* * *

I felt like a proud parent, standing with my hand clasped in Neal's while we presented the forged Franklin bottle, courtesy of some reproductive (piece-gathering) work from Neal and I and some surrogate parentage (creation) by Mozzie. It measured up to the other photograph from Keller's bottle identically.

"I'm sorry," Cattigan sighed, taking his glasses off and wiping the fog with his vest. _He should really get a glasses cloth for that._ "I simply _cannot_ submit your bottle, since clearly it has to be counterfeit."

Neal did a good job at looking personally insulted, like the manager had just attacked his honor as a taxpaying citizen. _Wouldn't that have been rich?_ I cocked my head and looked at the ceiling, pursing my lips. That assumption was based on Keller's submission being the genuine article, and if both were completely identical to the naked eye, then there was very obviously a balance of probability. I looked behind us. Keller's broker, Quinn, seemed less than thrilled that her supposed potential client was actually on someone else's side, but even she looked confused by Cattigan's logic.

"Mm, you weren't very good at statistics, were you?" I commended, unable to stop being a little bit snarky.

" _One_ of them has to be," Neal readily admitted, but then he motioned grandly to the one we were offering. I blinked charmingly and smiled, lipstick and eyeshadow and all. I was fitting the part of someone who might actually own that, which meant forsaking the general avoidance of boldly-colored cosmetics. "How are you so sure it's not yours?" He countered, taking care not to let on that we knew exactly who actually put the other up for auction.

"We have reason to believe that ours is the real one." I declared, doing my best to seem haughty and pompous. FBI agent or not, I was entitled to be as self-righteous as I wanted while I was trying act that way to catch a serial killer.

Cattigan glared at me. Yeah, the two of us were never going to get along. I was really proud of myself for having a means of getting what I wanted out of him, even if it was mean. Ethically, he deserved it. "Where did you get it?" He asked me testily, looking for a way to discredit it.

"Not at liberty to disclose to anyone outside the bureau," I said breezily with a smirk. It sounded better than _miscellaneous components gathered from various locations by expert counterfeiters._ "You get how it is."

"I won't admit it to the auction," he refused stubbornly, which was really dishonest to his clientele. If there was the possibility that Keller's was a forgery, then he was refusing to test to see which was the real deal, possibly letting his clients at the auction pay a _lot_ of money for something that wasn't even real.

 _As if I hadn't already had enough of a reason to dislike him._ Taking the opportunity to get under his skin, I sang, "I bet I can change your mind!"

He sighed, rolling his eyes and observing me like a cute but dumb animal. "Your persistence is laudable," he dryly commended. "Someday it might get you places." While he pushed his glasses onto his face again, he cleared his throat. "But not here, and certainly not today."

My hand was pulled out of Neal's and clasped with the other behind my back. I smiled invitingly up to my consultant. "Neal, you wanna take this one?" I offered in the spirit of fairness.

Neal shook his head and smiled reassuringly at Cattigan. "Nah, I think I'll let you have the moment, since I've been having all the fun so far." It was good to know that he considered breaking into a wine cellar _fun_ because it meant he was more easily entertained than I thought.

Far be it from me to pass up a chance to make someone sweat, though. I leaned over Cattigan's desk with a cock of my head. "Six magnums of Château la Fleur were sold at last year's auction," I informed him, since I doubted the numbers stuck in his head for that long. I wouldn't have paid enough attention to recite them regularly afterwards. "Each sold for within five hundred of fifteen _thousand._ "

Cattigan nodded with a rigidity that made it look like he had a crick in his neck. "Public records."

"You know what else is public record?" I asked, then answered. "The vineyard's productions." Neal winced sympathetically while the manager's eyes widened, nostrils flaring and breath pausing. I swear he stopped inhaling. I grinned at the reaction. "I gave them a call and they were very happy to explain with complete certainty that they only produced _five_ magnums for the year your six were supposedly made in. I don't know if that was an intentional scam on your part or not, but it would _ruin_ your reputability if anyone else found out, and what a shame that would be.

"Now, you can do your job accurately and make sure you're not selling a forgery, or I can casually say what I just told you again. Louder." I pointed over my shoulder to the door of the office where Quinn was hovering. "Out where the people are."

Neal chuckled. "Nice one."

We high-fived.

The man had paled. The potential repercussions of his failure to double-check the legitimacy of all claims would sink his business, and he could say goodbye to that insurance policy on his fancy, posh palate or whatever he'd said a couple of days ago. "It would take at least three hours," he said with a shake in the hand that was above the table. "The auction-"

"Can wait three hours," Quinn intervened smoothly. Neal and I stepped apart and turned to look at her. The blonde stood confidently by the doors, but was glaring at Neal. "My client welcomes the challenge." Keller had possibly told her that Neal was a forger or some other story to turn her against him. Or it could have just been that she felt betrayed that this potential colleague had just been sizing up her stock.

I let my coworker handle that one. Neal hummed and his lips curled sardonically. "I kind of figured he might," the conman told Quinn.

I clapped my hands as I looked back at Cattigan, who was sitting back looking like he'd just witnessed a tornado sweep through his office. One day when I died, I'd go to hell for not just causing that face, but for absolutely, shamelessly loving it.

"Oh, and, um, while we wait for those fun tests to be run, why don't you make yourself useful and send the FBI the IP addresses of everyone who's watching the show online?" I ordered, surprising Quinn with the bombshell of my career and bending my knees, bouncing excitedly. Things were finally starting to turn up.

* * *

 _"_ _How's it going on your end?"_ Diana asked me.

I covered my other ear with my free hand, sitting crouched down on the steps to the second floor of Weatherby's outside the auction. The last over three hours had been uneventful. I'd taken Neal out to lunch at a nearby restaurant, but even taking our time, we'd still had another two hours to stand around, talk, and speculate. I eventually started trying to play Sudoku on my phone while Neal (un)helpfully played over my shoulder. Technically, I could have told her that Neal was great at Sudoku and it was really pissing me off, but I knew that wasn't what she meant.

_Still…_

"Neal's great at Sudoku and it's really pissing me off," I vented quickly and then skipped onwards before I would be questioned about that one. "They're on the last test now, checking the cesium contents in the bottles."

Diana whooped. _"Congrats!"_ I could picture her grinning, sweeping her hair out of her face after celebrating with a fist-pump. _"Hughes didn't think you could get in."_

"Don't cross me, I can be scary," I joked. I'd have to elaborate on my convincing later, and outside of the bureau… or not. I'd just report it to Hughes in my statement and he would decide who to forward it to to see about pressing charges for fraudulent representation. "What have you got on the IP addresses of the online viewers?"

Diana flipped the switch into full business, her voice as well as her words turning professional and on topic. _"There are three locations: the Carlisle, the peninsula, and a parking garage."_

I rocked my knees side to side, rolling my hips out of boredom. Holding my phone between my cheek and shoulder, I freed up my hands and started picking at my cuticles where I should have my acrylics filed, filled in, and repainted. "Keller likes the best, but the hotel's too obvious," I mused, more to myself than to her. I hushed my voice so anyone coming down the stairs behind me wasn't privy to FBI information. "The peninsula isn't close enough." If something went wrong and Keller needed to do damage control in person, he'd have that accounted for.

Diana scoffed. _"Who would watch from a parking garage?"_ She criticized.

That would've been my point. I licked my dry lips and wished I'd thought to bring chapstick, not just lipstick. "Someone in a car who wants to be able to move quickly if he's found," I advised. I found that parking garages were usually pretty good bets for this sort of thing. Maybe Keller wasn't as smart as he thought. Or maybe it was a bluff. Or a double-bluff. Damn it, he was getting into my head. "Still, could be a misdirect… but I don't think so. Send a couple cars to the Carlisle, but bulk up security on the garage."

The heavy door to the auction room was pushed open from the inside. I looked up and sat normally before I was caught acting childishly. Light and sound both flooded out, the noises of voices layered over and under one another as people mixed to kill time hard to discern but far louder than it had any right to be. Neal looked around before his eyes found me at a lower height than usual.

"Hey, they're about to announce the results of the test," he said, the implied invitation there. I stretched my arms in front of me, palms out and fingers locked, to pop my knuckles. Neal grimaced at the noise. I smirked and did it some more.

"I've got to go," I said to my agent, leaving her as kindly as possible on such an abrupt note. "Call me the moment you find something at either place. Thanks, Diana." She said a quick confirmation and then hung up first. My phone disconnected and I checked the screen. It really had ended the call. I pushed it into my pocket. Neal held out his arms. I pushed myself back onto my feet, reached for his hands, and hopped down from the third step, landing in front of him and close to his body. "We think we know where Keller is."

Anticipating the results of the tests, Neal gave me an excited yet apprehensive smile and dropped my hands, holding out his arm instead. "Sounds like a checkmate to me," he decided brightly.

It was moments like these that made it so hard to work with my CI while he was simultaneously my boyfriend, because I really wanted to give him a kiss. _If only we were deeper undercover in false aliases where it wouldn't look out of place._

Arm in arm, we headed back in. The noise levels had been significantly reduced since Neal came out as the audience calmed and took their seats again, some of them less sober than they'd been when the auction started. Although we hadn't had any reason to pay attention, the auction had gone on. Cattigan had just changed the order in which the bottles were all presented and made the brief announcement why the program was inaccurate.

We took seats in red velvet chairs by the inner aisle, easily within a few seconds' sprint to the door and out of the way from the more enthusiastic participants and a few spaces away from anyone else who might be distracted by our talking. Cattigan stepped up onto the block behind the podium to stand tall enough behind it. The auctioneer went to the water dispenser and poured himself a drink to soothe his throat from going for so long.

Cattigan unnecessarily waited for everyone's attention. "Thank you again for your patience," he started with off the bat, making a preface that no one wanted.

Undercover or not, I wriggled my arm enough so that Neal let go, and then I rotated my wrist to catch his hand, sliding my fingers through his. He _was_ about to be discounted as a forger, after all. At least this time he wasn't going to be given four years in prison for it, but having it come into the open again – well, four years in prison wasn't as easy to shake as he made it look, and I squeezed his hand. This wasn't the same situation. He might look bad, but he didn't have anything to worry about and we knew that going in.

"We apologize for the delay." Someone coughed. Cattigan twitched. "As some of you are aware, we have had to conduct a cesium test to verify the authenticity of the two bottles we have been presented with."

Holding the test results ceremoniously over the podium, he ripped open the envelope for the first time, breaking the seal. Someone nervously giggled, and it wasn't a female. Neal and I already knew how it was going to go down, but being forced to wait through all the niceties was getting on my nerves.

Cattigan read it again silently and his face lightened as if affirming something. "The test shows," he announced, with a grand, dramatic hesitation, "That one of the bottles is a forgery."

I uncrossed my legs. "Only one?" I whispered to Neal, picking at the unsettling phrase. That was _not_ promising. He was supposed to discredit _both_ of them, not lead by implying that one of them was, in fact, real – and since I had watched part of the process of ours in its development, I knew for a fact it had not existed since Marie Antoinette's time.

"The other, represented by Miss Grace Quinn, is _authentic."_ He folded up the results again, looking around the room expectantly for the reactions. While I thought meanly that he needed to watch his sibilance when he spoke into a microphone, I also sought out Quinn. Keller wasn't in the room, but she was, and she raised her chin proudly at the acknowledgment. She locked eyes with me and boasted nonverbally. "Thank you for your patience," Cattigan reiterated. "The bidding will commence momentarily."

When he moved away from the podium, the room erupted with psyched up chatter and some scattered applause. Several people went straight to Quinn with inquiries. Neal and I were the only people who weren't absorbed in a rush of excitement and novelty.

"It really _should_ be impossible to fake." I muttered, turning my leg so my knee pressed into his thigh.

"It _is_ impossible," Neal fervently agreed. We both looked at each other at the same time. "Unless-"

"He had the real bottle all along," we said in time with each other, shocked.

 _Well. I did not see this coming._ Going from the bewilderment in Neal's stunned eyes, he hadn't, either, which made me feel marginally better about being fooled, although not by much.

Schooling my face, I took many long breaths and forced myself to drag out the exhale. The last thing I needed was to get really angry, really quickly, and stop thinking rationally. What I really wanted to do was go perform that cesium test myself, forgetting the fact that I had very little notions of how it worked, and prove that the results Cattigan read had been fudged.

"If he had the real bottle, why make it a game?" I asked Neal, curious as well as grudgingly respectful. Keller had some serious smarts, alright. We wasted all that time trying to do this to get him when there wasn't actually anything he'd done wrong where the auction was concerned. "Why go to the trouble of making it look like he was counterfeiting it?"

In answer, Neal swallowed and turned his head to Quinn. I followed his eyes to the broker and saw her shielding herself against a small crowd of inquiries. Others were getting on their phones, maybe calling their banks or checking their account statuses. Some were talking to each other. One of the wealthy elite around Neal's age got up to put one of the auction signs back in the collection bin and went to go pool their money with the friend.

"Of course," I said, sinking back, rubbing my forehead. "The excitement and confirmed authenticity moves the price up."

"Surround the bottle with controversy, and now everyone in here's dying to get their hands on it." Neal confirmed lowly. There was a joke to be made there, wasn't there? About dying and Campos' murder? Not a _good_ joke, but one nonetheless. Why anyone would pay fifteen thousand for wine baffled me, let alone however much Keller's was going to shoot for now.

"It'll sell for at least double the price," I predicted.

"Which gives him more than enough money to pay off the Russians and flee the country to a paradise of his choosing." Frustrated, Neal fisted his hands and crossed his arms, glaring at the back of the seat in front of him. It wasn't one of the petulant or sulky glares – it was a legitimate, seething anger. "And he used me to do it."

While seeing him truly pissed off wasn't common, I wasn't worried that he was too touchy. He was good at controlling his emotions, which meant he was even better at only directing them at the ones who deserved it, which I was not. I touched his upper back and stroked down his shoulder blade, digging my fingers in harder in the spots that I knew made him arch and sigh. I liked massaging his shoulders. We weren't in a context where I could do that, but I could at least do this. Neal didn't react but to drop his right shoulder towards me, which wasn't a sign to stop.

"He conned us both," I reminded him. Much as it hurt my ego to admit, Neal wasn't the only one Keller had suckered. I'd gotten so obsessed with catching the man for my own reasons that I had stopped considering all of the alternative routes that we could've been being led down. Neal had every reason to be convinced that the bottle was a fake. Keller had made the bet with him years ago. He couldn't have known he'd need to boost the money to pay off his debts way back then. "It's not your fault. Damn, I love and hate the smart ones."

Neal rolled his head to the side and turned his glare at me through the corner of his eye, with a little less intensity than the chair was receiving.

"In Keller's case, there's a lot more hatred than love," I promised.

Neal uncrossed his arms. "We have to arrest him _now._ As soon as this auction ends, he's gone," he said a little bit aggressively, swiping his hand through the air to illustrate exactly how much of a roadrunner Keller was going to be compared to our Wile E. Coyote.

"We don't have anything to nail him on." I hated to advocate for letting him go, but I was practically powerless. "The bottle is real, that was our excuse to lock him up in the first place."

Neal bit his lip, sinking his teeth in, and snapped his head back up. "Trespassing," he suggested.

I shook my head. "That was pretty much a bluff, Neal. How do we explain how we knew he was there? Why we didn't call backup? Why I didn't arrest him _then?"_

My partner rolled his eyes, completely fed up with the limitations of the law. "Okay, how about this: he tried to _kill_ you. Is there a statute of limitations on the attempted murder of a federal agent?" He rolled his shoulders and looked intimidating. The fury burned in his eyes, though the blue looked paler, lighter, like dry ice.

I sighed. I didn't want to be the one to explain that we had no proof, since I had thrown the gun away. If I hadn't, maybe we could've gotten fingerprints and connected Keller to an unlicensed firearm. There was nothing but our word to go on that he had ever held hostile intentions towards me, and Keller hadn't so much attempted as he had threatened. If he'd really been trying, I'd have died that night.

But our word was better than nothing, and if he escaped, then not only would it affect Neal detrimentally, but it would free him up to _actually_ try to kill more people, and probably succeed.

"We won't have him for long," I cautioned, just so he knew it wasn't concrete. We couldn't stop there and hope for the best.

"It's better than nothing," Neal insistently replied, getting up and pulling down his jacket in back. "At least it'll stall him."

I held out my hands and let them fall to my thighs, slapping my legs, and stood up. I was exasperated, but I was in full agreement. If Neal thought it would work, I'd do it. "Okay." I told him, holding out a hand to his shoulder and brushing some lint off of his upper arm. "Now we just need to hope that Diana and Derek managed to get him from the IP location."

"And we stall him before he can leave the country after his release," Neal added.

"How do we stop him? He'll get the money as soon as possible."

Neal looked ready to snap at me, but thankfully held his tongue. He looked down at our shoes. I knew he was trying to think of something, so I just waited semi-patiently for him to either be productive mentally or to work himself out of his fit. I wasn't honestly expecting him to have a good solution, but when his eyes started to glitter again and his breath caught, I crossed my arms and beckoned.

"Not if the money doesn't exist to begin with," Neal cleverly made a very true statement without explaining how he planned to pull it off. I suspected he may have fallen at some time and hit his head, tampering with his concept of object permanence.

"You're plotting again, aren't you?" I asked fondly. That was _definitely_ the wrong tone to use, but I was struggling not to smile while Neal grinned, looking like he'd been caught in the wind if it wasn't for that his hair and tie were impeccable. Sometimes it seemed as though he got the same kind of high from a con that I got from Keller holding a gun on me.

* * *

We didn't creep as much as we hurried, but we may as well have been like those ninjas Mozzie mentioned, because no one cared to notice us. We could've used ropes to climb into the ceiling panels for all they cared, as long as they got to make their plans regarding the rest of the auction.

It seemed unreal that it was still only the early afternoon outside after spending so long inside that stuffy atmosphere and old building. The air in comparison was enough to make me dizzy. It had been a long time since regularly dealing with that problem, so I put a hand on Neal's arm and leaned into him while he led us around to the side of the building to have a phone call in relative private.

Neal set his phone on the speaker setting and we both sat down on the small stone steps out the emergency exit, taking seats next to each other on the side of the dividing banister. I took deep breaths and let the real world come back to me, much more attractive than the old building we'd just been trapped inside of for a couple of hours.

 _"_ _Who dares to call this number?"_ Mozzie tried to thunder at a normal volume with a low voice when he answered.

"Hey, Moz, it's us," Neal greeted, not batting an eye at the ridiculous form of a _hello._

"You're on speaker, but we're alone." I looked down the side of the building. Yep, alone. I _could_ have said something to poke fun at him for his unimpressive attempt at intimidation. What would he have done if we weren't his friends? Hung up? That would've been anticlimactic after answering the phone like that.

Mozzie talked normally as if nothing out of the ordinary had just been said by him. _"Oh, is the auction over?"_ He asked curiously.

"No," Neal answered, holding the phone up, elbow on his knee. He kept his head turned to it while he talked, but held it equidistant from both of us. "We've just stepped outside."

 _"_ _So how's it going?"_ Mozzie asked enthusiastically.

I had little patience and doubted that we had very much time, so I just cut to the chase and swiftly delivered the news myself, on my terms. "Keller's bottle isn't a fake," I said shortly, picking halfheartedly at my fingernails. "It's the actual Franklin bottle."

 _"_ _He has the real bottle?"_ A touch of envy was in Moz's tone. _"You're kidding me!"_ There was also irritation and indignation. At least he wasn't taking it as badly as Neal had. A back rub from me wasn't going to make Mozzie feel better, even if he wasn't several miles away.

"Nope," Neal confirmed grimly.

_"_ _Then why-?"_

"To drive the price up," Neal supplied.

Mozzie muttered. _"Brilliant."_ I reluctantly agreed. It was dumb not to give Keller his props. Keller just didn't need to know that they were being given to begin with. Moz cleared his throat. _"And we took the bait,"_ he said bitterly. _"Did they test both bottles?"_

"Yeah," I said, nodding emphatically at the air, throwing a hand up irately. "Of course!" I had made sure of that! "But all it proved was that we no longer have even an accusation to throw at him."

I thought Moz was being contemplative, and since I didn't have much to say on the subject either, I was willing to give him a few seconds. Then he opened his big mouth and it wasn't anything sympathetic or helpful at all.

 _"_ _How'd our bottle do?"_ He asked Neal hopefully, barely able to contain the desire to know.

While I was annoyed, it did the trick with Neal, who looked down, exhaled, and started to smile, chuckling. "Passed every test except the cesium," he said affectionately. "You did great, Moz. Now focus."

I heard the warmth in his voice and both of us could hear the hissed _yes!_ and short cheerleading routine that followed. My shoulders fell, the confrontation and anger draining, and I laughed weakly, throwing my hand up onto Neal's shoulder. He looked at me with a tentative smile that I returned. Keller wasn't the end of the world. It was more important that we were all safe.

"I need your help," Neal beseeched once Mozzie was done goofing off. "We can still get this guy."

_"_ _On what?"_

"Long story, and I'm not sure how much of it you already know." I paused and looked to Neal, frowning at the phone in between peeks at his face. How much of Keller's problem had been related to Moz already? I had spent more time away from the penthouse during this case than I usually did on the ones that warranted Mozzie's assistance. "First priority is finding him." Nothing mattered if we couldn't figure out where he was.

Neal smoothed his free hand over my knee. "Remember how Keller has a debt to the Russians?" He asked Moz.

 _"_ _Of course,"_ Mozzie scoffed and whined, " _You know I have perfect recall!"_

 _Oh, of course,_ I chuffed and held up my hands, sarcastically waving my arms around. _How dumb of us, we're so sorry, your Highness._ Neal elbowed me and stifled his snicker with his hand.

 _"_ _I know you're laughing at me, Suit,"_ Mozzie declared, sounding proud and unashamed. Neal grinned and chuckled out loud. The beautiful sound made the elbowing worth it ten times over.

"Well, we need to stall the bidding. Keller's going to want to pay these guys off as soon as possible."

"They have to be in the state by now," I put in, finding it weird to be talking about mafia guys within my jurisdiction and have them _not_ be the people I was trying to arrest. Working with Barelli for once to retrieve his Book of Hours had done nothing to rewire that strange assumption that I should arrest the mob members. "Or at least foot soldiers, if not Sergei himself."

Sergei, whose last name eluded me, was a well-enough known name for the need not to be specified within the context. A businessman who made contacts with the Russian mafia, Sergei eventually became the reputable boss of the main branch of Russian organized crime. I wasn't sure how highly Keller was prioritized, but if Sergei himself was after the fugitive, then Keller was in some serious trouble.

 _"_ _I'll ask around,"_ Mozzie vowed.

"Well, do it fast," Neal urged, checking over his shoulder to look up at the exit doors. "If you find anything, meet me at Weatherby's. We'll make sure to leave a pass for you at the front desk. We're missing the auction. We need to see what's happening with the bottle."

* * *

Mozzie took under an hour to get there, but it had gotten pretty close. The auction moved unnervingly quickly after the cesium results were announced. The majority of the buyers seemed to be holding out their money for Keller's bottle. Neal and I kept watch attentively, but Quinn seemed pretty satisfied with her gains and Keller didn't show up at any point, so it was pretty dull in comparison.

After a short pause after a bottle of some German-made drink was sold, the auctioneer walked away from the podium. This time he walked out of the auction hall. Cattigan came back to the front of the room and adjusted the microphone for his shorter height. The change in operator made it evident that the next bottle to go up was somehow special. I stood up from the chair but stayed crouched down, looking around for Moz. We were running low on time.

His timing could've used some improvement, but he was shuffling uncomfortably past the security guard who didn't recognize him. He was holding up the security pass almost entirely in front of his face to keep them from taking a very good look at him, which of course just made the guard look more suspicious. The man hooked his thumbs through his belt loops, intentionally freaking Mozzie out while he skittishly took the long route around to our row in order to stay furthest away from the people.

Cattigan started to present the bottle. It was showed on the podium with the eighteenth-century label facing the audience, Quinn walking slowly over to the front of the room to represent her client in the event that he failed to be present. "I must say it appears this spot of intrigue has whetted appetites," he stated, checking out the room's occupants trying to get better looks at the bottle and looking surprised when it didn't do a backflip or shoot fireworks. "So without any further ado, I will reopen the bidding, beginning at one hundred thousand dollars."

I knocked Neal's calf with my foot, shocked by the steep price. Other wines had started at only thousands. Thousands still seemed like a ridiculous amount to pay, but it was reasonable compared to that beginning bid.

A card went up in the air anyway. Cattigan pointed to it. "One hundred thousand and twenty," he said, not as energetic as the paid auctioneer, but intent on doing it himself anyway.

Mozzie got to the end of the row. Neal picked himself up and moved one chair over. I switched into his already warmed chair and left Mozzie to take mine. Neal leaned back to stage-whisper around me. "What'd you find out?"

Mozzie leaned towards me. I leaned back so that he could and so that he and Neal could both converge and the three of us could talk with as much quiet respect to the auction as possible. Neal switched which leg was crossed and set his arm up along the back of my chair.

"I did follow up on your intel," Moz whispered.

"Thanks for the trust, man," I mumbled.

"Blind trust is stupidity," Mozzie lectured. I groaned quietly and threw my head back. _You're quoting someone again, aren't you?_ "Guided trust is the foundation of all great partnerships." I stretched my arms behind the chair and rolled my eyes. I could do without the philosophy. One day I was going to go a full week without getting something like that from the littler conman.

It would have been untrue to my soul to let that pass without bitching about it. "I have _got_ to make a list of things that trigger those kinds of responses so that I know how to avoid them," I told Neal, pretending for the instant that Mozzie wasn't there to hear me. Neal frowned his disapproval at the bantering starting again.

Despite Neal's wishes for us to be normal people for once, Mozzie and I were long since accustomed to handling each other in various moods with various levels of "ouch" to the shots we took at each other and our respective fields of expertise. This was one of the ones that Mozzie chose to pass off and ignore, especially in light of the pressing things at hand.

"It turns out, the Russians are indeed after Keller." I stared straight ahead. That _indeed_ had been his own form of rebuttal. _Brat._ "They want their money now. And Sergei himself is in New York today. He wants personal assurance from Keller that he'll be paid the moment this auction is done." Mozzie spoke mainly to Neal, cutting me out as a form of petty revenge.

Neal nodded slowly to Mozzie and turned to me, arching an eyebrow elegantly and impishly grinning. "Ready for my idea?"

I braced myself for it internally. "I'm never emotionally ready for your ideas," I dramatically answered. "But we don't have many options."

"Three seventy-five, ladies and gentlemen!" Cattigan bellowed from the front of the room, getting a little too close to the microphone as he called out what the bid was currently at. "Three seventy-five from the gentleman on my right!"

An assistant raised her hand over by the phones lined up in a row on the table. "Here!" She called.

Cattigan pointed over at her since the actual volunteer wasn't in the room. "Four hundred thousand on the phone," he cried, getting more and more uncontrolled with his volume the higher the price went. "Do I hear four twenty-five?"

* * *

Tickling on my leg a few minutes later made me jump and swat by my thigh, expecting to bat Neal's hand away. It took the repetition of the sensation for me to realize that it wasn't Neal; it was my phone, vibrating muffled and smothered. I took it out, covered the screen and hoped it wouldn't vibrate very loudly in my hand.

The caller ID said it was Diana Berrigan. I looked around for the nearest door, saw it was still the one Mozzie had come though, and I bumped my fist lightly into Moz's knee to get him to sit back so I could stand up and get out.

"I have to take this," I told them both needlessly, since they were already nosily trying to get their eyes on my cell. "Excuse me…" I scooted past Mozzie, who tucked his legs as far under the chair as he could without breaking them. I jogged out of the room, ignoring the hurtful glowering from the security guard who was getting really tired of me passing in and out. I flipped my phone open while the door swung shut slowly. "Yeah, it's Anderson."

 _"_ _He's not here in the garage,"_ Diana went straight for it with no context. It was pretty obvious what the context was already. Her connection was crackly and weak, which was pretty typical of cell service in parking garages. _"But we know that he was. He left a bunch of equipment and an entire vehicle behind. He hotwired another car two minutes before we cordoned off the building. We've found him on security cameras at the entries and exits."_

 _Damn it._ I had wanted to stay with Neal, but maybe I should've gone to find Keller. I could've distracted him while they surrounded the building. He wouldn't have known to run from me first and ask questions later.

"He can't have gone far," I told both of us convincingly. "Do facial and vehicle recognition software."

The sound of a car door opening managed to make its way through the static along with the crackling of her voice, dropping out on some of the words. I had to do a lot of piecing and logical assumptions to get the full messages of a lot of them.

_"_ _I've already sent the order to HQ. We're pulling up a timeline with all of the sightings of Keller in traffic cams and surveillance videos from nearby buildings. His laptop is still open to the auction here."_

"Do you see Neal?" I asked, my first thought being that Keller would have wanted to set up so that he could see our faces when his bottle was authenticated, just to get a kick out of it. I waved it off aggressively like swatting at a fly by my face. "No, no, wait, that's not important. Something spooked him. Find out where he's going. If he gets out of here now, we may not see him in our jurisdiction for a long, long time." _Maybe never, especially if Sergei gets him._ Keller was playing a dangerous game, toying with the patience of the mafia. "Send the latest update to me pronto."

I hung up to go back inside and let Neal know. He had a grudge against Keller, too. It was personal between them. Who knew? Maybe we would even get lucky and Neal might have some insight. Maybe I was grasping at straws.

I inched open the door and gave a charming smile to the guard, who stared at me impassively.

Cattigan pointed to the aisle furthest away from the doors. "The bidding is now eight hundred thousand dollars, to the gentleman over here on the right."

While the owner encouraged more bids, I just went to the back of our row, since there were no chairs behind ours. I bent down over the back of mine and wrapped my arms around Neal and Mozzie both. "He must've found out we were closing in, because he ditched his car and his laptop," I updated them both quietly, watching Cattigan as he motioned grandly and invited more people to step up. No cards were being raised. On the other hand… the sign that had been discarded earlier was now in Mozzie's lap, the same number and everything. "On the bright side, he's not watching the auction anymore. Prime time to do this."

Mozzie snorted uneasily, far from pleased at being the actor selected. Cattigan knew what Neal and I both looked like, and while there was no rule that said we couldn't bid, there were also rules about checking to ensure the legitimacy of products, and he didn't adhere to those, either.

" _This_ being one of the lousiest ideas you've ever had," he informed Neal, fingering the handle on the card and fidgeting.

Neal and I both looked at him. Cattigan was slowing down as no one volunteered to up the cost. Neal jerked his head towards the front podium and hissed, "Do it, Moz."

"These people don't take IOU's!" Mozzie protested.

One hand still up over his head, prepared to strike out and point at buyers, Cattigan held the microphone close to his mouth with the other. "Fair warning," he said, voice amplified and slightly altered by the speakers, "I can sell for eight hundred thousand dollars."

I smacked Mozzie's arm with the back of my hand at the same time as Neal said more urgently, _"Do it!"_

Mozzie, overwhelmed by the peer pressure, jumped right out of his seat skittishly and fiddled with the card at chest level. "One million dollars!" He declared loudly, the nerves on his face only coming back after he realized what he had said.

 _Now, we didn't say to go that high…_ Neal stared up at Mozzie, mouth opened incredulously, and rolled his eyes. I exhaled slowly and dropped my forehead onto his shoulder, unable to watch this.

Cattigan was delighted. "Thank you, sir! One million dollars, and _sold!"_ Weren't there supposed to be rules about giving other people the chance to outbid? He'd certainly dragged out eight hundred thousand.

Mozzie sat down hard. Neal and I both had to look at him. He looked petrified, so the snide remark about improvising his own price went unsaid.

"What did you just get us into?" He miserably asked neither of us in particular.

I smacked his back supportively. "The next stepping stone in the game," I answered. Sure, he wasn't the best at being the center of attention, but I don't know what I really expected when I told him to stand up and become the center of attention. I checked my phone again when it went off in my pocket. "Oh, it's a text."

Neal craned his neck, but since I was behind them instead of in between them, he couldn't see. Mozzie just looked at his lap, keeping his head down and breathing deeply. "What's the status on Keller?"

Taking pity on Moz, I responded to Neal while sympathetically pressing my fingers into his shoulder, massaging his trapezius. "He's been sighted going south on Park," I reported with a mocking salute.

Neal mouthed the street name once and then shot upright, standing up as quickly as Mozzie had. He reacted faster and ducked his head to avoid making eye contact with anyone and strolled hurriedly out of the row, coming back past me and guiding me out quickly.

"I know where he's going," he whispered to me eagerly.

I grinned challengingly. "Then what are we waiting for?"

Mozzie could deal with being left unsupervised in a public forum for a while. … _I think._

* * *

A helicopter landing pad wasn't very hard to get onto when you had the means and the probable cause. In fact, all I'd had to say to security was that we believed a man using a false alias who was suspect in a murder investigation had passed them to meet a suspicious character in a getaway copter, and they let me right on through.

… Neal was another story. Showing my badge worked for me, but they held my gun while I walked through a metal detector, and then they made Neal do the same thing. His anklet set off the alarms. About five minutes was spent convincing them that Neal was safe. I even took the safety off of my gun and shoved it into Neal's hands, and Neal didn't appreciate that in the least, turning the safety back on and shoving it back at me. The comedic exchange as we were commanding each other to take the gun because we weren't going to shoot each other so what was the point not only provided entertainment to the security team, but convinced them that I was serious and they let us through.

Although next time I was just going to remember he had a consultant's badge and make him show that.

The helicopter was dark black and unmarked, soaring down at a subtle angle into the middle of the landing space, marked with diagrams for flight instruments, and covered the entire rooftop of a skyscraping parking garage. The floor underneath was a security buffer between civilians who were parking their cars and the people who were using the helicopters, and the choppers weren't loaned out for commercial flights or tourists. Neal and I both looked a little bit annoyed and aggravated, but we made it onto the strip before anything rash could happen.

For the third time in as many days, I was within shooting range of Matthew Keller. He and Neal had an unsettlingly similar taste in clothes, as they were both wearing long, thick overcoats over their suits in the breeze. It was especially necessary given the breeze from the chopper's propellers and the high wind sweeping cold air from the water surrounding the island of Manhattan. Keller's was light grey with a black inside while Neal's was dark grey with purple trim. I just wore my FBI blazer and pretended the cold didn't bother me.

The copter touched down more or less evenly and enough of the instruments were turned to their low or standby settings so that the propellers on top could continue to whack dangerously through the air in a blur of machine noise and flickering shadows on the concrete without the bird taking off again. Keller must have had a backup for clothes, because the bag he had on his shoulder was barely big enough for my laptop, much less a day's outfit for either of the gentlemen criminals.

"Bravo, Keller!" Neal yelled to be heard, clapping his hands in applause. I could hear but I doubted Keller could; his voice carried further than his claps, and the copter was still making a ridiculous amount of noise. A white man's head appeared in the window, saw there were more people on the landing pad than there were when they made their descent, and went back into hiding. "Seriously – well done!"

Keller turned around with an egotistical smirk. He didn't try to run. He just slid his bag down from his shoulder to his elbow and let it hang on his arm, back to the chopper, and waited patiently while we approached. I guess he knew we didn't have anything concrete to use against him, even if there were police present. _Oh, just you wait._

"Wow," he said, impressed, looking over Neal at the unexpected surprise. "So you came by to see me off, huh, Caffrey?" As the two parties both came closer, the men stopped having to yell to hear each other. They still spoke with raised voices, but it felt a lot easier to communicate. At the same time, the unnecessary components of the chopper started to let their noises fade, ready to take off in short order but not making such a raucous. "Who knew you were such a gracious loser?"

"Gracious loser? Him?" I elbowed Neal and smirked at Keller. It was really strange to be joking around with them. A cop, a white-collar criminal, and a blue-collar criminal all hang out with a chopper featuring an organized crime boss. _Sounds like the start to a bad joke… or an obituary._ "You've never played Monopoly with him, have you?"

I could feel Neal frowning at me, although my attention was fixed on his "counterpart," as he had referred to Keller as. I chose to act oblivious. It's not like it particularly bothered him to play backgammon with the guy; Monopoly wasn't that much of a stretch.

"You know, I have to admit, using the real Ben Franklin bottle?" Neal laughed and grinned and held his hand out to shake with Keller. "Did _not_ see that coming. Stroke of genius, really."

Grinning right back at him, Keller shook his hand firmly and made no move to commit homicide. _Amazing…_ watching two world-class actors performing right in front of me, and I wasn't even in Hollywood. Keller truly treated it like a game. Campos just happened to be what he saw as a human-sized pawn. It was a terrible (but psychologically fascinating) outlook.

He paid me more mind and respect than he did Campos. I wondered what that made me. The queen, maybe, since he had twice bothered Neal by getting physically close to me, once threatening to take me out?

It was as if none of that had happened. Keller stepped to the side of Neal, towards me, and held out his hand, but he didn't push himself all up in my face like before. _Oh, I'm getting human decency now?_ My head was practically spinning, but I shook his hand regardless. Keller's eyes were crinkled at the corners, lips looking slightly chapped but stretching into a wide smile nonetheless, amused and pleased.

"You got me, too, Keller," I made my mouth say, and settle on a small smile.

"Please, it's Matthew to you." _And_ he ruined it by bowing and kissing my hand again. He was wearing black leather gloves that didn't go up to cover his wrists, so the touch was actually cool. Neal took his distraction to look in the other direction and mouth something mean. He let go of my hand and I swung my arm back to my side. Keller looked between Neal and I both in the same way I had looked at Peter and El after they'd sided with me and helped exonerate Neal. "Thanks. You know, that actually means a lot coming from you, Caffrey. I only wish Kate was around to see it."

 _You and him both,_ I thought loudly at him, bobbing my head for emphasis in what he seemed to think was actually agreement. _You have no idea._

"I mean, we both know she always loved a winner, right?" Matthew shrugged. "Who knows, maybe I'll look her up, see if she still does." Neal's expression took on more qualities of being forced. His archenemy changed the subject. "So, I'm curious, how'd you find me?"

I kind of didn't want to push my limits and waste the time of a mob boss, but at the same time, I doubted Sergei was the kind of person reckless enough to come onto American soil and shoot an FBI agent _or_ civilian unprovoked. Matthew was another matter entirely thanks to his bomb toys, but as long as it looked like he would be paid sooner rather than later, the boss would likely stay where it was safer in the helicopter.

"Nice stunt you pulled in Russia," I commented. Matthew's grin widened at the flattery. Damn, he had a nice smile. _Seriously, why does it seem like everyone I've been attracted to in the last year have to be involved in some kind of illegal activity?!_ It wasn't just those two – Melissa, Claire and Brigitte (who were helping Dorsett by hiding the painting), the boyishly charming boiler room schemer who tried to kill me. I was picking up on a distressing trend. "Unfortunately for you, it wasn't hard to figure out who would be the most annoyed, and then track the travel plans."

"Ah." He tapped his forehead and then pointed at me, gesturing concession that I had the smarts, too. "Nice pull, LaMontagne."

I smiled. It was nice of him to return the favor of the compliments.

"I see he does it in style," Neal remarked, looking over the sleek design of the chopper whose blades were running smoothly. Now that the engine was cooling down, the chopper part of the helicopter actually wasn't the part that made a lot of noise. We didn't have to yell at each other anymore. "I also hear he doesn't take it lightly when somebody owes him money."

" _Owed,"_ Matthew corrected smugly, emphasizing the 'D' sound. "As in, past tense." He looked over at the copter, chuckled, and came back to us. "Hey, see, our little go-round with the bottle cleared my debts! In fact, I just got a text from my broker. The bottle went for seven figures."

I made sure to look appropriately impressed. Neal whistled, very taken aback by the price of a finite amount of bottled wine, and shrugged at the ground, not knowing what else to say.

"Wow. Congratulations, man," Neal told Matthew.

"Thanks," Keller returned, taking it with grace and bowing his head humbly. "Thank you."

"Yeah, yeah… so it was a two birds, one stone thing? Humiliate me in front of my girlfriend, turn a hefty profit while you're at it to get out of your debt." The disapproval was now clear, but it was the same only moderately serious kind of disapproval, like he was talking to his brother about how he embarrassed him in front of his crush. I snickered at the thought, and while Neal looked at me with irritation to remind me that that wasn't part of the plan, Matthew laughed with me.

"See, now you're catching on, Neal!" Rather brazenly, in my opinion, Matthew leaned forward and gave Neal's shoulder a playful shove that pushed him back onto his heels. "Listen, I'd love to chat, buddy, but unless you've got something else, I should really be going. Alright?" I shook my head. I had nothing else to say… yet. Matthew looked to the window of the chopper and waved a gloved hand. "Be good."

Neal looked at me knowingly and called to Matthew when the latter started to shrug up his back and make his way proudly to the helicopter, strutting with success. "I haven't made my offer yet!"

Matthew paused, turned away from the chopper, and checked the watch on his wrist. I checked mine. Sergei didn't really have a solid, set schedule. I was going to remind him of that if he called it a time-sensitive thing and got on the helicopter. He needed to pay for his crimes, and I would make sure that happened. I just wanted it to be while he was well aware of the price he was paying. If he wanted to commit suicide by Russian mob, then he could be my guest, but I was better than him and needed to remind myself of that by making him aware of the choice.

"Oh, this should be good." Putting down his arm, Matthew prompted Neal to go ahead and make his grand offer.

Neal smiled and overoptimistically stood up on his toes. "I'd like to offer you the opportunity to offer a full confession for your crimes," he said, extending the kindest means possible of saying _got you, bitch._ He grinned widely himself, so much it looked like it hurt. This was a revenge for manipulating him. "The robbery at the Natural History Museum, murder of Manuel Campos, and anything else you might want to add in."

Matthew stared at Neal like he'd completely lost it, and then he chuckled wryly, ruefully. When Neal just kept up his mild-mannered smile, Matthew hooted at the riot.

"You know what? I was wrong." He rubbed at his eyes, leading me to believe that Neal's suggestion was just so funny to him that he'd actually started to cry. "This isn't good," he laughed, making some unspecific wave at Neal. "This is sad, man. This is a moment I'll cherish – seeing you at your most desperate."

I had a different idea of what Neal's desperation was, and contrary to the uncivilized nature of my brain that wanted to make out with Neal with Mozzie around just because I knew it bothered the guy, it wasn't anything inappropriate or sexual. I thought of desperation as pleading with me to sign my name on a few papers and chain him to me as an indentured servant; anything to get out of prison. That was a kind of desperation I could have lived without seeing. Another kind was the pure blind drive to get his sister back that led him to acting out, taking a gun and delivering death threats against people he used to seem to adore, because he didn't know what else he possibly _could_ do. That I _never_ wanted to see again.

The point in my reflection was that if Matthew thought that this – this calm, collected, kind, and considerate offer to let him turn himself in, collect on any sympathy from the jury that came with owning up to it himself – was _desperate,_ then he and I had incredibly varying perspectives on exactly what was and wasn't disparaging and devaluing. He may have appreciated Neal's cunning, but I treasured my soulmate's heart.

Before he could try to leave again, I stopped him this time, throwing some confusion into my words and a dash of mischief to spice it up. "Oh… so, wait, you get your money when the auction is paid off?"

Sagging his shoulders and already tired of repeatedly being stopped, Matthew turned back to us. "It's how an auction works, sweet cheeks," he called, holding his arms out and inviting any further questions, just so he could get it over with and get on the flight to Russia.

"And I don't suppose the buyer was number… what was it?" I asked Neal more quietly, intentionally talking below the volume I needed for Matthew to hear. Neal didn't say anything, but Matthew couldn't know that, so I just looked back to him and the chopper and yelled, "Fifty-seven?"

He hung his head and took slow steps back towards us, retreating from the chopper. Matthew came walking right up to us. If his hands hadn't been visible, I'd have backed Neal away, because that walk reminded me uncannily of Hannibal Lecter's when the quite frankly horrific psychiatrist was on the prowl.

Matthew looked up, blinked his dark brown eyes, and asked daringly, "Why?"

I giggled. Neal held out his arms, and we came clean. "Now, this is just awkward," Neal admitted with a tongue-between-teeth smile. "But I don't have a million dollars!" Matthew's face went from _what are you talking about_ to _you complete fuckers_ in a noteworthy two seconds flat as it dawned on him what we'd done. "Luckily, the auction house said they'd give me a week to put the money together." Neal shrugged as though it was no big deal.

That was only the first part. Matthew swallowed, off balanced, but as he looked at Neal's completely shining disposition, he must've decided that the uncertainty wasn't a good enough reason to subject himself to _that_ for any longer than he had to.

"A week, huh?" He pretended to mull it over in his head, sucking on his tongue, before shaking his head slowly. "You know what, a week's not that long. I can work that." He raised a hand in salute goodbye. "Check you later, Caffrey, LaMontagne."

"Anderson," I sang in correction.

Exasperated with all of the stops and starts and false goodbyes, Matthew tossed his head back impatiently and whined, "What _now?"_

"My name," I elaborated, biting my lower lip. I may not appreciate his means, but I owed Matthew at least one thing: if he hadn't come roaring into town in an unmarked suburban vehicle to lead Neal and I to this moment, it may have taken a lot longer for me to tell him who I used to be. My double persona, so to speak. Mostly, I owed him because it was thanks to this spin around the old days of my career that I was making peace with what McKenna had represented when Zarra invented her and whom McKenna had actually become. "It's not LaMontagne, actually.

"I'm McKenna Anderson." I announced with pride, looking out to the blue, cloudless sky and nodding slowly, agreeing with myself. I wasn't who I thought I'd wanted to be, but McKenna Anderson… well, she may not be the ideal, prized, model crime solver Zarra had envisioned, but times changed, and McKenna was happy enough with herself. _I_ was happy enough with _myself._

" _Special Agent_ McKenna Anderson, of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, and I'm launching a federal investigation on your bottle." I crossed my arms as the truth came out and held my head high. Matthew hadn't won. I had. I still had everything but my job title. My abilities couldn't be taken away with a physical knife. It was nice to be given the chance to affirm that for myself. "The buyer doesn't get it, the money doesn't exchange hands until the investigation is over."

I could tell that was a curveball that Matthew had _not_ seen coming, because he looked at Neal for verification that I was serious instead of believing it.

Neal feigned ignorance. "How long can a federal investigation go for?" He asked curiously.

I lifted my shoulders and acted like I had no idea, either. This was just a special case. Matthew was a special case, and it was truly my pleasure to be the one to catch him. I _caught_ Matthew Keller. That meant a great deal more to me than that I caught _Matthew Keller._ One looked better for me professionally, but I was learning – gradually, but steadily – that there were more important things to focus on than my reputation in my office.

"Well, it can range from days to years."

"Oh! _Years."_ Neal leaned backwards and hissed sympathetically. "Wow."

Matthew closed his eyes and groaned as the full reality hit him. "Son of a _bitch,"_ he swore, at neither of us in particular. It was nice that he wasn't flying at me with his fists. Even in defeat, there was still some personal civility.

I cocked my head at him. "Do you think the Russians will be willing to wait years for their money, Puppy?" I asked, taunting him both by reminding him about what I'd said about getting him a muzzle and in payback for calling me Kitty. Without the assurance of a safe ride out of the country, Matthew could yap all he wanted, but to sink his teeth in would be to give me a reason to lock him away for a very long time.

He glanced at me but complained at Neal. I stood at the side, feeling like I was much more important than some pretty face or cat burglar girlfriend. "Your girlfriend's a fed, Caffrey," Matthew stated with dismay like it left a bad taste in his mouth. "Man, you really _have_ turned good…"

"Don't say that! Good is relative." Good naturedly, Neal took it as though Matthew was joking. I really didn't think he was. Neal had just lost a lot of "criminal" points by getting a soft spot for one of the agents on the other side. "If you mean that I still haven't killed anyone, then I'm good. If you're saying I abide by the law, well…" Neal apologetically eyed me and blinked, me sighing my way out of having to threaten to arrest them both for appearances' sake.

It was always hard to look at a killer and extend a hand of kindness. It was hard to see someone for what they were when that was a bad thing, and still treat them as though they had a fresh slate. Matthew had done enough to me for a personal excuse to loathe his guts. Being threatened with a gun kind of gave me that right. If anything bothered me, though, it would've been that he had hurt Neal, even if my lover didn't want to show it. What used to be a sort of alliance had crumbled somewhere between backgammon and prison, and Matthew knew Neal well enough to play him this time.

Neal's vendetta was his own, and he was old enough to fight his own battles. He wasn't in danger from Matthew, I didn't believe. They were each other's playmates. Matthew might eventually think it would be funny to break one of Neal's toys, but he wouldn't fracture his playmate.

Matthew, however, _was_ in danger. Zarra would've said that he had coming whatever it was Sergei would do to him. He had killed other people aplenty, so it was karma. I knew better now that I had more real, firsthand experience with the interesting ways that the world worked. I wanted to be better than Matthew. That was why I'd wanted to be a cop. But a cop isn't just about karma, it's _justice._ They mean very different things. Justice is humane while karma isn't always. Letting Matthew walk to his death without trying to stop him – that would be being as bad as him, which I wouldn't let happen to myself.

So I offered him some compassion; whatever there was in me that I could find that I could stand to afford sharing. I held out a hand towards him, standing close to Neal, not moving closer to him, because it wasn't my job to be his rescuer, but offering to be his assistance all the same.

Matthew looked at my offered hand with the suspicion that it was another trick, another pull, another move meant to send him reeling under. I'd already won. I wanted to be a winner that I could look back on and be proud of, not some anarchistic dictator who crushed the opposition and then left them to starve.

"You're technically the owner of the bottle," I said, as softly as I could while still having to speak loud enough to be heard over the chopper. My hand remained out for Matthew. I wasn't offering peace, just… the promise of being treated like a human being, the right he had denied his own victims. "You can surrender yourself to me right now and, yes, be convicted and sentenced, but be held in a secure location… or, conversely, you can get in that helicopter.

"I won't stop you if you try," I promised. We still had nothing to arrest him on. If Matthew wanted to get to Russia, he would damn well get to Russia sooner rather than later. "But, ah, just know that if you do, Sergei is going to kill you for not having the money." I quirked my lips. "You said the LaMontagnes were crafty. You don't know the half of it." A pause settled. Neal peacefully brought a hand up to my back. Matthew looked torn between sneering at the offered shelter from a fed and barreling right into it for self-preservation. "I believe in chess, the term is 'zugzwang.'"

Matthew sighed, looking over his shoulder again at the chopper. He looked back to us and took a small step forward, away from the man that would kill him without more than a second's consideration once he heard the news. I wouldn't apologize for putting him in the situation where he couldn't pay his debt; he'd done that to himself.

"Well played." Matthew snorted and dropped his head to his chest, scoffing to himself.

My hand was still out to take his if he chose to reach out.

"Good game, Keller," Neal told him, the two of them having a long look. I don't think Neal wanted to see him get in the helicopter, either. Neal wanted to see him pay, but he didn't want to see him die.

"The game isn't over," Matthew assured Neal, while he lowered his right arm and unbent his elbow. The bag he'd intended to take with him to Europe slid down his sleeve and fell onto the cement with a plop. Whatever was inside wasn't a laptop. Maybe it was cash. He reached out and took my hand, wrapping his gloved fingers around my gloved wrist.

I held on and pulled him in, turning him around while placing a hand firmly but mindfully against the nape of his neck, discouraging him from turning around to face me again. He moved his other arm behind his back for me and saved me the trouble.

"It looks that way to me," Neal decided coolly.

"Yeah?" Matthew behaved himself and let me cuff his wrists, not even trying to move. He was a model arrestee. No throwing himself around, no trying to break free, no swearing or spitting. "Well, you were locked up, broke out. Maybe it's my turn to accept a challenge. Best two out of three." _I think the world is okay without you two doing this again._ "I'll see you around, Caffrey."

Neal stepped up into Matthew's space and moved like he was going to hug him. Being taller, he had to lower his chin to speak into the killer's ear the way he did into mine, but I could hear him from where I stood holding Matthew's wrists back as a precaution, and there was no sliver of kindness in his competitive hiss.

"I'm counting the days."

Neal stepped back, gave me a nod that he was finished. I returned the favor of being a considerate suspect by being a generous arresting agent and gave Matthew a lot more reign over his movements than I think most people would have. It was refreshing to see him in chains. There was satisfaction curling in my chest, not just for catching him, but for doing it in a way that was true to myself, in a way that solved some of my problems and paid heed to the humanity that I treasured, both in myself and in my partner.

I went ahead with the first step of the Mirandizing. "You are under arrest. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be held against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford one, one will be appointed to you, free of charge."

If he wanted to be held safely in prison, then Matthew would need to cop to some crime worthy of incarceration for a long enough period for the Russian mafia to relax their hit on him. If he was smart, he'd play his cards right and frame everything up so it seemed like he had hired Campos to do the robbery, but hadn't had a say over the murder.

I clasped his shoulder with the hand not holding the cuffs, steering him around towards the doors off the roof. "As of now, you are officially in the custody of the American government," I proclaimed, formally issuing his protective status. "There's a black and white out on the street. C'mon, both of you."

I let my boys – my lover and my rival – lead, following up behind Matthew with my hands both promising judicial retribution and security in the fairness of his treatment.

* * *

"I like being me," I decided, saying for the first time in years. I was the closest to happy that I'd been in years, as far as I could tell; and certainly more content than I had ever been after being victim to heinous blue-collar crime.

Neal's fingertips danced down my sides, his large hands covering and cupping my hips, nimble fingers pressing in on the contours and swells. He breathed in deeply, my shampoo flooding his nose, chin against the back of my head as he stood behind me, arms around me, pinning me willfully to the edge of the rooftop looking over the view from June's manor.

"I like having you," he answered with a sort of conflicting mix of levity and genuineness that said two different things at once: a teasing _I bet you do_ and a _you mean things to me._

I kept my hands behind me, arms low, hands on his thighs, fingers creeping around to the backs of his legs and holding him to my body, feeling safe as he guarded me from behind and held me while we looked at the glorious, gorgeous city, tranquil like gods above Greece watching the proceeds while hearing the discord.

The sliding door rolled open. Footsteps. The pull of the door, but the failure to latch it shut. They moved too quickly to be June. Neal was too relaxed for it to be anyone but his landlady or his accomplice.

"Heard you caught Keller," Moz noted aloud, coming up to stand next to the two of us and choosing not to say anything smart about how we cuddled with each other out in the open, too high up, too far above and beyond the world for a traffic cam to see, a pedestrian to care. "What did his face look like when you told him we bought the bottle?"

"Disappointingly unsurprised," I said evenly, looked down at Neal's slim wrist holding to my waistline, fingers dragging and exploring and cataloguing the flesh he already knew. "He certainly wasn't expecting me to be FBI, though."

"You are good at acting," Neal credited me with the fitting flattering level of respect. I smiled at the assessment. "The good news is, he won't be bothering us again for a while."

Mozzie looked at both of us skeptically and, again, acted as though he couldn't see that we were being "disgustingly domestic" again. "How long is a while?" He questioned apprehensively aloud.

Neal hummed. Vibrations from his lips travelled onto my skin and I shivered. "Maybe long enough to finish our chess game," Neal suggested idly.

Mozzie frowned, pinching his brows together, but any other feelings he had about Keller were evidently not worth the time it took to stop holding his own tongue. "Think they have a prison that can hold him?"

The question was innocent enough, but for that the answer would have been _no_ if we were speaking about Neal. It made anything else I might say go under Neal's scrutiny, so I was hesitant to say anything at all, especially a 'yes.' The last thing I wanted to do was to really think of Neal and Keller as people in the same league.

"Well… a super-max couldn't exactly hold Neal… but let's hope Keller is less ingenuous." I said finally. Neal approved of how I answered without quite skirting the matter and nuzzled the back of my head. I leaned my head forward and he kissed my neck.

"So what's the bad news?" Mozzie asked, just assuming that there was bad news.

Neal laughed mischievously. "You won't be drinking a million-dollar bottle of wine tonight," he explained, expecting Mozzie to be upset that Big Brother was taking the wine into custody. We got the Château _and_ the bad guy, and he just had to quietly suffer with the internal satisfaction of having been part of the team that took Keller down.

Mozzie snorted. "I'll live," he promised sarcastically, hand over his heart.

"You were right," Neal told his friend, holding my waist back to his hips. His lips left fluttering kisses behind my ear. I turned my head to the side to invite more to come. "I can use one less mystery in my life."

Suddenly, Moz's demeanor changed. He shifted, moved his hands into his pockets, and avoided looking at us with even more determination not to make eye contact with Neal. I eyed him warily.

"Oh, I have to rescind that comment," he amended nervously and regretfully. "There's… suddenly been a lot of chatter about the music box. You… need to talk to Alex again."

 _Alex. Great._ My first impression hadn't been all too fantastic, since she had stormed my case and been the subject for a big fight with Neal. It wasn't just any other normal fight. It was a scary fight, because I'd only just gotten him. I didn't know what his limits were. How could I? We had only just become a couple and didn't have time to work that out before Alex came barreling in, threatening not just my case, but my relationship with someone I held precious.

My skin prickled unhappily at the idea of giving her another chance to come between me and my boyfriend. She was beautiful and intelligent, and she was very much someone I could see Neal having feelings for. He told me it was over with her and I trusted him – hell, he'd been practicing loyalty to me before I believed there was anything to be loyal _to_ – but there was just always something about an ex that would make partners, especially new partners, feel inadequate and insecure, a way that I hated feeling.

I needed to get into the habit of seeing _myself_ as someone Neal had feelings for. He set his chin on top of my head. It was easier when we were laying or sitting down, but he managed to do it while standing, though he had to tilt his head back. As though he could read my mind, Neal pushed his fingers deeper into my skin, reminding me he was there, and pulling me back against him, feeling the contours and the heat of his body.

"She made it clear she doesn't want anything to do with Neal or I, what with our associations to the feds." I told Mozzie, prim and a little bit clipped. I had one hell of an association going on, what with being one of them, and if I was truthful, I was more than okay with my career being a deterrent to keep her away. I had enough challenges with my relationship already without adding someone to be jealous about.

Mozzie didn't really know what to tell me, but he insisted. "Then you'll just have to make it worth her while."

Neal stilled. _Probably wondering what it would take to get Alex's attention_. I silently cursed the music box and Fowler again. I just wanted to curl up with my mate and keep him all to myself so Alex couldn't intervene and OPR agents could just go fuck themselves.

Moz left while Neal was being contemplative, giving me the chance to speak with my boyfriend in more privacy. He hadn't been present at the time we were fighting and I didn't know how much he knew about Alex's effect on our lives previously, but maybe Neal had told him, or possibly he knew that Neal and Alex used to be a _thing_ and wanted to let us work that out before he had to deal with listening to it.

Rationally, I knew that I couldn't begrudge Neal for having previous experience. I had, and I would've had a serious issue if Neal had expected me to be a blushing virgin the first time we slept with each other. There was just a difference between knowing empirically that he had histories with other people and then having that thrown in my face by Alex stripping off some of her clothes and greeting me at the door, trying to convince me that she was fucking _my_ lover. It wasn't the history that made me jumpy as much as the chemistry. It had been there once, so who was to say it wouldn't come back? Especially if Alex made a habit of regularly stripping right in front of him and pretending to be a mistress.

It had also been longer than I had expected without getting any word about or from Fowler. He'd been avoiding New York since Katie had threatened to go through the courts and press charges. Threats hadn't worked previously, but I suppose it had more substance when Kate did it. She had a stronger argument in the context – lovable civilian woman manipulated into opening her home to a man who faked his soulmark to get close to her and her sister. Who _wouldn't_ grant that lawsuit? Then mine was sketchy at best and hard to outline at worst, and relied on a lot of faith in Neal and background information on topics that really needed to stay out of the light.

Unfortunately, if the music box was starting to raise questions in certain circles, then it would get back to Fowler eventually, just like it was getting back to us, and he wouldn't be leaving us alone for much longer. It was time to start checking my locks and looking over my shoulder in my home again. No more quick kisses in the hallway. It was no longer a secure location, not until this died down, whatever _this_ actually turned out to be.

I opened my mouth to say something but paused and licked my lips. I didn't really want to admit to feeling it. "Do you get the feeling that something really important is going to happen soon?" I asked Neal, waiting patiently for a response, frowning over the spectacular view of the city and directing my gaze to the glittering Chrysler building.

Neal crossed his arms around the front of my body. "Yeah, I do," he admitted, seeming relieved that I'd said it first. "Problem is, important events can be both good and bad

* * *

**I'm definitely moving away now. There's no way that I can stay. I told my parents that I was going to go and they told me I couldn't. I told them I was changing my name and moving to America and they just about lunged for me across the table. I'm not entirely sure I shouldn't lock my door tonight, lest I wake up restrained and locked in some dusty old trunk.**

**It's really hard to hide who I am all the time, so I'm done. My parents just don't like what they see.**

**Now my biggest concern is how hard I'll have to try to hide who I used to be. My family carries weight. I can't ever just** **_stop_ ** **being a LaMontagne. I don't want the association, but it would be untrue to any loved ones to make those lifelong connections and never tell them my history. I guess I'll just have to do what feels right. There's nothing anyone can do to get me in trouble with this – it's all legal. And if they begrudge me for what I'm running away from, maybe I shouldn't want to keep them with me in the first place?**

**With any luck, they won't care about who Zarra is. Zarra was a little girl forced to grow up to someone else's mold. McKenna's going to be the person who matters.**

**Love,**

**…** **I was going to just say Zarra L, but then I realized that this isn't about Zarra. This is all about you, McKenna, the one I've been writing these letters for, and you never disliked** **_me._ ** **You disliked our family, our initial, what our last name represented. I can't let it go unless I own it while it's still mine.**

**-Zarra LaMontagne**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Love it? Hate it? Let me know!


	27. The Only Thing I Fear Is... Forgetting You Were Ever Here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> McKenna is once again passed over on a job she's more qualified at because of reputations, but this time, limiting her involvement has serious repercussions for Neal. Alex returns with information about the music box, but she won't give it to them unless they do something first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Lucy Hale's "Red Dress."

**_Chapter Twenty-Seven – The Only Thing I Fear Is… Forgetting You Were Ever Here_ **

I woke up alone to a cold bed, lying on my side and facing the open parlor. Before making any assumptions, I rubbed my eyes and looked around the bed. No, there was definitely a distinct absence of Neal Caffreys. My arms stretched over my head and my shoulders popped before I slid onto the hardwood floor, padding away from the mattress. It wasn't comfy if I was lonely.

The lights had been left off so that I could keep sleeping, but the skylights looking into the penthouse couldn't block out the sunrise, so it was decently lit already. I picked up a deep purple shirt of Neal's from where it ended up over a chair and slid in on over my tank top, hugging myself with the long sleeves covering my wrists and gloves. I left it unbuttoned while I ventured out of the bedroom alcove, looking around curiously for Neal.

He wasn't indoors, and the shower wasn't running. There was still a mostly-full pot of coffee brewed on the counter. My frown deepened. Usually I was the first one awake – usually I was the first one to start making coffee. Pulling the sides of Neal's shirt closed around my front, I walked over to the other side of the room and looked out the sliding doors to the rooftop. _Ah._ There he was, sitting at one of the metal tables with papers and books around him, a cup of coffee forgotten near the edge.

The most reasonable thing to do seemed to be going out and joining him. Neal didn't look up when I came outside, or when I left the glass panel open to go back in, but I didn't let that stop me. As I came closer, I could see the papers. There was a lot in Russian, including the book he'd had when I'd stayed over while my wiring was redone, featuring an amber music box on the cover.

I sighed softly in understanding and stopped trying to read the foreign scripts. I was too tired to play translator, and too relaxed to worry about the music box before the alarm on my phone had even started to ring. Standing behind Neal, I bent over and draped my arms over his shoulders, lowering my head to press my cheek to his. The shadow of his stubble scratched lightly on my face, but I didn't mind. He hadn't showered yet, either; his hair was dry and he lacked the usual cologne. He was still in his pajama pants, plus a dark blue bath robe.

He turned his head to me and rubbed his jaw over mine affectionately. "Good morning," Neal greeted quietly, his tiredness given away by the lowness of his voice and the yawn that he started to make right after.

 _You could have still been sleeping,_ I almost reminded him. "Mm. It was," I agreed instead, running my hands over the sleeves of his robe from his elbows down to his wrists and back up again. "Then I had to get up and come see what my boyfriend was doing that had him mistakenly under the impression that it was better than keeping me warm." I feigned irritation and kissed his cheek.

Neal lifted a hand. I had to let go of his wrist so that he could rub his other cheek, eyes dull and stressed. Sympathetically, I raked my fingers gently through his dark hair. "Twenty minutes, Kenna," Neal promised guiltily. He turned his head to push his nose against my cheek and then he traded another kiss, pressing his lips to the corner of my mouth. "Just give me another twenty and I'll come back to bed for a while."

I pursed my lips. In twenty minutes, it would practically be time for us to be awake anyway. There was only one shower in the penthouse and we both needed to bathe before going to work. I still avoided sharing a hot shower with him, subtly coming up with tactful excuses, because to do so would involve taking off my gloves. No matter how much fun it would probably be to mohawk his hair with shampoo, I still had to keep my priorities straight.

"Can I hold you to that?" I questioned skeptically, kissing underneath his ear and pulling lightly on his hair. Neal sighed, putting both of his hands down on the table and leaning back in his chair, melting back into the kind touches. I crossed my left arm across his chest in a hug. "When did you get up, _cher_?"

Instead of giving me a time, Neal shrugged noncommittally. He wasn't the type to not be conscientious of the time and setting, so I knew better than to think it was just that he hadn't looked at a clock or phone.

The artist seemed to be of the opinion that I was going to disapprove if I knew exactly how long ago I'd been abandoned to sleep on my own, but what he didn't know was that there were entire nights where I would refuse to so much as go to bed for fear of having nightmares. I was terrified that I'd get caught in a night terror where a serial killer was pinning me down and straddling my legs, a surgeon's mask over his face. Neal wasn't at risk of having gory flashbacks while he slept, but if anyone was going to sympathize with being too wound up and anxious to rest, then it would've been me.

I hummed a few chords to _Heaven,_ the song that I used to lull him to sleep on bad nights ever since he'd been drugged by the doctors at the Howser clinic. Neal reached behind him to press his hand lightly into my back, holding me down to him as much as he could with his arm bent back.

"You look tired," I mumbled, saying it out of concern, not rudeness. "I'm all for this search, but if you don't take downtime, you'll burn yourself out before you get anywhere." _So don't do this unless you have to._ I had had Katie to make sure I didn't accidentally put myself right back into a hospital with my bad habits. Neal lived alone, for the most part, so it would be up to me, Moz, and June to make sure he never went too far into the rabbit hole. "Coffee?" I offered. There wasn't even steam coming from his cup anymore.

He groaned softly as he sat up straight, back popping from being slouched over. I smiled against his temple. "That would be awesome," Neal said, coughing to clear his throat. "Thanks, Kenna."

I deposited another kiss to his face before I convinced myself to stand up and pick up his mug and go back inside. The interior was warmer than the rooftop, with the exception of the floor. The wood was being warmed by the sunlight coming from the skylights, while the concrete outside was rough and a little bit cooler. I went straight to the kitchenette in women's boxer shorts, a tank top, and Neal's unbuttoned shirt.

Burning myself in front of Mozzie had taught me my lesson about being cautious when I made coffee with the percolator. Using my own Keurig had spoilt me and I'd gotten clumsier with boiling water. I held my hand over the top to feel the heat and decided it was cool enough to warrant being boiled again.

I started to sing quietly while I got down a clean mug for myself. The lyrics had gotten stuck in my head from the radio and I was adamantly refusing to question why I related to them so much that I wanted to buy the song for my phone. _"See I'm just too scared to tell you the truth, 'cause my heartache can't take any more. Broken and bruised, longing for you and I don't know what I'm waiting for…"_

I was almost to the chorus and had taken the heat off of the bubbling coffee when a quiet, tentative knock on the door interrupted me. I cut my voice off, more embarrassed than alarmed, and looked down at myself while I emptied my hands to go check it out. Yeah. I was _not_ dressed appropriately for someone who _wasn't_ personally involved with the penthouse's resident.

The door was locked, so I went over to it to check it out anyway and looked through the peephole. A woman I'd only met twice before was on the other side, looking towards the wall with forced interest while she waited, thrumming her fingers over her folded arms. Voluminous brunette hair rolled down her shoulders and framed her face, dark mascara brought out her eyes, and gloss made her kissable lips shine.

 _At least this time she's not wearing a skirt she can take off,_ I thought sarcastically, unlocking the door. She couldn't raise any alarm about me being pants-less in Neal's apartment without me arresting her, and con artists had stronger self-preservation impulses than moral compasses.

"Alex," I observed, cocking my head at her. She stared at me with wide eyes, honey brown eyes glancing down to my boxers before she looked up again and closed her mouth with a click of teeth.

"Fed." Was her eloquent answer, surprised to come face-to-face with me so abruptly, but not making a fuss about it. The shock was either gone or concealed seconds later, and she nodded, holding a suede brown purse that complimented her tan trench coat in the crook of her elbow.

For a long minute, the two of us just stared at each other. I pursed my lips and chewed on the inside of my cheek. _Well, this is awkward._ Alex tried to smile friendlily, but she faltered and then looked over my shoulder, eyes wandering through what she could see of the apartment, checking out everything but my face. The only way it could have been worse is if she'd started claiming to be dating June and stuttering about how she was named after a character from _Great Expectations._

Alex finally looked back to my face, took a deep breath, and held up a hand, motioning with her thumb over her shoulder, back down the hallway to the rest of the manor. "I can come back later," she offered hastily, picking up her shoulders and chuckling nervously.

I shook my head and stepped aside. "No, don't." My invitation left a bitter taste in my mouth, but I remembered what Mozzie had said about needing to get into contact with the fence about the music box, and that convinced me to be polite. I didn't need to trust Alex to be okay with her coming to see Neal; I just needed to trust Neal, which I did. "Come on in."

The fence came in slowly. I pushed the door shut behind her and twisted the lock. The only other person who might need to be in the ensuing conversation would just pick the lock, anyway.

"No threats this time?" Alex asked a little bit nervously, fidgeting with her purse. I imagined being in the same room as a federal agent made her feel a little less than secure, especially without fury to fall back on as a defense.

I held up a hand and waved it away. "I told you to get out and you got out. My temper's cooled." I wasn't over it, not by a longshot; her reckless actions had blown Neal's cover and almost got him killed. The agent in me was pissed, but I, as a friend and lover, was still just as incensed. I just had to keep telling myself that she was key to protecting Katie from the heartache of Fowler coming back.

She looked like she wasn't buying it. _Wise girl._ I walked past her to the kitchenette and turned around to lean against the fridge, subtly drawing her attention to the oversized men's clothes I wore, holding Neal's shirt closed and pulling my hair out from underneath the collar. _Mine,_ I conveyed meaningfully. If she threatened his life, his freedom, or my relationship again, then I wasn't going to be nearly as hospitable.

"Look, I figure that no matter what I do, you and Neal are going to get up to things the law doesn't condone." I held out a hand like a truce. Alex didn't move to take it, just looked as if she expected me to have a knife hidden up the sleeve. I huffed. "I'd rather be present and know how I can protect him than to be oblivious for a little peace of mind."

_A year ago, I'd have arrested her._

_A year ago, I wasn't stupidly attached to a conman. I know what I'm getting into and praying for the best, and running interference to keep anyone else from putting themselves in the same position._

Alex surveyed me. I turned around and poured some coffee for Neal. "You really weren't doing anything other than identifying me," she called to me, letting her bemusement show again. "When you took my prints," she added, as if I wasn't sure what she was referring to. "No one I've talked to knows I got close to the FBI, and nothing suspicious has happened since." I snorted while pouring some caffeine into my mug and Alex amended herself with a smirk. "Well, nothing suspicious of police involvement, at least."

I turned back around to her and leaned over the island. Alex hovered between the sofa and the counter, unsure where she was supposed to go and exactly how many landmines there were for her to avoid. I liked that she wasn't making herself at home. Neal's space wasn't hers to be at home in anymore.

She wasn't going to cooperate unless she knew what angle I was playing from, so I told her with as little detail as I could while still getting across the importance of the music box. "This treasure has put Neal, myself, and both of our sisters in danger." I locked eyes with Alex solemnly to make sure she understood. "If he thinks you can help, I'm not going to try to put you in a place where you can't."

Something passed between us, a kind of understanding from me to Alex. The brunette raised her chin slightly, face curious but guardedly so, and she looked around the penthouse again for Neal.

"Coffee?" I offered, knowing that by now, Neal had certainly heard our voices and would be coming inside at any moment.

Alex glanced at the percolator and made a displeased face. "No, thanks. I had some this morning. Hotel coffee."

"Yuck," I remarked blandly.

She raised her eyebrows, a quirky smile crossing her face while she mischievously winked at me. "You haven't been staying at the right hotels."

Right as I ground my teeth and despised how comfortable she was getting to be, Neal entered from the open door to the rooftop. "Alex?" He asked, recognizing her voice. When he saw her, his hands moved quickly to his chest and pulled the robe across, closing it to cover most of his torso.

With a guilty look at me, he tied the fleece belt around his middle to keep the robe closed. He was totally comfortable walking around shirtless with Mozzie around, and Alex was a former flame, so she'd seen him completely naked before. It was a gesture meant for me, not for either of them; a way of promising that Alex didn't have those liberties anymore.

And this way, there was no chance of her seeing the tattoo-like wing on his lower back. My skin crawled at the thought that she might have already seen it, touched it, but there was nothing I could do about that. It just felt so private, so inherently intimate and personal, that I hadn't even let my former partners before Neal touch my soulmark, always wearing gloves. It wasn't just a tattoo. It was a connection to my perfect match. Neal didn't have the same issue with keeping it close to the vest… and he didn't mind when I touched, so he probably never had when Alex had been in his arms, either, I recalled with a sinking heart and a bitter taste rising in my mouth. Sometimes it was hard to keep in mind that Neal still wasn't aware of how deeply the connection between us ran.

"I got your message." I hadn't expected it, but Alex was even cooler addressing Neal than she had been when talking to me. She held her arms out to indicate herself. "I'm here. What do you want, Neal?"

Neal strode off the step onto the even level of the parlor and kitchenette, leaving the sliding door open. "I want the music box," he answered, deceptively languid in his tone while he came to join me by the fridge.

Alex scoffed while Neal lowered his head to my shoulder, kissing the back of my neck and parting my hair, pushing it over my shoulders to make it easier to reach my neck. Alex stared at a point just behind me while she locked eyes with Neal. It was uncomfortable for me, but I recognized that he was making a point while adorning me with affection, so I didn't snap at them for making me the centerpiece.

No matter how collected Alex may have been last time about deducing Neal had a significant other, she was less than thrilled to have it flaunted in front of her. "I think you have a memory problem," she told him sharply with a snide addition to her voice. The fence acted as though she didn't see his hands traveling down to my sides and wrapping around me, holding me to him respectfully and resting his cheek against my hair, jaw touching my ear. "Because I said that as long as you're a fed, I'm not telling you where it is." She nodded towards Neal. "You're still with them, right?"

I scowled at her. "What am I, invisible?"

Neal's fingers tightened into my hips. If it weren't for our guest, I could easily imagine him assuring me that that wasn't the case. The warmth and comfort of having someone trustworthy literally guarding my back made me feel more secure than just facing Alex on my own.

She smiled at me saccharinely. We didn't like each other. That was no secret. "There are always things that can be done about one fed going off the reservation," she told me with an air of condescension. _Does she think I should have_ _ **experience**_ _with this sort of situation?_ "Hypothetically, I can always make deals if it gets to that point. We don't have to trust each other, just each other's career preservation."

I grit my teeth. I was supposed to be intimidating. I had the power to make her life hell, and she wanted to treat me like I was dense because she had to see the proof that Neal wanted me. It was like Mozzie all over again – I put myself in enough compromising positions so that I couldn't raise the alarm on her without facing a lot of blowback myself, except with Mozzie, I never particularly felt the urge to blow the whistle.

Alex sighed. "A blinking tracking monitor, however, can't be negotiated with." Pointedly, she lowered her eyes to Neal's and my feet, looking to his left foot where his sweatpants covered up the anklet she knew he wore. "There's nothing to talk about."

She moved to leave. Neal didn't even hesitate before he let go of me. Internally I sighed, but saw the importance of keeping her cooperation. My boyfriend intercepted her, cutting her off before she could reach the door.

"I'll make it worth your while," he promised with a charming grin. Luckily for him, he drew the line before he started acting downright flirtatious. "You need me to get it. That means you need _us._ " _Neal and me. We're a team._ Having that acknowledged by an independent career criminal made me hold myself a little taller, walking around the counter to come up behind Alex.

Alex snorted. "No, I don't," she denied.

"Then how come you don't already have it?" I questioned intently. If she didn't need help, then what was stopping her from pursuing what she clearly wanted?

"I'll steal it and give it to you." Neal proposed enticingly.

She crossed her arms and raised an eyebrow. "Just like that?" Alex checked out my expression over her shoulder. I knew that if I mirrored Neal's, I would just seem suspicious, so instead I crossed my arms like she was doing and nodded with a straight face.

"Just like that," Neal repeated in confirmation.

She narrowed her eyes. "I don't believe you," she declared, loosening her arms. "You'll just hand it over?"

"Yeah," Neal promised, sounding sincere. His slight, handsome smile grew. "… When I'm done with it," he concluded.

Alex snorted. I had to ask myself if it was really necessary that he admit to that last part. "I knew there was a catch," she accused, halfheartedly prodding Neal's breastbone through his robe. "What's this _really_ about? How is the music box going to help your sisters?"

"It's a long story," I answered before Neal could, catching his eye. I was adamant that Alex be kept on a need-to-know basis, and she needed to know very little of the surrounding context. I may trust Neal to be loyal to me, but I didn't trust Alex to honor her word, and wasn't going to give her extra info. Knowledge is power. "And, like you said, there isn't any test of career preservation in place to convince me to tell you. … Yet."

"You get to keep the box in the end," Neal stated, clearing his voice and his expression to be as honest as I had ever seen him, excluding the conversations in bed while we held each other and talked about anything and nothing. He was most honest when he felt safe and loved. Alex didn't give him those feelings any longer. "That's the offer."

Alex looked down to his ankle again, still hung up on the risk of getting caught because of the tracker that the conman was forced to wear. I had to reluctantly admit to myself that I understood her wariness. If the operation was crashed, it wouldn't be hard to find us while Neal wore a GPS, and if there was a reason for his anklet to be followed, then there was likely going to be probable cause for her arrest, as well.

Alex was not the kind of woman whom I could see faring well in prison.

Yet, ultimately, she was a criminal, and no one without a taste for danger and wildness would be able to stay in that line of work. Having it be about something she'd been chasing on her own for so long was just icing. "Okay," she conceded slyly. Just the way she said it let us both know there was a caveat. Neal and I traded a look of worry. " _If_ you figure out how to get the anklet off." Alex finished, pointing down.

Neal scowled at her and protested, shifting his footing as he became more conscious of the constant unnatural weight on one leg. "I'm not wearing this as a fashion accessory," he hissed to her, insulted by how lightly she was taking it.

He handled it well, but the anklet was essentially a pair of advanced and tamperproof handcuffs, chafing on his dignity with every mark it left on his skin. I wasn't going to start disagreeing with that he needed to wear it – not after having it had conveniently given me a way of saving him on more than one occasion – but he didn't need to explain to me how absolutely horrific it must feel to be on a human version of a leash. I couldn't wait for it to be taken off so that I could hold his hand in public without one of us having a near-death experience first. He couldn't wait because he wanted his freedom and his pride back. A comment like that, from someone like Alex… well, it was no surprise that it ruffled his feathers.

She shrugged, not particularly empathetic to his feelings about the subject. "Well, when the time comes, I need to know that you can get off your leash." She emphasized the word 'leash' and flicked her eyes to me. My eyes darkened. I was _not_ some owner who yanked Neal's chain and barked at him to heel and sit on command. If she knew half of the laws I broke for him – if she knew how few steps I took in my own relationship, just so that I was always certain Neal knew there was no obligation on his part…

"There are a couple of ways," I said coldly to her, glaring dangerously at her hair. The sad thing was that if it wasn't for the drama over Neal, I could've seen us getting along. Neal subtly shook his head at me. Instead of talking to Alex, I fixed my eyes on his face and just spoke to him. His encouraging expression was much easier to talk to than Alex's closed off, crass, and snarky face. "We already know that someone's done it before, back in the diamond heist. Through the Marshals' office." I bit my lip and held up a hand to him in suggestion. "Or if we convinced the bureau to let you clip it for a case…"

Alex rolled her shoulders back, pleased with herself. "Sounds like you've got the grounds to make a plan." She moved around Neal, who sighed up at the ceiling and shuffled around to watch her back as she retreated for the door. As a last thought, she turned back around while her fingers smoothly twisted the lock. "I'll come back tomorrow at six. Lose the blinking jewelry, and you'll get what you need."

She left Neal and I standing alone in the penthouse, Neal burning with humiliation at the way that his former associates apparently thought of him. _Pet. Liability. Subpar._ He used to be the best in the business, and now he was a joke among his old circles; the conniving thief reformed into a lapdog for an FBI agent. I was fuming for a different reason that really wasn't as important as Neal's wounds. I made jokes about his ego, but Alex had really hit where it hurt. Those words to Neal… they were to him what Ruiz's taunts about my demotion were to me.

I reached for his hand and twisted our fingers together, holding both of our hands against my bare thigh until he turned and wrapped me up in his arms wordlessly, burying his face in my neck and letting his thick hair tickle my face. I cupped the back of his head with as much silent reassurance as I could offer and stared at the closed door.

I wanted Fowler out of my life enough to put up with Alex, but if every visit with her was going to end with my mate upset and seeking comfort in my arms, then she and I were going to have to have a long, wordy, and serious talk.

* * *

While the elevator carried us up to the twenty-first floor of the building, Neal finished fiddling with a piece of soft, bright pink paper and shuffled his feet so he was turned to face me, holding out the finished product with a slightly proud smile. He ran a hand through his hair, careful not to mess it up too much, and pushed the flower towards my chest.

"Pretty," I remarked, taking the origami. Neal had a bad habit of folding paper products when he was bored. Katie had been sorting through stationary while Neal and I were supposed to be working; I'd gone upstairs to change out the laundry and when I'd come back down, he was teaching my sister how to make origami roses, and a few cranes had been fashioned out of Katie's unused letters. "I'm not too sure you should be giving me these at work, though – aren't you kind of known for leaving these things with incriminating messages in them?"

It was the same kind of origami flower that he had found in the flower bouquet at Kate's father's grave – and, he told me in case it ever came up, he had taught Alex to use them, too. No one suspected sinister motives from giving a girl a pretty piece of paper crafts, so they'd been a safe way for him to slip them both messages. He hadn't been writing things in them when he made them for me, but I wasn't sure many of the stricter agents would be satisfied with the explanation.

"It's okay this time. I skipped the 'incriminating message' part." Neal assured me, grinning and glancing down at our shoes. The elevator made a buzzing sound and the doors slid open. A look at the panel over the controls showed that we were at our destination. I took Neal by the elbow and led him out. Neal twisted his arm out of my grip, only to bring his hand behind me and splay his fingers against my back to guide. "I didn't have a pen."

I stopped and looked up at him, huffing through my nose. Neal smirked and kept his eyes fixed ahead of us. Shaking my head, I shoved open the double doors to the WCCD and led him through. Was implying that his lack of writing utensils was the only reason _really_ necessary?

"Oh." Neal stopped a few feet in from the doors, leaving me enough room to comfortably enter, but stood still from there. He looked up to the conference room with his head tilted and face guarded uncertainly. "Who's that?" He asked me.

Whether he meant to or not, he'd gotten a little touchier around newer agents. It was subtle. Around anyone else, he was outwardly all smiles and trademark Caffrey confidence. In private, and nonverbally, it was another story. If an unknown variable was encountered, he edged closer to me. When an agent he hadn't known a couple of weeks ago came to speak with me, Neal had stayed close to the wall and piped down until I smiled at him and asked for his input on that agent's case, trying to tell him it was okay. She had been one of the more optimistic ones, more willing to have faith in Neal that he'd learned his lesson from his first conviction. To anyone else, Neal would've just been being polite, but I had seen the way he analyzed newcomers when they weren't watching him.

We switched positions. I covered his lower back with my hand and looked up through the glass floor-to-ceiling windows. The blinds were up, so it was easy to see inside. Hughes was easy to spot, the well-known supervisor that he was, but the one Neal didn't recognize was a bright red-haired woman in three-inch heels and a pinstriped grey pantsuit, with an angular, Germanic face, slim body, and long limbs.

I grimaced. _Since when do the TV stars decide to shoot in the unglamorous WCCD?_ We hardly got any coverage. Someone with her propensity for the media should've been with Ruiz in organized crime.

"Ugh," I groaned shortly, summarizing my feelings on her succinctly. Neal raised an eyebrow and looked at me in surprise, torn between _what's wrong_ and _that's all?_ On one hand, I clearly didn't like her, but on the other, I didn't have much supporting evidence why not to. I waved up towards the conference room at her lazily. "Agent Kimberly Rice. She's what some would call a rising star in the bureau."

"You don't sound like a fan," Neal noted, looking back up at her with a little bit more interest.

"I'm not a fan of many people I haven't met," I said, choosing my words carefully. I was a little bit jealous of her, but my dislike was more than just petty envy. "She works with kidnapping cases primarily; that puts her in a position to be a really mean agent. Conversely, she could also be a really compassionate one. Considering how much airtime she gets on TV, and how she jumps at the chance to end up on the news, I'm going to go for the former." I looked up at Neal. "Compassionate agents are the ones that don't do it for the fame. Diana may be rough, but she's compassionate. Figure out the difference quickly, Neal, because trusting the wrong kind of passion can get you into trouble."

All too easily, too. I had tried to trust Ruiz in the brief time that I'd been partnered with him, and all I'd gotten out of it was harassment, stress, and a call in front of our supervisors before the relationship was permanently severed. I shuddered to think of what might have happened if Ruiz would have had something to gain from misinforming me. He'd have taken it in an instant. Keller was more dangerous, but I'd sooner work with Matthew than Ruiz. Keller was easier to predict. Ruiz's position in the bureau gave him an authority that worked against anyone he didn't like, unless they were high enough to step on him.

I swallowed back the memories and checked out Neal's expression. He was frowning at the redhead and trying to decipher her from where we stood. I patted his back softly and dropped my hand. Thankfully, he wouldn't need to learn how to tell what kind of front different people were putting up, or what other agents' motives were. He had me to do that for him, and, being far more familiar with office politics, I was more skilled with it to begin with.

"What's she doing here in White-Collar?" Neal queried, looking between Rice and I as if we were best friends and shared everything.

 _The hell would I know?_ I shrugged. "Don't know." Maybe he was just looking to take a cue from me. Different agents would respond better to different demeanors; for example, some people were more inclined to be on Neal's side if they saw him as a quiet and intelligent CI. Others were more in his favor if they saw him as a playful, friendly fixture in the department.

In standing at a good place to look into the conference room, we were also standing in clear view of the people inside. Hughes happened to look to his right, his face annoyed, and he locked eyes on me. Instantly, he started to seek out Neal, expecting for my consultant to be flagging nearby. He pointed at Neal through the glass wall with two fingers and stiffly beckoned him to join the two already inside.

Neal twisted around to look at me, rocking up onto his toes. "I just got the finger point," he remarked in complaint, face twisting unhappily. Hughes' expression coupled with his pointing usually spelt bad news for the two of us. He was well-known for it in the WCCD.

"The _double_ finger point," I amended for him, whistling lowly and bringing my hand back up to his back. I gave my consultant a little push to get him moving, leading the reluctant man towards the mezzanine.

Neal kept looking back to the conference room with increasing concern. "Whatever I did," he started, reaching for my other hand and grabbing my wrist. "I have _proof_ I didn't do it," he vowed seriously. I rolled my eyes and gave him a harder push at the top of the steps. Neal put his shoulders down and trudged in front of me.

"You sound convincing," I pointed out, unamused.

Although I tried not to outwardly show it, and further unsettle Neal, I was a little nervous, too. Rice would have nothing to do with Neal's work-release, and considering that there weren't US Marshals present, it seemed a safe assumption that whatever it was, it wasn't about his deal; other than that, however, I had no idea, and having an agent who handled abductions somehow involved didn't seem like a good sign.

"Rice," I greeted levelly, keeping a hand at Neal's back protectively. It was both to show that I was going to back up my consultant if he was being accused of something and to show that I trusted him and his safety mattered to me. Making a good impression like that, no matter how subtle, had an effect.

The redhead nodded at me, curly hair bouncing over her shoulders. Unlike me, she chose to wear hers down. Her gun was at her side, her bright hazel eyes sparkled, and her lips had a pink tint that underscored her light complexion. Rice wasn't as pale, but she did wear clothes that both made her look more fit and shapelier, emphasizing her bust and wearing tighter pants where I preferred clothes that didn't draw unnecessary attention to my feminine aspects.

"Anderson." She stuck out her hand. I guessed she'd either seen pictures of me or Hughes had said who I was. While we were being nice, we shook hands. She had a firm grip and sharp fingernails. The woman had first gone to college for creative writing and had a masters' in journalism, so although she hadn't been in the FBI for as long, she was close to my age. She moved past me, letting go of my arm and reaching for Neal's, who responded in kind to match her attitude. "And you must be _the_ Neal Caffrey. Agent Kimberly Rice."

As Rice gave Neal a confident smile with one side of her mouth pulled up higher in a sort-of smirk, he gave her a charismatic expression in return. "I've just heard wonderful things about you," he said, glancing to the side at me and tucking his hands back into his pockets.

Hughes cleared his throat, but not before sending me a suspicious look at Neal's words. He probably had a pretty good idea of what my opinion was: Rice deserved my civility as a human being, but she would have to earn my respect for her skills as an agent. "Let's get straight to it," he said, rubbing his hands together and shoving a file around on the table. He sent it skidding towards our end of the table. "We've got a ransom situation."

_Well, that explains Rice, and me, but why's Neal involved?_

The folder had a profile picture of a young woman, only nineteen years old, with a curtain of soft brown hair to her upper back and pretty, sky blue eyes. There was a plain background behind her, like the photo had been taken for a license or official form of ID. The collar of a purple turtleneck was just in the frame before the bottom of the picture.

"Name's Lindsay Gless," Rice crossed her arms and nodded to the file, inviting Neal and I to take a look as if I hadn't already done so. "She was grabbed last night in a home invasion. She's the daughter of Stuart Gless."

I made a disappointed sound in the back of my throat, a low whine that lasted for a couple of seconds before I cut it off. Well, at least that explained why Hughes wanted Neal.

"Okay, he didn't kidnap Lindsay," I rushed to declare, holding my hands to Neal, one on his shoulder and the other closer to his hip, showing him off as harmless. "But, um, there kind of _is_ proof that he screwed over her father." Apologetically, I winced. Neal shrugged, but with a grimace on his face.

Stuart Gless was the current manager of Atlantic Partners, an overseas stockholding company that Neal had forged bonds for. Gless had testified against Neal in court, alongside an accountant, a forensic specialist, Peter Burke, and several miscellaneous minor authorities whose statements may not have gotten him convicted, had they not had the backing of the more notable testimonies. The Atlantic Partners bonds were the one charge that Peter had actually managed to get Neal on.

 _Of all the people,_ I groaned internally. _It had to be him._ Not that I'd particularly want _anyone_ kidnapped, but _come on._ Kidnapping Lindsay was really inconvenient.

Neal held up both of his hands defensively to Rice, but switched his focus to Hughes, recognizing that the oldest agent had the most influence. "Those bonds were _years_ ago, and I'd _never_ kidnap someone's daughter to get back at them," he vowed. I nodded and ran my hand down his back before crossing my arms again, vouching for him intently. If Neal wanted to get back at someone, he'd have stolen fine art, not a _person_ – and he wasn't much of a revenge kind of guy, anyway. "What do you want _me_ for?"

Rice glanced at Hughes. "You have a history with our prime suspect," the kidnapping "expert" explained, pushing aside the top page in the file. The focus on Lindsay's picture was replaced by an interest in the rap sheet underneath.

Their suspect was the complete opposite of Lindsay – at least, in appearance. Lindsay was barely five foot four, but the rap sheet said that the African-American criminal with the sleek tie was as tall as Neal. His head was shaved, his face looked mean and cold, and his eyes were expressionless for the camera. The only sign of personality was a condescending tilt of his head to one side as the picture was taken, the equivalent of a sneer to the person on the other side.

"Ryan Wilkes. You know him?" Hughes prompted, already well aware that Neal knew the man on the page. High-end criminals that operated in the same spaces usually did have at least a general awareness of each other; they weren't the same class, as Wilkes was more of a blue-collar kind of guy, but Neal would've kept tabs on Wilkes just so that he could stay out of the way.

However, despite the overwhelming chatter that ultimately resulted in the consensus that Neal knew exactly who Wilkes was, the conman wasn't eager to admit to it. Looking physically unwell, he slowly twisted his torso to look at me. He wouldn't outright lie and say no to the question, but he wasn't very keen on confirming anything, either.

I nodded my assent and touched his elbow, pushing his arm out towards the redhead. _Go on._ Neal couldn't be held responsible for Lindsay's kidnapping, thanks to his tracker, if nothing else, and with a missing girl, no one was going to care about a street contact from close to five years ago.

That assured, Neal grimaced and waved in the direction of the mug shot. "Yeah. He runs his own little crime syndicate." The displeased lift to his lips was enough of an indicator what Neal thought about said syndicate. "They work everything from grand theft auto to extortion."

"And you used to run with him," Rice filled in, seeking out verbal affirmation.

I narrowed my eyes. For all intents and purposes, Neal had already admitted to being involved with Wilkes in some capacity. Pushing for him to confess to more than was necessary to secure Lindsay's safety was taking on too much at once, and I was not going to stand by while she tried to bully him into saying something incriminating.

Before Neal could confirm, deny, or redirect, I took a step forward with my right foot, placing myself not only closer to Rice, but between she and Neal.

"Let's say that, hypothetically, there was an attempted partnership, and Wilkes was allegedly a little – or a lot – too violent for his tastes." I explained smoothly, moving the discussion along. I didn't know what Rice wanted, other than presumably information on Wilkes, but if it wasn't relevant to recovering Lindsay, she wasn't going to get it. "What makes him your suspect?"

I hoped it was paranoia when I thought I saw a smirk trying to take over her face. The last thing I needed was for her to enjoy making a serious case into a game of get-blackmail-on-the-ex-con.

"Chatter from our CIs puts Wilkes in town. We also found traces of plastic clay on a lock at the crime scene." Crossing her arms sassily, Rice turned her head to Neal and raised her eyebrows once, an invitation if I ever saw one.

"He made a copy of the key," Neal sighed to me and Hughes. "It's his MO. And _that's_ why they want me."

Well, if Neal was convinced... I couldn't very well drag him out while a girl's life was in danger, not if there was even the possibility that he would be able to help. It would be hard enough keeping myself away from it. It was just cruel to dangle a case I would've jumped at right over my nose and not even be bringing it for _my_ consultation. But supposedly Rice knew what she was doing… Neal had special insider information, which I didn't. It wasn't a career thing, it was an intelligence thing.

"Alright, it's good reasoning." I fixed my eyes on Hughes. "Immunity for any alleged charges pressed for association?" The greying agent nodded and was waving his hand at me to move on before I'd even started, but I needed to say the entire sentence to get it on record. Neal protected, I elbowed him. "Got any light to shed on it?"

He pushed his hands into his trousers and rocked up onto his toes, holding his hips forward and leaning back. Neal made a point of avoiding everyone's eyes. "Stuart Gless likes to eat lunch at Restaurante Lorenzo every Thursday – at least, he used to. There's only one valet there, which makes it easy to get your hands on his keys." The artist continued to stare at the ceiling. Rice scoffed quietly. It was pretty obvious why Neal would have that information. "If Wilkes wanted to get into his house, he'd probably start there. I'd check the security tapes."

Despite her misgivings over Neal's less-than-stellar record, Rice nodded approvingly and surveyed him up and down. I bristled slightly and tried to hide my hostility. The ginger woman nodded over to Hughes and confided, "That's good." _What did you expect? Neal and I have the highest success rate in the division._ Clearing her throat, she raised her chin to me and confidently stated, "I'd like to borrow Caffrey for the remainder of my case."

The way she said it irked me – it wasn't a request, it was a command. _Fuck you, lady,_ I started to prickle with anger. _If you want an on-demand consultant, get your own. You don't boss around mine._

Much like when Neal had been recruited to resurrect his Nick Halden alias and go undercover, my aggravation wasn't purely selfless. While, yes, I didn't like the way she approached Neal, I was even more bothered by the way she completely overlooked me. How could she hold Neal in contempt, yet still be desperate enough to lower herself to ask for his assistance? And if she's _that_ desperate for leads, then why go to the _white-collar_ criminal when a blue-collar _specialist_ was not only in the same room, but in a better position to partner up? I didn't like Rice, but there was a lot that I would put up with to get back in my old game, and all rivalries were put aside when a life was in danger. Didn't she know that?

My smile was tense, but I couldn't force myself to lighten up, no matter how many times I repeated it as a mantra. I cocked my head and forced myself to smile at Rice semi-pleasantly and offer tightly, "Would you like to borrow me, too?"

Hughes shot me a very calculated warning glare. I kept my chin up. Most of the time I would've backed down, but not then. It was too much. Having to worry about Neal and having the sore spots pressed on at the same time was enough to make me Hulk out if the wrong thing was said. I wasn't out of blue-collar because I wanted to be, or because I wasn't exceptional at it, and I _deserved_ to have that acknowledged, after everything I put up with for it.

"Caffrey's proven he can take care of himself." Hughes stated, subtly discouraging me from pushing any further.

Next to me, Neal pulled his right arm across his torso and caught his elbow in his left hand. He shifted his feet but stayed right behind me, unwilling to move away. Although he didn't have nearly as much to be furious about, he was clearly not on board with being separated from the only FBI agent he had been with on every case, and any new agents were enough to make him somewhat nervous to begin with. Having the power to hold his leash passed to a stranger who had already showed signs of lacking regard for him must've left him wanting to protest, but he had no power over his custody.

Although I sympathized with Neal, my priorities were still more focused on my own treatment. Maybe that made me a horrible person. Maybe it just made me human. "Neal Caffrey is under my custody," I said evenly, mostly to Rice. Hughes wouldn't sign off on it if she was convinced to work otherwise. He knew that Neal and I worked best with each other. "And you want to… take him out from under my supervision, place him in a kidnapping situation – which, by the way, he has no experience with – in which the perpetrator is someone whom very likely wants to violently kill him," Neal cringed, "And do so without me present? Whereas I would only be an asset, having far more expertise and training, as well as higher education more relevant to the profession?" I couldn't help myself.

I could already see Rice getting riled up, just failing to conceal it as well as I could. She was offended, especially by that I called her degree less relevant than mine. It was true, though – a degree in behavioral psychology with a focus in criminology was a much more relevant credential than a masters in writing.

"Agent Rice knows how to handle CIs," Hughes intoned to mediate, sensing a problem and attempting to put it to rest. "If you get worried, you can check his tracker to see where he is, and he has a phone." Hughes raised his chin to me. If we'd been alone he'd have snapped at me to back off, but he didn't want to make things worse by humiliating me in front of the redheaded agent. "Try to remember that while holding his custody does grant you the right to be aware of his whereabouts, it doesn't entitle you to holding his hand and deciding which cases he assists and stays away from."

I seethed, glowering at Hughes vehemently in a way I had never done before. He pretended not to see it. _Holding his custody doesn't,_ I snarled mentally. _Being his friend does. Being his significant other does. For God's sake, society's spent my entire life drilling it into my head that being his soulmate means I'm expected to hold his hand_!

"Neal, starting immediately, you report to Agent Rice." Hughes commanded, staring around at the three of us and expecting further argument. Rice looked far too smug.

I wondered if she'd look as smug if I broke her face.

Displeasure made me vibrate. Embarrassment made me clench my fists. Why couldn't anyone just see that I wasn't suddenly a terrible agent because I'd been demoted? Why did moving to white-collar make me lower on the food chain? I still did my job, I was still excellent at it, and I had people to take care of. It would've been irresponsible to take someone's custody full-time while traveling and chasing killers the way I had been.

A case that would have been shoved at me insistently two years ago was being dangled just out of my reach, paraded through my own offices, and ensnaring someone very close to me in a way that only made him less safe. To add insult to injury, I wasn't even being permitted the authority to stay appraised of the situation that Neal was in, effectively stripping me of my powers as his guardian.

Which, I admit, was kind of weird to think. He was a grown man, not a little kid who needed constant protection. After all the time I had to think that I had his custody to fall back on, that I would be able to claim a right to know what was up with him, it felt like the rug was ripped out from under me not to have that. Realistically, it was only for a few days at maximum… yet it had only been a few seconds and I already felt like my head was being shoved underwater.

 _She won't protect him,_ the terrified voice in my head taunted me. _She'll let him get hurt and won't even think about telling you._

An unwanted visual of Neal, shot by Wilkes with blood blooming out from his chest and turning his shirt crimson, made me pale and shiver, back straightening. I snapped my spare ponytail holder against my wrist. _Talk about a waking nightmare._ Being the only one to notice, Neal utilized the fact that he was behind me to take one of my hands and rub his fingers into my palm, working pressure against the bones.

"Good." Rice nodded, smug and satisfied. The brat had gotten her way. I turned my wrist suddenly and caught one of Neal's hands. He stilled, but relaxed when he realized that all I was doing was holding onto his wrist and feeling his pulse. "Now that we're all on the same page, let's start with an easy one. When's the last time that you saw Wilkes?"

 _This isn't a consultation, this is an interrogation,_ I tensed, shoulders raising.

Neal squeezed my hand quickly, stopping me from saying something that would only get me in trouble. "Probably when he tried to kill me," he said to Rice flatly, eyes dull and unimpressed.

It was probably a good thing that I wasn't the only one who wanted to contest the amount of care that Hughes assumed Rice would dedicate to Neal's wellbeing. My mate didn't sound like he felt safe or guarded by her.

* * *

Nine times out of ten, when I didn't get what I wanted at work, I still stayed behind and was productive. There was always something that could be done, even if it could just as easily be accomplished by someone else. The catch was that in doing so, I would've devoted myself to another task, another case – another agent's time, if I ended up taking a full case. So, instead, I cited a migraine and went home. I had plenty of sick days and vacation days that I hadn't used. The times I could get off didn't frequently align with Kate's, so they just accumulated, and I liked powering through sinuses and minor illnesses, just locking myself up in my office on paperwork until I was healthy enough to go out into the field.

The idea of working on a case without Neal was… unsettling. It felt like it would've been weird to do it alone, and I felt strangely like I was betraying him when I considered inviting Diana out with me. Which was completely dumb, because I had a responsibility to have Diana accompany me frequently enough to actually learn so that she could one day stop being my probationary agent. I never had an issue with doing casework with other people before, so I chalked it up to unease with having Neal working on a case without _me._ And alongside an agent I didn't trust, at that.

I had little against Rice personally, and I could admit in the privacy of my own head that a lot of my grudges with her were because of my own bitterness. I had never claimed to be a selfless person. I could throw my life on the line for someone else in an instant, and I frequently did with blue-collar crimes, but I could be petty and I had an ego. Most of the time I knew how to control it, but sometimes it got away from me.

Had things been different, I'd have gotten over it. I'd been upset with Hughes for a little while, and I wouldn't be happy to know Neal was in the field without my protection, but I'd have gotten over it. Sadly, that was not the case. Rice may not have deserved the hostility I'd held the moment I walked into that door, but by the time I was dismissed out of it, she had warranted a fair amount of suspicion, if for nothing other than concern for Neal. The way she acted and spoke to him… well, I wouldn't be too surprised if Neal came back from Rice with a snarky attitude rivalling mine.

I let Kate choose the TV show and sat up on the couch, looking at the monitor absently. I processed Alexis Bledel on the screen, but couldn't have repeated the dialogue even a few seconds after it was spoken. I stared intently at the monitor, not really seeing it, instead worried about Wilkes and Rice. I knew one of them was most definitely untrustworthy. Rice was a wild card.

I didn't like wild cards.

On one hand, I couldn't really blame her for her hesitance to treat Neal with the same respectful collaboration as another agent. I hadn't, at first. I'd had to work with him for a while to find a middle ground for us both. Would she even try? Was she going to hold herself up on a pedestal in comparison to the convicted felon? Sometimes, select people in the bureau, disappointed as I was with them, didn't always seem to remember that Neal was human. They treated the anklet as though it were a collar, not a tracker, and their behavior towards him corresponded. What Rice needed to remember was that Neal was a trusted member of my team, and he deserved to be held to the same expectations. The visiting agent couldn't demand that he perform a magic trick and be pissed off when he couldn't do the impossible. He was a conman, not a magician, and she needed to be realistic in what she asked of him.

I had no assurance that she would consider any of this. Why should she? Rice didn't have hours to spend sitting on the couch and watching girls on TV whine about boyfriend issues and bracelets. She had a kidnapped girl to find. Since there was evidently _no one else_ in the _entire_ bureau qualified to help, she would have to focus all of her energies on finding Lindsay.

I'd never approved of vigilante justice before, but if I'd known where Lindsay was, I would've seriously considered doing a solo rescue mission, both to eliminate Neal getting in the way of Wilkes and to prove that Rice wasn't _the best,_ no holds barred. Maybe I wasn't, either, but I didn't think it was ridiculous to want the respect that I had earned.

Kate tapped on her keyboard in between scenes, peeking up to the TV to see what she was missing every time she finished a sentence in writing her letters to parents. "We're kind of like the Gilmore girls, you know?" She asked me cheerily, hitting the save shortcut for her document before continuing. She nudged my leg with her foot. I grunted to show I was conscious.

She didn't seem to care that I wasn't the most engaging partner. "You'd be Lorelai," she decided. "I mean, it works. You've got the well-off and posh parents, the nutso best friend… Although yours allegedly commits crime instead of changes recipes last minute…" I frowned slightly. Would Neal or Mozzie count as the Sookie to my Lorelai? Neal was the first guess, but he was hardly as nuts as Moz. Kate jumped and effectively startled me into doing the same. "Hey, remember when I went to the Bangles reunion concert? I'm already Rory from season one! Oh, but that means I need to date Jared Padalecki…" she frowned and nudged me harder with her toes. "Kenzi, are you listening?"

"Yes," I answered plainly on autopilot.

"… Right." Clearly, she didn't believe me. I almost felt guilty, but I was preoccupied with other things. She knew moving in with me that there would be days where I wasn't up for painting each other's fingernails and chattering. "Well, anyway, I got so invested in this thing that I decided, hey, I'm gonna try to date Jared Padalecki, so I called the Vancouver set and asked for Dean. Crazy thing, they thought I meant Dean _Winchester,_ so now I'm going on a date with Jensen Ackles."

What were the odds that I could find some way to get involved with Lindsay's kidnapping without requiring Rice's assent? Other than just barging in on my own. I couldn't technically consult for the bureau, what with already being an agent, but was there a rule about agents freelancing for other people? Maybe I could talk to Lindsay's dad…

Kate kept on going. I knew what she was saying but didn't have the focus to comment, and she took that as me ignoring her. "I know he's married, but come _on_ ," she joked. "He was so hot in _Dark Angel._ I think I'm gonna win him over and shove Danneel out of the picture." She paused. "What do you think?"

"That's great," I said distantly, realizing a second too late what she'd actually said.

Kate kicked my thigh.

"Ow!" My hands flew to my leg and I glared. "Jesus Christ, _ow!"_

My sister scowled at me, her laptop off of her legs and on the coffee table. I hadn't even noticed her moving it. "I can live with you spacing out," she started, her glare softening. She rearranged her legs comfortably again, showing that she was done being violent. "But not with you condoning me becoming one of those telenovela women that steal away married men with their seductive busts!" I sighed and slumped my shoulders, looking back at _Gilmore Girls_ petulantly. She shook her head. "Just stop pretending you're fine. It's okay to admit you're worried." She sounded and looked exasperated.

"I am not worried about Neal," I disagreed, crossing my arms and making myself smaller on the sofa. Her face was skeptical and dry. I huffed. "Neal is a grown man who is more than capable of handling himself, which we all know from experience. He's very street-smart." And book-smart, at that, but book-smarts wouldn't be as useful to him when his first priority was ensuring his own safety under Rice's dictatorship. "And he knows better than to let her boss him into doing something stupid."

"Uh-huh," the light brunette agreed sarcastically. Her voice was not convincing. She shifted and stretched and closed the lid of her laptop. "It's not Neal that you don't trust. You don't trust the new agent, and you're jealous that she took away your best friend – whom you have been practically glued to at the hip, by the way, I think you'll survive a couple of days apart – and you're insulted that they didn't put you on the case with him, because you can handle killers, so you can handle Wilkes, and better than some fresh blood at the bureau who's got a pretty face and a particular penchant for getting on the news at the expense of safety and empathy." Cue her rolling eyes. I winced. Maybe I wasn't as good at explaining things without bias as I had hoped.

"Stop reading my mind." I commanded. "It's freaky." Kate grinned cheekily and shook her head that she wouldn't. I paused the TV, finding the remote dangerously close to falling between the couch cushions. "You're right, though," I expressed reluctantly. "I don't trust Rice."

The teacher sat up and pulled her hands through her streak-dyed hair, fixing the messy hairdo and pushing the bobby pins further back, holding her fringe out of her soft and bright-eyed face. "Please elaborate," she frowned.

"Kimberly Rice. She's the agent who has him." _Has._ I grit my teeth and looked away from Kate and to the paused TV monitor. She didn't really _have_ Neal, did she? He was _with_ her, but she didn't _possess_ him. If anyone had him, it was me – maybe not legally, at the moment, but he was _my_ lover, not hers. It did occur to me that I sounded like a brat told to share her toys. "I'm not being overly possessive by wanting to be in the loop, am I?" I asked Kate unhappily.

She tilted her head and considered. I dropped my head back against the cushions behind me and groaned. That she had to think about it was an indication of its own, and I didn't feel too great about that. It wasn't promising. I wanted to _protect_ Neal, but I didn't want to be one of those girlfriends who acts like he's completely vulnerable without me.

"Normally," she said slowly, ignoring my reaction. "I'd say yes." I threw my arms up and groaned again, louder. "There's no rule against texting or calling him, or checking where he is, or anything like that; and you are in the bureau, so technically, if you want to know what's going on, Neal can update you himself."

 _Great._ So I _was_ overreacting. _Wonderful._ If nothing else, I could possibly cite Alex as a reason for my hovering and anxiety. Bad things happened when Alex was around. Namely, Neal was nearly murdered by an insane femme fatale.

" _But,_ not only are you used to being in the action, you're paranoid about your safety and Neal's, and with the things Garrett – I mean, Fowler – has done…" she stopped and swallowed thickly, looking down. I sat up straight, forgetting my moaning and griping. None of that inconsequential stuff mattered next to my sister's hurt feelings, and if I could've changed the topic so that she didn't have to think about the bastard that had hurt her, I'd have done it in a heartbeat. She just looked up and acted like she wasn't as affected as we both knew she was. I wish she would've talked to me about it, but more often than not, she wrote it off like it hadn't mattered. "… I can't really blame you for not trusting him alone out in the field, especially with someone violent who probably wants to intimately introduce Neal to a bullet."

My phone buzzed. "That's what I was afraid of," I shared while I opened up my text inbox. "No one cares as much as I do about Neal's safety, and Rice hasn't got the experience to judge Wilkes' trigger-happiness." If she got what seemed like an opportunity to get Lindsay, she'd take it, and I doubted she'd put much consideration forward to Neal. If she _did,_ I still wouldn't trust her word on it, because she hadn't been in the game long enough for me to feel even the most miniscule comfort from her opinion on whether or not someone I cared deeply for was safe with a lunatic or not.

_Hope Rice doesn't have a dog. She forgot to leave the windows down._

I gaped at the phone and inhaled deeply. "I don't believe it!" Somber concerns were blown aside by my indignant shout. Kate tried to stretch to read my phone. I turned it around for her. "She's treating him like a dog. She put him in the car like a _dog!"_

"You're kidding!" Kate exclaimed in dismay, frowning at the message sadly. I growled. It hadn't even been two hours, and Rice was already mistreating him. That had to be a record. It didn't bode well for any future probies of her own. "You never did that to him, even right after you got him out. You should go check it out and make sure she actually realizes he's a human," Kate pushed, shoving my phone back towards me.

"Crashing another agent's crime scene?" I hesitated verbally, but leapt off of the couch with no further encouragement. My shoes were kicked off in the hall, so I went to go put them on and bent over to tell the black loafers apart from Kate's ebony flats. "That's not polite!" I warned over my shoulder.

She snorted so loudly that I heard it all the way in another room. "You know what else isn't polite?" Without waiting for me to answer, she started to make a list. I pulled on my shoes and patted my pocket, checking that I had my keys and wallet. "Trying to scrub off someone's skin. Running cons. Shooting people. Punching people. Threatening people. You know, like, half of your interactions with other people aren't considered polite." Kate mused.

I'd heard enough. A wry smile twisted my lips, but I didn't want her to be encouraged. "That's it, I'm going," I yelled, poking my head back through the doorway into the living room. I smiled at her as she waved goodbye perkily. She had already extended her legs to take up the space I'd vacated, lying sideways on the couch. "I swear to God, if she's treating him badly, I'm going to be having words with her."

"Just remember that she has a gun, too," Kate advised loudly while I opened the door to storm out. "Stick to the words – but make them sting!"

* * *

Richard Gless's company hadn't made him as rich as Warren Buffet, but… well, there was a _reason_ Neal had chosen his company to forge bonds for. He owned a manor larger than June's in a residential area near Central Park. I traced Neal's anklet to the address on my phone and took a taxi to avoid getting into the midday traffic with my own vehicle. Once I got there, I found a small, chic black car parked out front and other vehicles lining the street.

I walked up and peeked in the car windows inconspicuously. I had no idea what make or model Rice drove, but I assumed that I'd be able to figure it out based on which had her newly-acquired _pet_ inside. My mouth made a sneer as I reasoned that to myself. _No one_ should get to treat Neal like that. He's an illegal artist, not a murderer.

Sure enough, finding him was easy. He was in the small vehicle right outside the stone front steps. I glanced up, but no one was coming out just yet. Neal didn't notice me. I'd seen his reflection in the passenger's side mirror, but he was leaning forward and playing with the radio controls, not paying attention. I went up to the car and rapped on the window.

Neal jumped around quickly and immediately broke into a grin. One of his hands went out of sight towards the door, but instead of opening it, the window started to roll down. I picked up my hand and waved while my consultant leaned heavily against the inside of the door, looking up at me with a relieved smile.

"Kenna!" His voice was nice to hear, although his suit was a little rumpled from shifting around in the car. "Didn't expect to see you here." Going from his expression, it wasn't exactly a terrible surprise.

"Well, I was going to run an errand, but it would seem I found the dog park instead." When I conversationally explained, Neal nodded slowly. It was clear that he wasn't buying it. He grimaced at the end of my sentence and looked out the windshield longingly. "Come on, get up," I invited with a sigh.

"I can't," Neal pouted, resting his cheek on his fist. "She put the child locks on it."

I swear, if Rice had been there, I'd have decked her in the face faster than Neal could've told me not to. "She _put-_ " I spluttered, completely aghast. The fact that Neal could just roll down the window and reach outside to the handle was irrelevant; she had _locked_ him in a _car._ "She not only _put_ you in a car, she _locked you in?!"_ What if something bad had happened? What if there was an emergency and he didn't have time to screw around with the window? The sheer inconsideration and thoughtlessness, not to mention the degradation, was astounding.

Neal, completely straight-faced, _barked_ at me. "Woof." I glowered, crossed my arms, and looked over my shoulder at the front door to the Gless residence. I _knew_ I wasn't going to like her. "She called me a tool in her belt," he complained, stealing my attention back.

"A tool?" I repeated. It was hard to believe what I was hearing. It was even harder to remember that I wasn't allowed to flip out on Rice. I reached through the window and took his hand, wrapping my fingers around the narrowest part of his wrist, and he rotated his hand to mirror the motion, loosely pressing his blunt fingernails against my glove. I squeezed lightly. "No, see, if you were a suspect we were blackmailing, _then_ you'd be a tool. Just because you're on a leash doesn't make you a dog. I'll see to it that she understands. I bet you miss working under me now, though," I tried to joke, smiling tensely.

Neal looked at the car's dash and then back to me. "This is a definite step down," he admitted. I smirked and resisted the urge to crow. For all his whining at the start about being under my supervision, now he saw that I was a merciful ruler. "I could really do with stretching my legs," he hinted with the subtlety of a show choir, turning big blue eyes on me to plead.

I released his arm and moved out of the way to pull open the door. Neal turned his legs out and stretched them straight luxuriously before getting out.

"Thank you," he said graciously, reaching both arms behind him and arching his back. "You know, that text wasn't an SOS," he noted. "It was a coping mechanism – complaining and therefore sending my grief to someone else."

Whatever it had been, it was way too late to take it back. He had a protective and rightfully angered blue-collar specialist rowdy and ready to tread on Rice's heels. "Katie and I thought it read as a cry for help."

He watched my feigned nonchalance and hummed suspiciously. " _You_ thought that," he guessed. "Did Katie actually agree?"

I waved my hand in the air in a so-so gesture. "More or less. I just want this _over."_ I stomped my foot and pushed the car door shut, this time with Neal on the right side of it. My hair curled into my face as I looked up at him, pleased to have him at my side. It hadn't been long, but Katie was right – Fowler had made me more than a little anxious and paranoid about my friends' securities. "I want Rice out of my space and away from my people." Another of the corrupt agent's pawns or not, I wanted her _out._ I could only fuss about so many things at any given time, and I had zero inclination or patience to make Rice one of those things.

Neal chuckled. "What did she do to annoy you so badly?"

"I don't know!" I held both of my arms out to the sides. I had an idea of why I was irritated now, but I'd been easily provoked even before she did anything to Neal. There were few people I trusted more – Neal knew most of my secrets, including ones that could get me in big, _big_ legal trouble, since they consisted of things such as cons and the backstreet chats with Keller – but I wasn't quite ready to divulge exactly how upset I was over something that Rice hadn't even done to me. "It's her attitude or the way she talks or something," I lied, although her attitude was definitely a problem now that she was releasing it viciously on _my_ partner. "You know Wilkes pretty well from experience. How would he normally carry out a kidnapping like this?"

Logically, the sooner we solved the crime, the sooner Rice would leave and the sooner I would have my CI back on my team. Understandably, I was eager for "sooner" to become "now."

Neal tucked his hands in his pockets and looked down the street. To our left, there was Central Park's outskirts on the next block. To our right, the street extended down the residential establishments and was interrupted only by alleys that served as shortcuts between the blocks. The street had plenty of lights, even if they were turned off in the middle of the day, so it would have been well-lit when Wilkes took Lindsay from her home.

Neal grimaced. "In theory, he'd have a driver, a strongman, and a lookout." I nodded. If I'd had to make an abduction happen, I'd use a similar setup. Neal peered up the front steps to look at the door to the company owner's home thoughtfully. "Wilkes wouldn't trust anyone else to grab the girl," he realized. "He'd handle that himself."

Made enough sense. Between the risk of triggering security systems and running into Richard Gless himself, I would have ensured the most competent person was the one doing the snatching. Not only would they have to be capable to stealth, but they'd have to be strong enough to subdue Lindsay if she was conscious to fight back, and they'd have to be trustworthy. The last qualification really limited Wilkes' options. I hated to admit it, but he was shaping up like one of the smarter knuckleheaded thugs. My interest was piqued, both because of Neal's history with him and because of my profiling background, and I decided I'd look into him later on, even if it was off the clock. It couldn't hurt Rice to have the opinion, requested or not, of the best approach to her kidnapper.

I made a vague motion to the sidewalk we stood on. The ideal parking place would be about where Rice had locked Neal up in what could easily have become a four-wheeled death trap. _Yeah, I'm not letting that one go._ "The driver would be around here for a fast and easy getaway." While, yes, it would be well-lit, it was also the most minimal risk. Shoving Lindsay in the car and getting the hell out of Dodge would serve to minimize the amount of time they were in view as well as cutting her window to scream or alert the neighbors even shorter. "Where was the lookout stationed?"

We both turned our backs to each other, each of us covering a perspective. I relaxed slightly as I heard his shoes shuffle while he shifted. Having my companion at my back made me feel safer, even if Neal wasn't exactly likely to win a fistfight. I had the utmost confidence in him, but… not when it came to violence. He may have proven his aptitude with firearms, but I still wasn't sold on that he was half as formidable a combatant as myself.

"The sidelines are clean from there… there…"

"Cover would be better in the park over there," I remarked, reaching behind me to make a swipe at him. I ended up grasping the hem of his jacket and he swatted my hand away while he turned around. I giggled. Screwing with his clothes almost always bothered him. With my other hand, I pointed out the limited view of the public park.

"Yeah," he said unconvincingly. Clearly, he disagreed.

I sent him a look. I wasn't Rice; I didn't keep him around so I could tell him to heel, wait, or speak whenever I felt like passing him a treat. He was supposed to share his thoughts with me and work in synchrony. We'd tried utilizing the "I command, you follow" method before. Neal was too independent to wait for cues for actions, and that meant that I was always annoyed with him for disobeying me. It had taken us mere days to learn for ourselves that we couldn't function like that.

He dropped his arm around my shoulder and steered me around, pointing to the first alley on the other side of the Glesses' household. "The alley is closer and gives you eyes on both sides of the street, plus the intersection," he explained, sliding his hand down my back before ending the contact altogether.

"Let's go check it out," I suggested, grabbing his hand and pulling.

The alleyway was dirty and not kept up to the same standards as the easily-visible streets where people parked their cars. Broken glass, the remains of cigarettes, and dirty, crumpled papers littered the concrete sidewalk. The road was gravelly and narrow, and in the entire alley, there were only a couple of streetlamps. Right after we turned, I saw a metal railing popping up from the ground-level on the other side of the alley, running along the descending stone steps to an old grocery store that had long since been closed down. Quiet, isolated, and in a good vantage point for watching the surroundings.

I didn't have to pull Neal because he'd already seen it. I avoided touching the railing and instead crouched down. There was a lighter impression in the dirt and coloring left on the top several steps, the lowest one looking distinctly like shoe treads. "Look at the dust line," I commented. "Someone's been here. Recently."

Neal looked around over my head, checking out the view to double-check that it fit the criteria for a lookout. "And looking in both directions, making sure the coast was clear for the grab," he agreed.

In the space where the lookout had been stationed, he'd left plenty of things behind. Cigarette butts were just left lying on the stairs, the ends crushed out with tobacco ground into the tiny cracks in the concrete. I made a disgusted face and picked up a piece of thick paper left upside-down on the second step. Holding it at the edge and turning it over, I saw it was just a nondescript check with a number on it in bold, black block letters.

"This is a coat check stub." I held it at my shoulder for Neal to see and did another sweep. Nothing but cigarettes. Smoking that much in the short time it took to abduct Lindsay was seriously unhealthy. "There's not anything identifying on it in writing, but maybe someone can identify the venue for us back at the office."

"Don't bother," Neal advised, downcast.

I started to turn up and ask him why I shouldn't pursue the lead when I remembered. _There isn't an 'us' right now._ I wasn't even supposed to be investigating the area, and I definitely wasn't supposed to be collaborating with Neal. My mouth pulled into a frown, I sucked my lower lip in and sank my teeth gently into the flesh, and I stood up straight.

Fixing Neal with a determined glare, I held up the slip with a very intentional gleam in my eyes: _we're following this, and if Rice wants her pet to stay in place, maybe she should invest in a shock collar next time._

Neal dissuasively reached for my wrist and pulled my hand down. "You'd be wasting time," he promised me gently. "It's from a club. Well, it's more of an underground casino, one of Wilkes' old hideouts."

The disappointment in his eyes was measured with reason, and that, more than his words, convinced me to reluctantly remain subordinate. I enjoyed being a rebel and nothing bad could really happen to me for this, but Neal could face reprimand if he directly disobeyed an order from Hughes and ditched Rice. At least I had the confirmation that he didn't like it any more than I did.

I steeled my jaw again. I had to look out for Neal before I could have fun. I _had_ to. It was my responsibility as his girlfriend. He had done much more taxing things for my sake; I could sit at a desk and pretend to look the other way while Rice commandeered the cases _and_ the consultants that I wanted for a few days.

"Then it was nice of his watchman to leave us this helpful little hint," I said testily through gritted teeth, tightening my grasp on the slip as I realized I was going to have to hand it over to the redhead that had _locked Neal in a car._

"God, where's Caffrey?" _Speak of the devil and she shall appear,_ a voice in my head mocked as Rice's familiar, exasperated tone rang out from the main street.

I rolled my eyes and mocked her, mouthing after her. If I'd been speaking aloud, I'd have been using a bitchy chipmunk voice. Neal pursed his lips and smirked, looking down to his feet to keep from laughing. I smiled fondly, a little less angry, and bumped his shoulder with my fist. "Come on, your babysitter calls."

The two of us stepped in time with each other, falling into a practiced and perfected rhythm with the ease of breathing. Rice and two other agents stood on the sidewalk where Neal and I had loitered before exploring, Rice rolling her eyes and taking out her phone. The alley entry wasn't far from her car, so we weren't in sight long enough for either of her comrades to notice before Neal picked his arm up in an overly-enthusiastic wave.

"Find the gloves?" He chirped curiously, acting as though none of her nastiness was bothering him.

I knew it was. It had to be. Though Neal controlled it better than I did, he had an ego, too (though his centered more on his capabilities as a criminal). Either he was planning on agitating Rice to death with his good mood and happy vibes or he didn't feel comfortable enough with her to let her see when he was upset. Whichever option was correct, I still felt smugly satisfied. Rice deserved to put up with a bit of obnoxiousness if she was going to behave so meanly, and I knew Neal felt secure enough in my company to let me see his emotions, even when they weren't pleasant.

She held her phone down, looked up to both of us as we stopped a few feet away, and looked at Neal with the scolding expression of a teacher whose kid had left the time-out seat before they were given permission. "There's a fresh print inside the index finger," she grudgingly informed, handing an evidence bag with a latex glove to one of the agents. "I want this pulled and sent to me ASAP." He took it and nodded before he left.

Then the agent was free to look at Neal's and my stance, and she scowled. We complimented each other's poses nicely. Neal was a little cocky at apparently being right about where to find prints, and he was sneakily egging Rice on, testing her limits with his snark and demeanor. He'd done the same to me. I, contrastingly, had my arms crossed with hostility, coat slip still in one hand, and stood at Neal's side protectively as if threatening anyone who dared to come too close.

It was really unfortunate for her if she didn't like how close I was with Neal. I mean, it wasn't as though we worked alongside each other at least five days a week for the last eleven months or anything. _Oh, wait – we had._

Rice turned her eyes to me with a competitive flash and forced down some animosity for appearances' sake. She didn't do a very good job of masking how she felt, nor was she particularly excellent at camouflaging the dismissal in her question when she asked, "What do you think you're supposed to be doing here, Agent Anderson?"

 _Oh, no, I am_ _ **not**_ _going to be dismissed again._ For all I knew, she just wanted to dismiss me so that she would be free to enroll Neal in training classes, maybe even take him to the kennel overnight. I beamed brightly at her out of spite. "Assisting! That's what we agents love doing!" Though it pained me to do so, I made to pass over the check stub. Rice took it with her eyebrows furrowed, taking a second to understand what it was. "A lookout was stationed over there by that old stairwell and dropped this while they were busy checking out security." I nodded towards it as I spoke. "It's from an underground club."

Rice tucked the slip into her inner breast pocket and turned her eyes to Neal, cutting me out. "Then that's our next stop." She pointed to the car in an order.

Neal's expression fell. "No, no," he hastily argued. The narrow-eyed glower Rice turned on him told me that this wasn't the first time he'd spoken "out of turn" and I questioned how it had been handled then. Had she sprayed him with a water bottle or called him bad? _I am in a really bad mood today,_ I noticed. "Wilkes won't be there with the girl. If the FBI starts showing up, he'll go to ground and cut his losses." Neal turned his eyes on me, begging me to intervene if Rice didn't listen. It didn't need to be explicitly said that Wilkes would kill Lindsay and skip town, but Neal seemed pretty nervous just to have it implied.

Rice, strangely enough, needed no convincing about the change to her own plans. "So why don't you put on your dancing shoes, Caffrey?" She sassed, crossing her arms and standing her weight on her right leg. "You're going clubbing," she announced.

Neal's expression faltered for a moment, visibly less than thrilled with the idea of going right to one of Wilkes' favorite places. I was just about to protest to why _Neal,_ someone the suspect would recognize and possibly try to harm, had to do the undercover work instead of an agent more equipped to handle the situation, but was cut off preemptively by the redhead, who looked me up and down in what she thought was an intimidating manner.

"Anderson, if I find you at one of my crime scenes again, I'm filing a report," she stated flatly.

I just stared at her. _She's serious?!_ What was she going to get me in trouble for – going outside two miles of my home without a federal escort? I _lived_ in the damn city. I was allowed to go on whatever public property in the city that I damn well pleased. I wasn't obstructing her investigation, so she didn't really have a leg to stand on. It was meant to sound scary, but it was an empty threat that would be dumb to carry out, even if there was much weight behind it. By the time it went through, Lindsay would already be rescued (or dead, according to statistics) and Rice would've gone home. All she'd accomplish was wasting time she should've spent trying to find the missing girl.

"You can't tell, but deep, deep… _very_ deep down, I'm petrified." I finally said, raising a hand to my heart tauntingly. I couldn't believe she had the nerve to talk down to Neal, much less myself, the way she was. Maybe all the praise from the administrators had gone to her head, but she needed a serious shove off of that high horse, and not just because it was pissing me off. Anyone in a blue-collar job needs to have humility and respect for others, otherwise that horse will end up bucking them off. "Honey, I was you before even _you_ were you. Except I had a heart." I tapped my chest. Rice could act like a model agent, but she didn't seem to care about Lindsay nearly as much as she cared about having authority over everyone else she shared a room with. "You're about as terrifying to me as a dog attack from a Chihuahua puppy without its teeth in. If you were closer, I'd scratch your ear and call you cute."

My condescension may have been a little over the top, but it didn't feel like anything that she didn't need to hear. If it wasn't going to come from anyone else, then the duty fell to me – I told myself that, anyway, and it made me feel a little bit better regardless.

"Now, if you want to take this human person beside me and go save another human person, feel free to do so. I'm not blocking your investigation, because I actually know how to prioritize, because _I'm better than you at this,"_ I said, patting Neal's arm and giving him a nudge towards Rice. "And for as long as you get sidetracked by power struggles and wanting to one-up agents at the expense of valuable time and input, which you've done to me twice now, I will _remain_ better than you. There's a _reason_ I have my reputation, Agent. Don't let yours get to your head, or it'll turn not-so-nice."

Rice's face was flushed red and she was shaking with anger and embarrassment by the time I was done speaking. She huffed and made a choppy motion with her arm for Neal to get in the car yet again. She raised her hand to me as if to hit me, then as if to point at me and yell, and then finally dropped her arm. The woman stormed off the sidewalk to go into the street and get in the driver's side of the car. Having the last word felt nice, especially since she couldn't seem to think of anything to say to rebut any of my points.

 _See you later,_ I mouthed to Neal, slipping my hands into my pockets with a bone-deep satisfaction. I planned on texting him soon just to check in. I wouldn't be afraid to drop in on another of Rice's locations if I needed to come back and stick up for him again. Neal could fight his own battles, but we both knew that Rice wasn't going to respect those battles unless they were coming from someone who wasn't wearing a tracking anklet.

He mouthed the praise _nice job!_ right back, face excited and bright, giving me two thumbs-ups. He looked so delighted by what he'd just seen that it almost concerned me. At least he'd enjoyed the smack-down. I smiled back at him, proud to have defended my soulmate and friend, and he rebelliously kept nodding encouragement at me while he got in the car.

"Stop that," I heard Rice irately snap at him while she clicked on her seatbelt.

I couldn't help myself. "The Constitution defends freedom of speech and expression!" I sang. Neal's tongue peeked out between his teeth as he grinned, shaking his head with mirth. Rice may have embarrassed him with her lack of respect for him as a coworker, but the tables had certainly turned.

While I didn't feel better about the situation, exactly, I hummed music on my way to hail a taxi.

* * *

To understand why I was sharing Neal's sofa with Mozzie while in sweatpants and without a bra, one would've checked my phone and seen an unknown contact's incoming text that there was an "emergency intervention required at Neal's ASAP," signed with the name Odysseus. I high tailed it out, not even bothering to put daytime clothes on, too freaked out that Neal was about to do something really dumb for some reason I didn't even know, only to find them both calmly occupying the living space in the penthouse.

I nearly strangled Mozzie right then, but instead was convinced to settle for sparkling cider.

Mozzie's idea of an emergency intervention was spawned by the discovery of Rice's plan to use Neal as a recon agent in Wilkes' favorited venue. It was barely ten o'clock and the plan had yet to be put into action, but Rice had let Neal go right before dinner. He'd taken the time to go to a boutique and buy _more_ clothes (because clearly the collection of thousand-dollar suits June gave him weren't cutting it) and had come back to find Moz making a social call, which quickly turned into a distressed visit.

"How did you even get my phone number?" I asked crankily, glaring at Mozzie. It wasn't that I had never given it to him – he and I were united by a friendship, but, more importantly, we both had a mutual concern for Neal being flighty and doing something moronic – but he contacted me so scarcely I couldn't even remember the last time it had happened, and he cycled through phone numbers so frequently it was still a miracle I had managed to get hold of him directly when Fowler had posed as Katie's soulmate.

"I have perfect recall, remember?" Mozzie retorted, tapping the side of his head and toting a champagne glass. Unlike me, he had alcohol. I fixed my jaw in annoyance and both of us then turned that annoyance to Neal's back as he shrugged on a white dress shirt, turning and looking in the mirror to see how it flattered him from different angles. _I'm dating the human equivalent of a peacock,_ I thought with exasperation while Mozzie continued his attempt at a sanity-recovery mission. "You're letting the new suit use you as bait to catch Wilkes?! Even _this_ suit doesn't trust that suit! Doesn't this plan strike you as kind of… insane?!"

Neal rolled his eyes. His back was to us, but I could see it in the mirror, and going by the full-on bitch face that Mozzie leveled at our friend, I'm guessing that he could see it, too. "I'm going to a club," Neal placated with a sigh, buttoning down the shirt. It wasn't very tight, but it hemmed in closer where his waist slimmed and had a flare over the hips so that the hem of his pants wasn't noticeable. It made the outfit look smoother. "The feds will be right outside."

I doubted that was much of a comfort to Mozzie, since the only "suits" that he seemed to have any tolerance whatsoever for were my team and Peter Burke (although I wasn't too sure about the latter – despite having helped exonerate Neal, he was also the reason that the conman had been in prison for four years to begin with). Then, not only were those feds not some of the few that he had any sort of grudging respect for, but they were strangers that even I wasn't too thrilled to trust Neal's care with. Mozzie and I both knew that Neal's safety was paramount to both of us, no matter what was going on with Lindsay and Wilkes.

It made me feel like a bad agent – and worse, a bad _person_ – to admit, but I cared more about Neal staying safe than using his history with Wilkes to recover Lindsay. I wanted her safe and unharmed probably more than Rice did, but there was more than one way to solve a crime, and I wasn't willing to go over the line jeopardizing Neal for this particular lead. Perhaps it was a good thing that I wasn't running the show, but it was still far from reassuring that Rice had the reigns. I'd have trusted Derek or Diana, whose hearts were in it for the right reasons, but Rice had already proved to me that her regard for Neal went about as far as someone else's valuing of a service dog.

Mozzie huffed loudly, conveying explicitly exactly what he thought of Neal's mentioned insurance policy. "This is the same Wilkes that wants you dismembered, right?" He challenged.

I choked on my cider. " _Dismembered?!"_ I coughed and pounded my chest.

Neal turned around while he fixed the collar of his shirt around his throat, looking down on Mozzie with a flash of genuine irritation. "Dismembered is slightly overstating it," he stated, yet he didn't argue that Wilkes wanted him dead. "You're being paranoid, and you're freaking out Kenna," the artist scolded.

Mozzie raised his glass to me. "Paranoia is a skill. Welcome to the fearful masses, Miss Suit," he greeted me. I seriously considered dumping my cider over his lap. He wasn't doing me any favors at the moment. "You might want to remain one of us if you want to say goodbye to Fowler." My considerations of alternative uses for my drink went out the window. No matter what happened in the meantime, Mozzie's help had been invaluable against the corrupt OPR agent, and I didn't doubt that it would continue to be so in the future. He turned back to Neal upon seeing my disgruntled and conflicted expression. "Did you not join Wilkes' crew, gather intel from his targets, and then _totally_ screw him over?"

I swallowed and hurriedly drank some more cider before my throat went dry. That was a gutsy move I'd be proud of myself for, but the thought of Neal putting a target on himself like that terrified me.

Neal gentled his tone. "They were planning to hurt people… with guns," he specified meaningfully, looking down to adjust the cuffs of his sleeves. He glanced up at his face in the mirror. "I don't like guns."

I moved my glass onto the coffee table and pulled my legs up on the couch when I leaned back, wrapping my arms around my knees. "And normally I appreciate that you don't like guns," I assured, "But I'm with Moz on this one."

"Look, for all we know, Wilkes is on his way to Tahiti right now!" Neal argued.

Mozzie and I glanced at each other at the same time. As true as it was that Wilkes might've split town and already had Lindsay killed, it was also true that it was reasonable to guess that Wilkes would see it through and was hanging around, waiting for an opportunity to get his hands on a hefty ransom and my CI's gorgeous throat while he was at it. Neither of us were down with taking that chance unprepared.

"And for all we know, he's sharpening his talons to tear into your spleen!" Mozzie… _descriptively_ … suggested with emphasis.

I'd seen enough morbid paintings to have an idea what that would look like without envisioning my lover splayed out and gutted. "Oh, God, no," I groaned. "Stop with the mental images." I just wanted Neal to be home safe, Lindsay to be safe with her father, and for that bratty redhead to get the hell out of _my_ city. Was that really so much to ask?

Neal leaned down to the chair he had pulled over and picked up two ties. One was a dark zaffre blue and the other was maroon, and both were solidly-colored. He held both up against his shirt and checked out his reflection. "While I appreciate the concern from my best friends, I feel as though they're forgetting that even though I don't hold my own custody, I _am_ all grown up." He spoke it with firm finality and Mozzie and I shared a look again, equally annoyed by Neal's stubbornness. Couldn't he at least _acknowledge_ that it was a dangerous idea? Before I could try to use a little bit of emotional guilt-tripping to convince him to promise to be extra, extra careful, Neal turned around, still modeling the neckties. "I need one of you to tell me which of these to wear. I need to look classy, but not too formal."

 _Sure, I need some reassurance that the next time I hold you won't be in a hospital, but God forbid I get any of that, because_ _ **you**_ _need fashion advice._ "Grown-ups usually dress themselves," I snidely remarked.

Neal lowered both arms, the ties with them, and stared down at me, pursing his lips. I cocked my head. Afraid or not, the man really needed to watch his tongue, because if he was about to say something about how I was worrying too much, there would be a problem. I wouldn't _need_ to worry so much if he would just promise that he'd do a little worrying of his own! How was I _not_ supposed to be antsy about him when he wasn't even showing the proper concern required to look over his shoulder once in a while?

"I want a second opinion," he flatly stated, wisely moving on without commenting on my smartmouthed reply. "I need to be sharp on this."

Mozzie was having similar issues with Neal's priorities, and he held up his hands as if defending himself. "Ooh, you professional thieves, so high-maintenance." He mocked.

"You'd think they'd have to have lower standards," I agreed. Neal rolled his eyes, transferred the blue tie to his left hand, and ran his right through his hair impatiently.

I thought we'd had a bonding moment, but Mozzie didn't take too well to my attempted forging of kinship. "Suit, you're still living in two different worlds," he tried to explain, setting down his wine glass. "I will happily help indoctrinate you into the dark side, but if you're gonna stay in between, get better at switching perspectives on demand."

_Indoctrinate?_

"Kenna," Neal called my name and held both colors against the tan tone of his jaw and the white of his shirt. "Which do you think?"

 _Now, hold on a sec-_ I put up a hand, gesturing for him to wait. "Wait a minute," I needlessly said aloud, and didn't wait for a response before I turned back on Mozzie, repositioning slightly so I was angled more towards him. "I'm sorry, did you just say you would help _indoctrinate_ me? Doesn't that seem like a bit of a strong word?"

Mozzie laughed. It sounded like his sincere laugh. "It's funny that you think it's such a strong word." He giggled all over again. "Like you haven't been indoctrinated by the government already," he chuckled.

"Kenna?" Trying again, Neal checked his watch pointedly. "Rice is getting impatient."

I waved a hand at him and went for the default answer without actually revisiting the ties. "Um, blue, brings out your eyes," I distractedly informed, then crossed my arms. Neal sighed audibly, but did as I suggested and started to put on the blue tie. "The bureau did not _indoctrinate_ me!"

Mozzie scoffed cynically. I ground my teeth. Neal cleared his throat and checked his phone. "Rice is here," he announced, getting both Mozzie and myself to stop debating for long enough to address him again. He picked up a dark grey suit jacket and started to push his arms through the sleeves. "I'll leave you to argue to your hearts' content about whether or not the bureau is a brainwashing organization when compared to the white-collar criminal network. Duty calls."

My mate walked over to my side of the couch, reached for the back cushion, and leaned down over me. I tipped my head and parted my lips for him, eyes sliding shut as he kissed me softly. His free hand came up to cup the side of my face and my toes curled as we kissed again. Mozzie muttered what sounded like a disgusted comment about young love. I flipped him off, perfectly content to continue exhibiting my adoration, but Neal seemed to care a little more about his pal's preference for not being in the same room to witness PDA and pulled back.

He smiled at me reassuringly and I tried to match it, but failed miserably, still way too worried about how he would fare, both with Wilkes and with Rice. On his way past, he picked his way over Mozzie's legs, which were propped up on the coffee table, and patted the older man's shoulder on his way.

As the door was closing behind him, Mozzie sat up straight suddenly and shouted, "I get the apartment!"

I held up my hand and started ticking off the reasons why Mozzie would _not_ be getting the apartment. "First, it's not an apartment. Second, it's not even Neal's, it's June's. Third, he's going undercover, not to death row." The last one made my stomach flip and I wished I could be as sure of that as I sounded. Hopefully it was a comfort to Mozzie, even though it wasn't to me.

Mozzie glanced at me in faux contempt. It was a really good thing that we had long since learned to tell when we were being serious with our insulting and taunting jeers. "Your idea of death row is a bunch of guys in prison cells. My idea has something to do with pantsuits and badges."

"I'm usually wearing both," I pointed out with an innocent smile.

"Oh, father above, my heart can't handle it."

"You're impossible," I accused. For a few seconds, we lapsed into a semi-comfortable silence with nothing else to say. I stretched for what was left of my cider and cradled it closely. "I'm going to go to the office once they're gone," I told him offhandedly. It was mostly so he'd know how or where to get a hold of me if he had a _real_ emergency come up.

"Why bother waiting?" Moz gestured to the window. "It's not like the new suit won't see your car."

My transportation had occurred to me several times before Fowler even introduced himself to me. How could I excuse my car being in the front drive so often when I was supposed to spend every night at my own house? Well, I'd started parking further away on the nights when I intended to stay, and there had been very few exceptions to that self-instated rule since Neal and I began our friends-with-benefits arrangement. Especially with Rice thinking that she was Neal's new trainer, I didn't want to risk her noticing how close I had gotten with him.

"I thought of that and parked a couple blocks away." Smugly, I smirked at Mozzie, who seemed disappointed that I had a response prepared already. "Ha." The satisfaction was hollow, however, and I drew out my cider to last another several minutes. I much preferred Mozzie's company to the quiet stress I knew would be following me until I next heard Neal's voice, sweet and stable.

If this was how Katie had felt every time I took a blue-collar case, I owed her big time. I didn't know how I was going to manage it just the once, much less how she would've dealt with it on a weekly basis.

* * *

Sometimes I wished I'd taken more math classes. It didn't happen often, but now was one of those times. Maybe Peter had been on to something, studying accounting before working white-collar crime. I compared audit reports compiled by two different sources on the same company, assessed the rounding and the margins for error permitted by law and mistake, and rubbed my forehead, dropping a hand down to my stomach and distantly rubbing my hand over my abdomen.

I had been looking at the papers for almost forty minutes, and I still wasn't done. _Would it be possible to have it sent to someone else to deal with?_ As I considered whether I could spin that as a mature decision made for the benefit of the case, my phone and my desktop monitor both lit up at once, an emergency warning flashing on the computer screen and a text notification brightening my cellular.

I pulled across my phone. It was from the US Marshals. I literally dropped my pen and shoved tediously-organized papers around while I lurched for the computer, turning the screen to me. A big alarm box had shown up as a flagged email alert system brought it to my attention. **_Detention Tracking Anklet 9305 Alpha Subject: Neal Caffrey Deactivated and On Red Alert_**.

"Oh, no," I whispered, bringing my hand up to my mouth and staring for a moment, just in horror. "Neal, what have you _done…"_ We needed cooperation, we needed compliance, we needed for people to take his word for it when it was him against Fowler, and there was no way anyone would trust him if he kept slicing the band around his leg without prior approval.

I knew neither of us were pleased with Rice's abrupt decision to send him out like a sniffer dog to test the waters we knew were shark-infested, but _running?_ Neal _had_ to know that that would just make him look bad. If his life was threatened, then he should've left the anklet on so that he could be found. It wasn't as though Wilkes or any hired guns would have access to the database required to pull up his coordinates, except now, neither could I.

 _Neal cut his anklet._ It sunk in after a few seconds of staring at the computer in shock.

Jumping up, I scrambled to grab my phone off the edge of the desk. My hip bumped into the corner in my haste to move and I swore loudly, yanking the door open and sprinting out onto the mezzanine. I didn't know where I was going to run to, just that I needed to _go,_ be active, and get to wherever Neal needed me to be. What I hadn't expected was to nearly run into Derek, who held his arms up defensively.

I saw him and grabbed at his wrist. "Derek, Neal cut his anklet!" I explained as simply as possible, tugging on his wrist with a vice-like grip. The agent turned with me in the direction of the stairs to the level floor, but refused to move his feet in the way he'd come.

"Yeah, of course he did," he replied, sounding confused.

I dropped his arm and looked back at him. Derek rubbed the back of his head, fingers entangled in messy black hair, and peered questioningly at me behind squinted eyelashes. I took a step up to him and raised my chin, staring right back at his face.

"What's that supposed to mean?" I inquired lowly, voice almost a growl. Neal was a _good guy,_ not an antagonist, and the only time he had ever cut his anklet without my blessing had been when Pierce held a gun on him and demanded it. Derek, brother or not, didn't _get_ to walk around implying that Neal couldn't be trusted, not after everything Neal had done for me, for _Katie,_ Derek's own girlfriend-slash-mate-slash-best friend.

He stepped back from me, thinking I was too aggravated for it to be worth standing toe-to-toe. "You didn't know?" He asked in surprise, dropping his hand down to swing by his side. "Rice had it cleared."

My face was completely flat for a second as I processed. _Rice? What?_ Kimberly wasn't even supposed to have the clearance to authorize for Neal's anklet to be taken off. Neal was assigned to the WCCD, which she wasn't a part of, and more specifically, he was designated as _my_ CI. I held his custody, no matter who was borrowing him in the field, and the only person who could usurp my control without notifying me in a meeting was…

… Was the same man who assigned Neal to Rice without me, against my wishes, in the first place.

I could deal with Hughes later. Neal was out there, and the plans he and I had been privy to didn't involve the removal of his anklet. Whatever Rice had orchestrated, she hadn't cared to share. It made me wonder if there was anything else she was hiding. Neal was vulnerable without on-demand tracking, and he was already weak to an attack from Wilkes. My issues with my boss needed to come second to Neal's safety, and he needed me to keep a level-ish head, not to storm up to Hughes' office and deck the senior citizen in the face.

"Rice?" I repeated testily, shutting my eyes for a second and forcing a derisive laugh out of my throat.

That wannabe-public hero didn't have the street smarts, much less the experience, to take on her own informant, so why she thought she could push Neal into actions that disregarded his securities was beyond me. She wouldn't be able to hear much else by the time I was done drilling that into her thick skull.

"No. No, that's not how it works." I opened my eyes to see Derek looking both concerned and sympathetic. I appreciated the thought, but he hadn't ever had a CI, either, much less one that doubled as his significant other, so whatever he was feeling for my sake wasn't exactly on the mark. " _She_ doesn't have the authority to let him clip it, _she_ does not have his custody. That is _my_ decision, not hers." I started to turn around, throwing my arms up. "Oh, I swear to God, I am going to _rip into her_ for going over my head!"

I was only getting started on my rant. Rice had started something she wasn't going to like very much. Modesty could just be damned; I'd make a scene if that was what it took to get her to acknowledge that she's not exactly the one special snowflake who could do whatever she wanted and fuck everyone else. I had never reached that point, had always had to regard others and their needs and desires, and if _I_ couldn't get that high, then _she_ sure as hell wasn't going to.

From where we were on the mezzanine level, I could see into the kitchenette and one of the round tables just inside. Someone I didn't recognize was seated, anxiously tapping the heels of his shoes and looking at his watch. Thick, dark eyebrows contrasted with whitening, silvery hair that remained somewhat thick, and his torso was covered with a white shirt striped vertically with thin grey lines. A black tie with blue pinwheels matched his ebony slacks and loafers.

I tilted my head slightly. He wasn't someone I recognized in the bureau, and he wasn't working with other agents, so why was he in the kitchenette?

"Is that Lindsay's father?" I asked sharply.

Derek nodded swiftly, seeming relieved that I'd been distracted before going on a full-fledged tirade. "Yeah, Mr. Gless. He just came in a few minutes ago. Said he was curious if Agent Rice was back yet." I smiled slowly, nodding in understanding. Well, the natural redhead wasn't back yet… but her fellow caseworker was, whether or not she knew that. Derek saw the unnerving shift in my mood and was put on edge. "What are you thinking?"

"Rice wants to sneak over my head?" I uncrossed my arms and reached for the railing, following it to the steps. Mr. Gless was about to have a surprise visitor. "Well, I will _rainbow parachute_ over hers."

* * *

I introduced myself smoothly and slipped right in. I looked the part and acted it, and I daresay I appeared as a more trustworthy case agent than Rice had. Gless bought that I was one of the redhead's coworkers without me even explicitly saying it, and I poured myself a cup of coffee and prepared a glass of ice water for him, on request.

For every second wasted giving names and titles, an incessant voice in my head chattered about how Neal was anklet-free and out in the real world with a killer who wanted to use my boyfriend's blood to flavor his martinis. My hands didn't shake; I held myself firm and steady, with a calm countenance, and as I told Gless that he shouldn't worry too much, it helped me to calm down, too. I was still beyond mad at Rice, and not even J. Edgar Hoover himself was going to be able to stop me from holding Neal as tightly as I could once he was safely back home, but I had something to focus on in the meantime.

The ice cubes clattered gently against the edge of the glass as I carried it around to the little round table. "How are you holding up, Mr. Gless?" I asked smoothly, voice soft and lulling. I'd done this dance a hundred times before with the families of murder and abduction victims, but this time… this time I was irritated with the family member.

I looked at Stuart Gless and honestly tried just to see him as a father whose child had been kidnapped, but I just – I just couldn't. I took one look at his business-casual suit and pictured him in a court room with the prosecution. If he hadn't pressed charges on Neal, then the odds were high that he wouldn't have had to spend four years in prison. I understood that what my boyfriend did had been wrong. I wasn't of the opinion that he should've been let off the hook with a mere smack on the wrists. The situation was one that he had put himself in. However, that didn't make it any easier to let go of a grudge I didn't even have a right to hold. How many times had I comforted Neal, in his sleep or after a nightmare he didn't want to talk about, about being out of his little cage in hell? How many times had I nearly had a nervous breakdown when it seemed like he was far too close to being imprisoned again? Murder, rape, abuse – prisons were _not_ safe environments, and although Neal may have deserved to be held accountable, I couldn't be pleased with the man who put him in such a frightening place for so long.

He had no idea that for every time his knees jumped or he fidgeted with his hands, I snidely thought at him in the privacy of my own head that he now knew what it was like, to have someone you desperately care for just out of reach, with no way to protect them. To know that they must be so terrified and so alone and be unable to go to them. Lindsay had nothing to do with Neal's sentencing and I truly wanted to bring her home, but I figured that if silently berating Gless would help me keep my cool, then it didn't really matter what I thought as long as I didn't speak it out loud.

Gless crossed his arms and just looked at the water that I deposited in front of him. _Going to drink it telekinetically?_ "I had to get out of the house is all," he quietly explained, looking over his shoulder and hugging himself tighter. "Everything in there reminds me of Lindsay… of course it does, she lives there…"

He seemed so distraught about his daughter that I bit my lip and internally sighed. I was being perfectly civil to him, but even the version of the man who had sent my mate to jail didn't deserve my ire. Neal would agree that a missing person was more important than damage that had already been done.

"Agent Rice said I could come here if I ever wanted the reassurance of an update on the case…"

_She says a lot of things._

Instead of saying that, which I really, _really_ wanted to, I nodded with a tight smile. "Of course. Lindsay was kidnapped, but you are still one of the victims." In a lot of cases, the parents were just as bad as the recovered children, sometimes even more so. Children bounce back, they recover; they have the mental flexibility of rubber.

He chuckled quietly. If things were different, I might've liked him. He was quiet, nervous, but carried himself comfortably and paternally. "I didn't expect Caffrey to be so charming," he shared wistfully. "This would be so much easier if he acted more like a criminal."

 _Because that's all he is to you._ I reigned in the bitterness before it had the chance to appear in my expression. Gless knew the side of Neal that committed crime and he was behaving accordingly. I knew Neal as someone I slept beside and took care of, so I was more inclined to defend him. Diana saw him as a nuisance nine times out of ten, however fond of him and his antics she was, so she was more likely to give him an empty threat about bodily harm. It was all in perspective, and part of being involved with Neal was accepting that some people were going to have perspectives I strongly disliked. I'd known that from the start.

"He is a charmer," I agreed, smiling wanly and recalling the bouquets of flowers, the cute serenading, the tender touches, and the reassuring words. My life was tumultuous, in part because of Neal, but I was a very lucky woman to have him. "I used to think the exact same way." I'd been so annoyed that Neal took the liberties with me that a free man would have, so frustrated that he didn't act like I expected a super-max inmate to act.

He curiously looked at me. I got a feeling that the conversation was about to focus on Neal, but at least his mind was being taken off of Lindsay. Compassion was hard for me sometimes, but children always won me over. "Used to?"

I hesitated. How had Rice presented Neal? If she had called him _her_ consultant specifically, then I was going to be supremely bothered that I had to explain the real situation. I decided to just be honest from the beginning and hope that he didn't find my decision to take the forger on to be immature or reckless.

"Mr. Gless, in full disclosure, I'm the one who took him out of jail," I admitted, nodding slowly. "I'm his bureau-appointed handler. What that means is that he assists my team with our cases and provides his specific expertise to me whenever I ask. In return, I personally ensure his safety and securities for as long as he works under me. Neal is my responsibility. I'm sorry for what he did to you in the past, but I can truthfully say that if I didn't think he would be an asset to your issue now, I wouldn't let him get in the way.

"I've spent almost a year working side-by-side with him. Sure, I can't consider him the most moral man, but he's still a very good one. He's saved my life and put himself in danger to protect me, which his work-release in no way obligates him to do. I would, and have, trusted him with my sister and my friends on a regular basis. Neal is many things, but violent is not one of them. I promise you, if there's absolutely anything he can do to prevent it, Lindsay won't come to any harm."

I clenched a fist under the table. I knew what I was saying was correct, and that's why I was scared. The motivation was strong in that one, and I was worried that he might take matters into his own hands, with or without reinforcements, if he thought that Lindsay was in immediate danger.

Gless was, of course, ignorant to my more personal concerns. He looked down at the ice water and reached for it, wrapping his right hand around the cup. His hand slipped over condensation and he stared at the bobbing ice with a mirthful, weak laugh. "It seems hard to think of him as someone like you say when the last time I saw him, his hands were chained and he was sitting with a lawyer in a courtroom."

I cringed. _Yeah. That was a thing. Perspective and all that._ "Regardless of whether or not his forgeries were wrong, you should remember that your testimony had a big impact on his sentencing. Partly thanks to you, he was in jail for four years." I made the dig subtly in a way that only I would understand – Neal had been in the wrong, but I was still upset that he had been put in Sing Sing instead of a friendlier, less dangerous institution. I was upset that Gless had pushed for incarceration. "Most people would hold a grudge. All he wants to do is save your daughter. I think that's worth remembering."

He closed his eyes at the reminder and nodded, quickly and shallowly. "Yes, of course," Gless was very quick to agree, opening his eyes and continuing to nod at me, soulful and frightened. "If he has anything to do with bringing my daughter back to me, then I don't care about anything else. Lindsay is so much more important than some irrelevant bonds from years ago. I just hope this goes right."

I leaned back in my seat and nodded slowly, more to myself than to Gless. In spite of being an investigator, the morals I had been questioning the most over the last year of my life had been my own. I'd let a criminal out of prison, I'd found out that a criminal was my soulmate, actively participated in an illicit affair with my informant, started breaking laws myself to defend my family, and broke even more to find and protect Matthew. And Jesus, that was another thing – I usually thought of him as Matthew. It was too familiar, too strange; I was getting immersed in another world, one that I had vowed to stay out of and apprehend.

By all rights, I should've been on Gless' side. Things would be so much easier if I could see the world in ignorant black-and-white like Rice. Neal would merely be another convict, Mozzie another lowlife con, Matthew one of the most revolting people I'd ever had the misfortune of meeting. Because I wouldn't have trusted Neal to become ensnared in his troubles, Fowler probably wouldn't give a damn about me or my sister. Perhaps I'd even already have been promoted back to blue-collar, and I would've been the agent leading the search for Lindsay.

It was far from the first time that it had hit me that I fit the definition of a criminal. I'd broken so many laws (not just rules, _laws_ ) protecting Neal, protecting Katie, and even protecting Mozzie that if I didn't have two very excellent career criminals helping me to cover it up, then I'd have been tried in front of a judge and lost my job in an instant; name ruined, life wrecked, most likely incarcerated in a prison where no one cared much about what happened to a former fed. I called myself an FBI agent, which I was, but I was toeing a very thin line.

I shuddered and picked up my coffee, passing my shivering off as the drafts from the vents. Something about Neal being out with another agent made me feel lonelier than ever, and more frightened of the consequences my actions would one day have. I couldn't run forever, and when the time came, I'd have to take responsibility. Maybe they'd be coming in a week, maybe in a few decades, but one day they'd come, either in the form of my arrest and subsequent court dates or as much more personal demons.

"If it helps, I can walk you through the process, give you some bureau insight," I suggested, trying to be relaxed and helpful but at the same time appearing personally ambivalent. "Which part of the case is the most concerning?"

The businessman looked at the table, turned his hand over, and looked at his palm as though it held the answers. I raised my eyebrows slightly. He turned his dark, worried eyes back up to me and asked uncertainly, "The meeting?"

 _The meeting?_ Was there an administrative side to this that I wasn't aware of? _No, that wouldn't make any sense._ Administration duties would wait until the girl was rescued before they started stealing time from the case, and Gless had already made his priorities clear: Lindsay came first.

Smoothly, I covered my confusion and asked delicately, "What is it that troubles you about the meeting?" The phrasing would both prompt the answer to my real question and let on that I knew more than I actually did. Word play and implications weren't by any means new to me, but Neal's proclivity for them may have been rubbing off just a little.

He shrugged, looked out towards the doorway again, and then back to me. Gless was impatiently awaiting an update, which I wholeheartedly understood, but the anticipation of having to endure his hesitations and pauses was going to kill me. It took a second for him to get his train of thought back.

"The kidnapper calls and asks for a meeting with Caffrey in exchange for Lindsay?" Gless cynically summarized, voice rough and shaking his head. "That seems too easy." Obviously he worried about his daughter, but I still thought I detected a little bit of concern for Neal, too.

Of course, that all went on the backburner. I raised my eyebrows slightly and nodded compassionately, acting like a couch shrink from TV. My shock was the only thing that kept me from jumping up or flying into action without thinking. Wilkes had contacted Gless, who assumed I knew about it, which meant he'd shared it with the case agents. Which meant Rice definitely knew.

She had taken him out, at night, without a large cover of agents or a plan under the guise of a simple recon mission. She had authorized the clipping of his anklet to make the deal go off smoother, and had everyone buying into it because Wilkes would question a dull and tasteless accessory that didn't come off without scissors. Which all added up to mean one thing: Rice wasn't sending Neal out for recon – she was sending him, oblivious and unprepared, into a ransom payment.

"I can see where you're coming from there…" _Yeah, that was definitely the most concerning thing I've heard all day!_ I stood up with a small, charismatic smile. "Excuse me a moment." My heart thrummed in my chest and my stomach twisted. I almost started to feel physically sick. At the risk of being rude, I took out my phone and was dialing the fourth speed dial as I hurried out of the kitchenette, beyond the point of caring about my composure.

Every ring that went unanswered made me spiral. I was going to absolutely _murder_ Rice. That mantra warred with _oh God, Neal, please be okay, I need you to come home to me._ By the end of the third ring, only twenty seconds had passed _at most,_ but I still felt like I was about to throw up, a hand over my queasy stomach and a hitch in my breathing.

It seemed like an eternity before the ringing was cut off. Before I had the chance to fear that I was too late, Neal's slightly annoyed voice came through, a little bit tinny from the speakers and a little bit hushed from where he was. I couldn't hear music or people around him; nothing to indicate that he was at a club, where he was supposed to be.

 _"_ _Kenna, I'm kind of in the middle of-"_ He started to tell me, no doubt thinking I was once again being overly paranoid.

I didn't wait for him to finish his sentence. The relief of hearing his voice was soured by the immediate spread of panic. "Get out!" I shouted into the phone. A filing drawer slammed when my volume surprised several agents already in the bullpen, yet I couldn't care less, as long as Neal heard and understood the urgency. "Get out! Go to the nearest feds you can find!"

The distant crunching ( _crunching? Gravel? Why's he outside?_ ) of footsteps stopped and his tone changed to be guarded and on-edge. _"What are you talking about?"_ He asked, the irritation gone.

"Rice lied, there _has_ been a phone call! You're not going undercover, you're being used as ransom!"

The agents nearest to me looked at each other in alarm. One of them happened to be an older man who had worked in the WCCD for eleven years before I'd even transferred to the division, and he waved for my attention and then pointed to Derek's desk. I nodded quickly and clutched the phone tightly to the side of my face, sure to leave an impression of the device against my cheek. He hurried to high tail it across the room to get my team together.

Neal gasped quietly in surprise. _Yes, I've gotten through,_ my shoulders sagged. I assumed he was startled into backing out of the plan, retreating to the safety of the lookouts and Rice – or at least to the nearest, most heavily-populated place he could find. A second later, he made a pained, strangled whimper that I almost didn't hear. The sound that could've broken my heart in another setting was cut off and replaced by a heavy _thud_ as something big landed on the ground.

"Neal?" I asked, heart dropping. There wasn't a response – dead silence was on the other end of the line. "Neal?!"

* * *

Twenty minutes.

Twenty minutes felt like an eternity.

A lot could happen in twenty minutes. A lot could happen in twenty _seconds._ Neal had sounded fine, healthy, and in less than ten, something had happened to him. That short cry he made almost pushed me over the edge. How could I focus when I had that noise replaying in my ears? Neal made a lot of sounds, ranging from coherent words to obnoxious whistling, and I knew his tones better than anyone else in the entire bureau. Thankfully, I had had precious few occasions on which I'd heard Neal's pained voice, but I recognized it when I heard it. How could I not? It felt like half of my DNA was engineered to cater to Katie and the other half was finely-tuned to Neal.

Twenty seconds turned into two minutes. My phone was taken to trace the cell call that Neal hadn't had the opportunity to disconnect. It wouldn't get us Neal, but it would find his last location, even after the anklet had been clipped. The crime scene was a good place to start. It wasn't Derek, but Spencer who commandeered the quiet and forcedly calm atmosphere of the bullpen and started rapping out orders, sending someone to collect my primary team members while I retrained myself in how to handle things. Crying wouldn't help, neither would screeching or pounding on things, so my grief and loathing would have to wait.

Five minutes. Derek sprinted into the bullpen, retrieved from the cafeteria, and Diana was leaning over a desktop computer while showing me the grid with the towers that the phone call had pinged off of, and she called into the NYPD to have them send a unit to the coordinates immediately. My face felt red and swollen but only a few tears had managed to spring from my eyes, and I wiped them all away hurriedly, replacing them with a poker face that would've made Neal proud. He depended on me now more than ever; however badly I felt, I kept reminding myself that he had it worse and he needed all the help he could get.

At nine minutes, we all realized that we had forgotten there was a civilian there, and Gless interrupted with horror, brows pinched. He'd overheard too much conversation and had learned the truth of what had happened. Neal had been kidnapped, there was no word from Rice about Lindsay, and the bureau had had no idea about the plan he had been informed of.

Fifteen minutes and I was issuing orders on how to handle the case. It was our case now, and it was all hands on deck, and anyone who had a problem with agents being taken from their normal casework could take it up with me. No one decided to take me up on that offer. Neal was still a criminal and he was still looked down on by many, but regardless, he was still an FBI consultant. He was still an associate of the bureau, and someone targeting one of our own, no matter who that individual was, was one of the worst mistakes a killer could make.

Sixteen minutes passed on the clock when we heard back from NYPD. They did a thorough sweep of the scene and found nothing – no Lindsay, no Wilkes, no injured con artists. They _did_ find Neal's cell phone on the ground in an alley near the back corner of an underground club that doubled as a site for bookies and in-person gambling. Nothing conclusive, in spite of all this, and maybe we now knew where he'd been taken from, but my Neal was still out there, I still had his whimper stuck in my head, and when someone finally gave me the case file on Wilkes, I made a distressed whine of my own when I saw the full extent of his rap sheet.

The clock hit twenty minutes. I hated clocks but someone insisted on setting one. In a kidnapping, timing was crucial. We had no reason to believe the same rules didn't apply to Neal, but treating this case as though Neal wasn't incredibly special was going to be impossible for me. I was banking on Rice's major fuck-up being the only reason I wasn't thrown out of it.

Lindsay had been missing far too long. Statistically, she was already dead. The ransom changed things, made it a little more likely she was still alive, but those odds dropped depressingly now that Wilkes had the ransom that he wanted, and the clock started again with Neal. His odds went down immediately. There was no ransom call, no contact of any sort, and unlike a victim of convenience, Neal had already pissed off Wilkes.

In the twenty minutes between Neal's abduction and the current stage of events, Rice and her comrades returned to the bureau and had the unspeakable audacity to strut through the doors of the WCCD. The redhead held herself confidently while a brunet to her side checked his phone and relayed things to her.

I saw her from across the room, jerkily moved out from between Derek and Cruz, and started to go to her. My vision narrowed down until she was the only thing I saw, and my goals became limited to two things: securing Neal's safe rescue and making Rice pay for what she'd done to my soulmate. One was looking distinctly easier than the other.

"We have a silver van leaving the club, no plate." The brown-haired man was still speaking when I came close enough to hear. Rice caught my eyes, gave me a cocky smirk in hello, and intended to breeze right past. Instead of moving away, I stayed right in her way, on a full-frontal collision course. "The chase car lost it in traffic."

Rice raised her arm, hand up high, snapping her fingers. "Okay, listen up, people!" She called, insolently demanding for her authority to be respected. _Can't she see that we're_ _ **busy**_ _?_ She saw, she just didn't care. I was beginning to suspect she got off on pretending to be God, pretending to be the boss when she was just some stupid ant who didn't know what she was doing. "For the foreseeable future, you belong to _me._ I need traffic feeds from here to Yankee-"

 _Oh, like you thought Neal belonged to you?_ I scoffed and interrupted, starting out in a contradictory growl and raising my voice into a furious bellow that reached into every corner of the large room, and likely into the offices nearby as well.

"Actually, you own no one, and your ass is _mine!"_

Rice stopped and cocked her head to the side, rolling her dark eyes bitchily. I stormed right up to her and almost stomped on her feet, going toe-to-toe with the spoiled little brat and resisting the urge to wrap my hands around her throat. "What the hell is your problem, Anderson?" She asked me, glaring, but showing no sign of guilt or repentance.

 _The hell is_ _ **my**_ _problem?! I_ wasn't the one who was the problem! "Gless told me about the meeting!" I spat at her, rolling my sleeves up to my elbows. Her head lifted and her expression went to a priceless look of nervousness. I raised my voice, pointed at her chest – did everything I could to make a scene, to make sure everyone knew what kind of "agent" she was. "You took a ransom call and kept it a secret so that you could sell out Neal in an exchange that you _had_ to know was a trick! You don't get to _use_ people like that. I know you think you have his collar and get to treat him like a pet, call him a tool, humiliate him in front of other agents, but the fact of the matter is that he is _my_ -"

The instant I expressed any sort of ownership, Rice stopped looking around, mortified and uncomfortable, and fixated in on me like a raptor. The bitch could try all she wanted, but I wouldn't back down, I wouldn't feel bad, and I wouldn't take back my sentiments. Neal was mine to protect, and I took my peoples' protection _very_ seriously.

Many agents around us already knew who was to blame for the breaking of protocol and the situation that we all found ourselves in, but even they didn't know fully what to do with themselves when the ginger started to seek out resistance and assistance against me and my accusations. Most of them turned their heads to look down, avoiding the conflict. Some stared at her with their lips curled in contempt or with visible disdain in their expressions elsewhere.

These were the people Rice had pissed off, and there were consequences that she was going to face if I had to grab her by her pretty hair and shove her in a bucket of ice-cold reality. Or water. I could do both.

"Your what?" She asked me, lifting her chin indignantly and looking at me down her nose. Her eyes were wider, her breath a little picked up, and she dabbed at her lips with her tongue. She was frightened, using my relationship with my consultant as a distraction for what she had done wrong.

Yet I didn't know how to answer – not at first. It took me a second to understand what I wanted to call him. _Neal is my lover._ Yes, true, but not appropriate for the bureau, and by far not the full story; that term didn't encompass enough. _Neal is my soulmate._ Again, not appropriate for the bureau, and I didn't want to raise questions with _Neal,_ much less with the FBI, on top of everything else going on in our turbulent lives. _Neal is my best friend._

Yes, that worked. Neal is my best friend. Neal _is_ my best friend. We work like partners, we fight like lovers, we play like kids, and we love with a desperation that burns – or, at least, _I_ do. I couldn't speak for him, but there were times when Neal would kiss me with such passion that his lips burned, or he would say my name with just the right inflection to make it sound like he was speaking something else, or cast me a short look with his eyes that made me feel admired, adored.

"My friend!" I burst rebelliously out loud. I looked over my shoulder to my partners. Derek nodded approvingly. Diana was looking up at Derek with a fond smile and her arms were crossed. The agreement was evident by the expression on her face; I didn't need her to spell it out for me to be convinced where her loyalties lay. More confidently, I turned myself back to Rice and built my voice back up into an outraged pitch. "Neal Caffrey is my friend, my consultant, and my colleague, and you decided you had all the right in the entire God damned world to take his life into your hands and you _gave_ him to someone you knew has reason to kill him, and for what?"

 _My Neal._ Every time that beloved life came too close to being extinguished, I laid my head on his chest and listened to his heartbeat. I wanted, more than anything at that moment, to take a cushion, lay down, and pillow my head. I could cover the side of the pillow with my hand and pretend that I was with the man of my dreams. Equally appealing would be to take that pillow, shove it against Rice's face, and hold it there until she passed out. I didn't want to lose my mate; I didn't want to lose my _best friend_ , and it was unfair that Rice was trying to make that decision for me by making harebrained decisions she hasn't even finalized. What if she took him from me for good? What if I never got to hear his heartbeat again? What if this was the final straw, the final time we got lucky, and Neal's wit and his charm and his lock-picking skills couldn't help him?

She shut her eyes, licked her lips, and glared at me. Her chest fell when she let her breath escape her quickly and she kept her voice calm and level. It was infuriating. This wasn't a time to be rational. It was a time to be _angry,_ to make her _hurt,_ the way I knew Neal had been hurt.

"He was supposed to give us the girl," she explained, turning her eyes to look at an empty desk, her cheeks burning in embarrassment.

"And how did that work out for you?" I questioned, crossing my arms mockingly while I asked. I was vicious and relentless. I was very strongly influenced by my personal investment in Neal, but I would have been furious even if it wasn't him that she'd jeopardized. Rice had taken the safety measures and protocols that we put in place for a reason and decimated them without any reasoning other than an empty promise that would have made her look good, had it been met. "Where's Lindsay?" I asked, pursing my lips and looking around her and the other agents. Rice bit her tongue, appearing scolded and ashamed. I ignored the twinge of satisfaction. "I'm going to take a stab and guess that you got absolutely _jack_ out of upholding your end. Exactly how long have you been an agent?"

At that, the redhead turned her eyes back to me sharply and she opened her mouth to retort.

"No, I'm serious," I cut her off sharply. "Is this your first _actual_ kidnapping?"

"You had better watch it, Anderson," she started to threaten, growing angrier with me. Her righteousness eclipsed her defeat. "How dare you-"

I could hardly believe what I was hearing. What had she intended to follow that up with? What did she possibly think she could say that would work in the context? I would never find out, because I was too pissed off to let her finish.

"How dare _I?"_ I repeated, face twisting in rage. I turned it back on her and shouted, "How dare _you?!_ The bureau has a policy in place that we do _not_ negotiate with killers and we don't knowingly endanger civilians, but you managed to do both simultaneously!" Raising my hands, I clapped sarcastically. "Good job, psycho, really well done. You want your name in the news so bad? This'll make a great headline," I sneered.

"What's going on here?!"

The arrival of a third voice made us both change who our attention was directed to. It was the equivalent of the principal coming up behind two fighting students. Hughes' voice had never sounded so temperamental before to my ears; I put things in perspective and realized that, had he not been appraised of the situation yet, then it was the worst I had ever acted out. Screaming at an agent, throwing accusations like the ones I had been hurling in her face? Yeah. I'd deserve a hard smack on the wrists, if it wasn't all very just and defendable.

Hughes wasn't entirely innocent in this. I remembered that. I just had to pick my battles. My boss had authorized Rice's decisions, not just to take Neal out from underneath my care, but to clip his tracker. If it weren't for him agreeing to go along with the FBI's newest Miss Popularity, then my mate probably would never have been put in that danger to begin with; since Wilkes had made a form of contact already, it was additionally possible that I could have already taken steps to get closer to catching him. However, what was done was done, and Hughes had authorized the clipping of the anklet without the knowledge that Neal was being used as bait. He never would have let Rice do it if he'd known.

So I snitched. In Neal's world, being a tattletale could get me killed. In my world, Neal might well _be_ killed if I didn't regain control over everything I could, as fast as I could, so it was a risk I was willing to take. I threw an arm out to Rice, pointing in blame.

"This bitch led Neal to walk right into a trap because Wilkes wanted him as ransom!" Once I was yelling again, I realized that, no, I wasn't completely done being pissed at Hughes. Why _shouldn't_ I be angry? He passed over me, someone he knows, someone he trusts, someone whom he's _seen_ catch people like Keller and Dorsett, in favor of some spoiled brat with a few gold stickers on her resume. He just assumed that she was the better choice for the case, for some reason which I didn't know, but when he wanted to involve someone that everyone knew I cared about, I deserved the consideration of being allowed to protect him. Didn't I?! "Hope you're proud of your judgment, Reese, because there's a fucking _reason_ I wanted in on this!"

He could have been within his rights as my supervisor to scold me for using his first name or for swearing so profanely. Instead, he just looked up to the ceiling with his eyes as if to ask why this stuff always happened to him. A muscle in his jaw worked as he held his teeth tightly and rolled his head on his neck, transferring his attention to Rice.

"Rice, is this true?" He asked sternly, levelling an intimidating stare at her.

She looked away from him and to the floor, knowing that she was in boiling water. "A man we believe to be Wilkes contacted Gless," she confessed, chastened and anxious. She _knew_ that what she did was wrong. She just went ahead and did it anyway, because the rules didn't apply to pretty faces with overconfidence issues. "He said he would give Lindsay back if he could have a face-to-face with Caffrey."

"If you had bothered asking anyone who actually thought to look into Wilkes past the whole 'he kidnapped Lindsay' thing, you would've been advised against it." I snidely informed her. Part of the job was being thorough, seeing to due diligence. She couldn't just lump in Wilkes with the category of "human people." She had to look into him, see how he operated, understand the dangers and how to neutralize them, especially if she wanted to involve someone _I_ loved. "Wilkes doesn't honor his word!" I scoffed. "Wilkes is a homicidal freak who gets away with everything because he lies and threatens, and he got the wool over your eyes because you're so desperate to be recognized. If that's where your priorities lay, then the bureau is not the job for you, let alone a department where lives are actually endangered!"

"It was our one shot to get a lead on Wilkes and follow him back to the girl!" She argued against me.

"No, it wasn't!" My hand itched to lift itself and smack her in the face. It would push her away from me and inflict even just a fraction of the emotional pain I was feeling. It might be a fraction of the pain my boyfriend could be feeling. "What you _could_ have done was treated Neal like you're not a completely maniacal bitch and let another agent in on it! _I_ actually know what I'm doing! I dealt with serial crime, abductions, and serial killers for longer than you've even been in the bureau, you could have let the people who knew what they were doing handle it instead of being such a narcissistic control freak!"

Hughes moved his right arm in between us, his palm facing me. He didn't touch either of us, but his hand came pretty close to my elbow. "McKenna," he said, using my voice stonily and with his voice lowered between the two of us. "Calm down."

That just infuriated me further. Was I being unreasonable? I was making a hell of a scene, I knew that, but what was the calmness of an office worth compared to the lives of Gless's daughter and my soulmate? Wilkes had Neal, who he wanted to kill; Wilkes had Neal, the ransom he wanted, so he no longer needed Lindsay. Rice's careless actions had just put _both_ of them in mortal danger. Was I _really_ the person to be talked to?

"I will not calm down!" I spat back at him, just barely holding myself back from smacking his arm down and away from me. I kept my arms tightly crossed so that I didn't. "Does anyone else here think I am out of line? After what she's done?"

The reigning noise in the bullpen was silence. No one wanted to speak up and defend me, because no one wanted to be involved. Equally so, however, no one defended Rice. No one even met her eyes, not even her own agents. Neal being an ex-con aside, he was still a _person_. He was still a sweet guy who played games in the office and brought people coffee. He'd made enemies but he had never put a bullet through anyone before, and he was on our side. He was supposed to help us in return for our protection. It was fundamentally _wrong_ that anyone associated with the bureau would put him in more lethal danger than he'd been in, perhaps in his entire life.

Hughes saw the point I made, even if he didn't want to acknowledge that I may have been onto something about humiliating Rice in the semi-public. "Did you get any leads on the girl?" He asked the younger agent, resigned to my tantrum.

Swallowing, Rice admitted with a very small voice, "Wilkes made the grab in our one operational blind spot…"

Hughes nodded as if he'd expected as much. He lifted his volume to address the entire WCCD as a whole. "Then you're no longer in charge," he decided on the spot, saying it so that everyone would know she wasn't capable of making executive decisions. "Not only is McKenna officially _part_ of the show, but she is _running_ the entire damn _circus_ this case has become."

Rice opened her mouth and her eyes darted to me for a second with loathing. "Sir, I-"

"I don't want to hear it, Rice!" He turned back to her quickly, holding a hand up to make her shut her mouth. It was a rare display of his own temper. "You broke protocol and policy, and got one of our own kidnapped to show for it." Looking startled that Hughes was taking it seriously as he was, she nodded meekly, her face paling. "Anderson is more qualified and experienced than you are, anyway. You report to McKenna until you find her consultant and the girl, or you get out of my division and explain to your own supervisors what's happened here."

Hughes and I went way back, so I wasn't surprised that when things hit the fan, he passed the reigns to me. It just didn't fully make up for that he had initially given them to someone else, which I was sure I'd be upset about for a while, especially if Neal had more than a scratch on him.

The grey-haired man looked between us and shook his head, then turned around, hand lowering itself to his gun holster for a moment. He went to push his way back through to his office and people moved out of his way without pause. No one wanted to get in the way of him. No one wanted to get in my way, either.

I made a gesture in the air for them to go back to what they'd been doing. Most of them acquiesced and returned to their tasks immediately, and those that didn't were given indicators by agents that knew better. This left Rice and I still standing in the middle of the wide aisle between two desks, one of which was left unoccupied. I stared at her, considering her expression. She looked embarrassed and indignant, but not properly contrite. Well, if she didn't feel any remorse, then I wasn't going to feel any guilt for doing all I could to make this right by Neal.

I held up a hand, crooked my fingers, let out a deep breath, and took a sauntering step closer to her. "You're already going to be facing disciplinary action for the laws you've broken, and I really don't care – as long as you stay out of my way, I don't give a damn what happens to you." As I talked, Rice's face went through the key emotions of fear, insult, and grudging acceptance. "Just keep in mind that if your screwing around with back street deals gets Neal _or_ Lindsay killed, I _will_ take you to court."

At my threat, Rice lost whatever cowed respect she'd learned to display. "All you can do to me is testify at a hearing," she reminded me with a nasty expression. "You can't threaten me with a lawsuit. This was still part on an investigation."

"Oh, really?" I took it as a challenge and mounted my hands on my hips. "Neal Caffrey is under my custody," I emphasized. "More than that, he's a civilian. I hold his power of attorney. If your actions get him harmed, I'll press charges for accessory and accomplice to kidnapping."

I could see in her face when she knew she was pinned, and I delighted in it for four glorious seconds before I put aside my desire for revenge and dedicated my energies to recovering my beautiful blue-eyed artist.

* * *

"Be On the Lookouts have been issued for the entire state on a van fitting Rice's description." I briefed in the conference room, standing at the front of the long table and looking over my agents. It was a team of five, six when I was included, and they were going to be responsible for coordinating underneath my authority. No matter how much manpower it took, I was getting our civilians back. "NYPD has issued a full forensic unit to the scene. They'll let us know the moment they find anything."

The door hadn't been closed, but it was pushed open wider by a face I really didn't have the patience or the tolerance to deal with looking at. Rice, relegated to helping other agents with their tasks, carried a CD in a plain, see-through plastic case. The CD was burnt from a computer and had nothing written on it. She waved it up.

"We just found this in Gless' mail," she explained, striding past the backs of pushed-out chairs, arm outstretched to hand over the evidence.

She joined me at the front of the room. It was a DVD, not a CD; I could tell the difference when she came closer with it, but instead of going to take it, I kept my hands at my sides.

It wasn't purely to be stubborn. If it brought me closer to Neal, I had no trouble collaborating with the bitch, so long as I had people holding her accountable for what she was doing. I had plenty of experience, as Hughes said, and according to all of that experience, that DVD would be a proof-of-life recording. Proof of life didn't always translate to proof of safety or proof of health, and because everything was in the air where Neal was concerned…

Well, I had seen some pretty terrible proof of life tapes before, and the last thing I wanted to do was imagine watching another one in which the starring subject was my _boyfriend._ I remembered some of the worse ones and unwillingly replaced the kidnapping victims of those with my artist; the DVD felt like a threat. What if I played it and ended up being haunted by frames of Neal with blood on his clothes, cuts and bruises on his face, broken bones... any tears falling down his cheeks would make it ten times worse…

Rice, for once, did the decent thing. She accurately read my trepidation, saw the way I grabbed onto the hem of my shirt for stability, and opened the disc case herself. "It was sent before Caffrey was taken," she informed me under her breath while she walked behind me, going to the small TV stand by the corner and pulling it out. The DVD player hummed and powered on while she inserted the disc, then we all waited with static on the screen until the reader began to do its job.

The first frame loaded and was held for about two seconds. A pale-skinned young woman sat down with her knees bent right in front of the camera. Her eyes glimmered with wetness, lip trembling. Her hair was thick and dark brown. As thick as it was, it was also snarled and knotted from being abducted right out of bed. She was in what looked like fleece over her knees and a comfy pajama shirt.

The wall behind her didn't say much, but she was in a dark and likely damp environment. There was damage and staining where some liquid had seeped through the walls and into the bricks and mortar holding the wall together. It was old, the mortar rough, the bricks cracked, chipped, and discolored. The edge of a window was visible, but the panes were thick and the glass was arranged in a way that I rarely saw in inland buildings. We couldn't see much of the floor behind her, either, but the color made me think it was stone or cement.

Lindsay held a newspaper in front of her body. The camera was focused in on her, cutting out the surroundings but for the wall behind her, making it harder to pin down a location. The newspaper was folded to the front with the date, serving as proof that she had been alive when the _Times_ booths were stocked with the most recent edition. As the video was taken off of pause, it became evident that the camera was cheap and the recording done by hand. The sound was grainy and the frames shook unevenly as the camera was held by someone not great at holding it still. Lindsay's frightened eyes kept looking up over the top of the camera to the person coaxing her on what to say.

 _"_ _Hi, Daddy. I'm okay, but… you need to do what they ask. Now."_ She looked straight at the camera. She tried to smile, to be strong, but she looked so skittish and beaten down that it didn't meet her eyes. It looked like her smile was broken.

 _I'll get you back home,_ I promised the version of her on the television screen, but with the assurance that I wouldn't be seeing Neal in the tape came the knowledge that these conditions had been filmed before Wilkes had the target he wanted. Lindsay was disposable now that he had Neal.

Her eyes looked back up over the camera and to the side. She flinched almost unnoticeably. _"Or… I won't be okay."_ Her lip trembled. _"I love you."_ The last frame froze and the TV brought up the square icon in the top right corner. We'd reached the end of the recording.

I swallowed back preemptive grief. I was too close to this one, I knew it. I could've detached from it, disassociated enough to do my job without it getting to me, but that wasn't an option when my lover was one of the victims. I couldn't act like Lindsay was just another victim when I knew that the next recording we got could just as easily have Neal in her place.

"Everybody watch again." I commanded, picking up the DVD player's remote and walking back to stand next to Rice. The two of us were standing and easily able to watch the video, but we were out of the way so that there was no excuse for any of the agents not to memorize the content. "I'm setting it on a loop. Call everything you see."

I started the video again and Lindsay's shaking newspaper was picked up in the tinny audio. I set it on the repeat process and then placed the remote on the table, riveting my concentration on the visual.

_"_ _Hi, Daddy. I'm okay, but… you need to do what they ask. Now."_

"It's old and brick. It looks like it's falling apart." Derek observed what stood out to him as we watched. "Probably not up to code," he suggested. Somewhere dilapidated and out of use narrowed down the possibilities of where Lindsay was held. Forget Wilkes giving up her location. He wouldn't do that until she was dead, if even then.

_"_ _Or… I won't be okay. I love you."_

Diana took a shot at it. This was her first experience with a kidnapping case, if Mark Costa wasn't counted. There had been a lot going on in that one, but Diana had been focused on catching Shen through the Pai Gow games. She'd been instructed in theory on what to do, but hadn't had the opportunity yet to put any of that learned skill into practice. Much as I valued experience in high-pressure cases, there were few people I trusted more than Diana to help me recover my mate.

"What about the crack on the wall?" She offered. "That can't be very common." The one that she was talking about went from the ceiling to about halfway down. It looked thick, possibly done by failing structural integrity. That supported Derek's idea of the building not passing inspections and not being in use. "There's water damage up by the ceiling," she also noted.

_"_ _Hi, Daddy. I'm okay, but… you need to do what they ask. Now."_

"The windows look weird," I commented as the video restarted at the beginning. "Derek?"

Derek, who had done a lot of renovating and contracting to help fund his education, had a lot of hands-on projects to draw from. "I'd say pre-Civil War," he dated thoughtfully.

_"_ _Or… I won't be okay. I love you."_

Part of the clip that Diana had talked through during the first replay picked up a distant background noise. It was a droning sound, like a siren or a boat, and I hadn't noticed it the first time through. It was subtle. I doubted the muscle men working with Wilkes and recording the video even realized that the camera would have picked up on it.

"You hear that?" Rice asked abruptly, also hearing it.

"Horn," I stated, cocking my head and squinting at the video, as if I could see out through the wall behind Lindsay if I just stared hard enough. "Sounds like a… tugboat horn?" Two of the five agents sitting down looked convinced, and Rice added a 'yeah.' Not that I cared that much for her opinion, but if four of seven adults think something sounds like a tugboat, then odds are, it's a tugboat. "Okay, that means she's being held by the water."

_"_ _Hi, Daddy. I'm okay, but… you need to do what they ask. Now."_

"There are more than five _hundred_ miles of waterfront in the New York area," Rice stated, her brows pinched and her lips pulling into a pink-glossed frown.

_Yeah, I can imagine it must be really disappointing to learn how much work you do when you don't partner up with untrustworthy killers._

"Then you'd better get cracking!" I sharply snapped, clapping my hands for emphasis. Complaining wasn't going to get it done any faster. Rice looked down and stepped away from me, realizing that I wasn't over it, I was just prioritizing.

_"_ _Or… I won't be okay. I love you."_

I snapped and pointed at the video with my right hand as it rewound and restarted. "Cruz, get a still from the tape. Diana, go to the techies and have them set up traffic cam searches and facial recognition." Both women nodded diligently and Cruz made to stand up from her seat, sweeping her bangs out of her face.

_"_ _Hi, Daddy. I'm okay, but… you need to do what they ask. Now."_

"Derek, set up a waterfront canvas operation for buildings fitting the description we've got going." I instructed, slowly emptying the conference room even further. "Take whatever agents you need. All the resources, they're yours, and if someone's got a problem with that-"

"Refer them to you," he dryly guessed.

"Damn straight."

"What do I do?" Rice asked, eager to do _something,_ as the remaining two agents stood up and filtered out behind Derek, Diana, and Cruz. The ginger and I were left alone in the room with no mediation but a video of a tormented woman who'd recently been crying.

_"_ _Or… I won't be okay. I love you."_

"What do _you_ do?" I balked. The initial reply was right there on the tip of my tongue – _you sell out my CIs for some press coverage._ "Go help Derek if you have to, just don't hinder _me."_

Coldly, I turned my back to her and stared at the continuous proof of life video. Rice faltered, her feelings hurt. I'd have felt guilty if it hadn't been for what she'd done. Her actions were so reckless, so inconsiderate, that I fully believed she deserved to have some hurt feelings. How could she _possibly_ justify taking someone else's life into her hands, lying about it to everyone – including that person – and collaborating with someone we _knew_ to be homicidal?

She left. _Good riddance._ Being left alone with my thoughts was never a spectacular thing, but I preferred it to being forced to share my space with the reason my sweetheart could be lying in a run-down building somewhere, hurting, crying, needing his girlfriend to save him.

_"_ _Hi, Daddy. I'm okay, but… you need to do what they ask. Or… I won't be okay. I love you."_

I watched Lindsay repeat the same line, over and over. In actuality, she only said it once. I looked at the small TV screen and tried to imagine that I wasn't scared. Lindsay looked roughed up, but not badly harmed. For proof of life evidence, this was actually some of the most optimistic I had ever had the fortune of seeing – and yet, Wilkes didn't have a personal grudge against her, and I was glad that he had videotaped Lindsay instead of Neal.

Seeing Neal in evidence like this would've been too hard. It would have made it _real._ I could picture Wilkes hurting Neal in the worst ways he knew just because he thought the conman deserved it. Breaking his fingers, holding his head underwater, choking him out just until he fell unconscious. I squeezed my eyes shut. Too much visual imagery; too much imagination running too wild.

It was pathetic. I felt disgusting for being glad that Lindsay was in a proof of life tape. It meant she was still being held captive, and I was glad that it was her and not Neal I was watching be coached on what to say to manipulate her father into jumping through hoops for a psychotic.

I also felt disgusting sometimes for disregarding my principles and my legal oaths when I went behind the bureau's back to protect Neal, to protect Katie by any means necessary, to try to expose Fowler and eliminate the threats that would tear down my little misfit family, so hating myself was becoming pretty par for the course. I resigned myself to feeling like a selfish fuck-up about the proof of life tape by encouragingly reminding myself that at least I wasn't so far gone that I didn't feel bad about my skewed priorities.

Whether or not Neal was in this one, though, didn't change that I'd given myself a waking nightmare of a scenario in which he was forced to make his very own. I hoped Neal was going to be in the mood for pampering, because leaving him alone after this would rub me in all the wrong ways. I wanted to play with his hands and hair while he drifted off into a peaceful sleep against my shoulder. If the cost of achieving that was cooperating with Rice or operating according to his and Mozzie's rules rather than the bureau's… well… There were always going to be rules to break or to obey, but there was only ever going to be one Neal to cherish.

Neal Caffrey was one of a kind, and for as long as he wanted to be, he was mine.

_"_ _Hi, Daddy. I'm okay, but… you need to do what they ask. Or… I won't be okay. I love you."_

* * *

**There aren't many good things about being my parents' daughter, but I guess one of them is that I always have people looking out for my safety. My parents make me more of a target, so even though no one's ever tried to abduct me before, I'm one of the priorities of the security team that follows us everywhere. When we go somewhere where I might not be safe, I have a constant bodyguard. Even when we're home, I have to sneak out to be truly alone. More often than not, if I'm caught breaking out of the house, it's because one of the security detail checked on me and figured out that I'd skipped.**

**I used to associate safety with people caring about me. In a perfect world, that would be true, but I know that it's not, not here. Life sucks, and the truth is that these people would fight to protect me, but only because they're being paid to do so. I wish they cared about me – maybe then I wouldn't feel so alone –but I guess I have to be grateful that I have people willing to protect me at all, for whatever reason.**

**It's dumb of me, but I still think one of the best ways to show someone you love them is to protect and take care of them. I'm excited to have the opportunity to protect my soulmate, and the friends that I'll have in the future (though, to be clear, I'll be happiest if they're safe and well and don't actually need protecting).**

**Love (and protect),**

**Zarra L**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Love it? Hate it? Let me know!


	28. Trouble Is The Truth Keeps Slipping Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While McKenna reclaims her rank as a blue-collar specialist, Neal stalls to buy time for the FBI to save Lindsay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Lucy Hale's "Lie a Little Better."

**_Chapter Twenty-Eight – Trouble Is the Truth Keeps Slipping Out_ **

_It's still within the first twelve hours of his kidnapping,_ I reminded myself, trying to comfort myself. Statistically, there was still room for optimism for safe recovery. Unfortunately, just reminding myself that Neal had been _kidnapped_ sent a cold shudder up my back. Yet another remembrance that my darling wasn't near.

On the edge of the conference room table, my phone started to vibrate. I turned to it, checked the ID, and sighed. I couldn't keep this a secret from her… she'd find out one way or another that Neal was taken, and she deserved to learn about it and then be comforted about it by someone who loved her and would say what she needed to hear, which included the truth of the danger. I didn't want her to think it was outside the realm of possibility that Neal would be hurt; she needed to be prepared in case, God forbid, he actually was.

I answered and held the phone to my face. "Hey, Katie," I said tiredly, glancing to the window. It was already the early morning. "I know I didn't come home last night. I'm not with Neal…" _And there it is._ I chickened out at the last possible second, grinding my teeth. I couldn't tell her over the phone. I couldn't tell her at all, not until we had more to go on. She'd panic, she'd cancel her work day at the daycare, she'd run here to the WCCD and sit around being anxious because there wasn't anything for her to do. "… But I'm safe. Now is a really bad time."

Kate had let me take my pause without trying to fill in for me or start a conversation, which I had appreciated in the moment, but when it took her a little bit to respond (I knew she was there, I heard her breathing), I recalled our usual conversational tics and realized that it was atypical for her.

 _"_ _Okay,"_ her voice said to me, slow and deliberate, before I could worry that something was wrong, that maybe it wasn't Kate who had called. _"If I can give you one sentence, it will be that we have a visitor and I highly recommend you get your ass in gear to come see him."_

The swearing conveyed the message that it was important, but Christ Almighty could've been a visitor and I still wouldn't have dropped my case to go running. My case wasn't just a stolen piece of paper or a misplaced jewelry set. It was the threatened life of my best friend. "When I say 'now is not a good time,' I mean that it's not a good time for _anything,"_ I strongly told her. "Unless Fowler himself is in our living room, I don't have the capacity to care."

She sighed, irritated. _"I'm going to take a wild guess and say that whatever's raising your voice has something to do with Mr. Clean, who just decided to show up at our front door and come in uninvited."_ Now that I paid more attention to her, my sister sounded harried and upset. _"He seems agitated."_

 _Mr. Clean? What the-_ _Oh. Mozzie._ When Neal and I had introduced two of our favorite people to each other, things had… not gone too smoothly, and although Mozzie seemed to have acquired a secondhand fondness for my sister, Katie felt no such emotional attachment for Moz. If anything, she felt an obligatory tolerance since he helped keep our house safe.

"That's his normal state," I promised her. Mozzie being agitated wasn't something to be concerned about. I tended to be more suspicious when he _wasn't_ agitated about one thing or another.

Kate huffed. The tone of her voice changed like something was partially muffling it. So she was trying to keep the phone call a secret, huh? I tried to imagine the two of them in the kitchen, Kate on the landline, Mozzie curiously studying the ceramic bowl we kept our keys in and trying to decide if it was of any monetary value. I had scarcely seen stranger things.

_"_ _I don't mean paranoid. I mean fidgety and anxious."_

Huh. Yeah, that was a little weird. Mozzie used to be fidgety and anxious around me, but when he got used to me, his trepidation regarding my career wore off. It didn't make sense that he would be nervous around Katie, not when he had already met her once before and seemed to like her more than he liked me most days.

I sighed and rubbed my forehead, glad that the room had emptied out. This wasn't an ideal conversation to have in the FBI. This wasn't an ideal conversation to have, period. "Then have him come to me," I stressfully suggested. "I'm trying to handle a thing here."

A moment passed in which I guessed Katie was mocking me. I tried to confirm it. I got my confirmation when I got to mouth the entire last two sentences of my dialogue tauntingly before Kate started to talk again. _"Hold on, let me run that by him. Hey, do you feel up for a visit to the FBI building?"_

I rolled my eyes. That was a dumb question to ask someone like Mozzie. Sure enough, in the background of the phone call, I heard him snorting and loudly laughing. _"Ha, ha!"_

"That was so loud that even I heard it," I warned Kate before she could relay it. I was a little impressed with Mozzie's apparent volume capabilities.

 _"_ _Yeah, he's not going there,"_ she safely concluded.

 _"_ _Tell her it's about Neal,"_ Mozzie helpfully put in from a little further away from the phone. For him to be that audible, I'd have to switch up Katie's position in the mental image that I had conjured. I adjusted that for visual purposes.

_"_ _He says it's-"_

Kate didn't need to say a damn thing. I heard that from Mozzie and nothing else mattered; it was about Neal, of course nothing else mattered, how could anything else matter more? The one thing that would have me running out of work was Mozzie bringing by information that I'd need to know about Neal's whereabouts, and likelihoods be damned, Mozzie knew something.

"I'm on my way," I fervently promised, checking my pocket for my car keys. There wasn't time to take a taxi. Derek and Diana would have to tame the lions without me for a short time.

* * *

I let myself inside – it was my own home – and strode across the hall without stopping to divest myself of my jacket or shoes. Mozzie and Katie were audible in the kitchen. Keyring over one finger, keys swinging in a rapid circle from my hand, I entered the room they both occupied and walked right up to the kitchen table where they both sat. In too much of a hurry, I failed to take a seat, instead merely standing behind Kate.

Mozzie had seated himself around the rounded table with his back to the fridge, at a good position to see someone entering the area. Kate had chosen the spot directly across from him – incidentally as far from him as she could be while remaining at the same piece of furniture. Mozzie's hands were in his lap and he wasn't touching anything, but Katie was hypervigilant.

"You never told me your name." She stated, narrowing her eyes at him. "Or what you even _do,_ aside from bug sweeps."

Behind her, I placed my hands gently on her shoulders and leaned down, pushing my lips against her right cheek. Kate tilted her head to the side so that I could, but her attention was on Mozzie. I stood up straight, bracing myself to lean over my sister with my hands shifted to the back of her chair, and I peered at the conman over the top of her hair. It was lovely to have her so near, to touch her face and feel that she was still warm and healthy.

"I know that." Mozzie very evenly answered, candidly nodding and then pleasantly explaining, "It was intentional." I rolled my eyes and shook my head at him. He was going to invoke Kate's ire, and if he wanted to remain a guest in our house, it was best not to do that – especially because I would rather continue being able to utilize him as a source of information. "Neither have you," he said, turning the conversation around to her.

She cocked her head, uncertain she bought the motives behind the reciprocation. For a few seconds, I wasn't sure that she was even going to answer. Kate must have tentatively decided to grant him the benefit of the doubt, because she replied with honesty. "I work at a daycare. I started it myself, actually. It's my own."

This wasn't anything Mozzie didn't already know. If he hadn't gathered it somewhere along the line from myself or from Neal, then it definitely came up as a result of the fights I had with Fowler that got me kicked out of home. Mozzie must've, for once, caught onto the socially correct thing to do and pretended that he didn't know about an aspect of her life that she hadn't told him herself.

"I thought that daycare was a front for Suit to indoctrinate the young minds of tomorrow to the narrow-minded and in-the-box thinking of the federal government." Mozzie stated, surprised that it wasn't.

I covered my eyes with my hand. _Or maybe he just doesn't realize yet that you get what you see with Katie._

"Again with the indoctrination," I grumbled. He was a fan of that word, wasn't he?

Kate puffed. "Not everyone has nefarious ulterior motives," she chided. "Or ulterior motives at all, for that matter." She glanced to the side and put her chin on her fist, elbow on the table, checking the clock on the wall. She couldn't have made it clearer that she was ready for this visit to be over.

Mozzie chuckled as if Kate had just made an endearingly embarrassing error. "Ah, naïveté. So sweet." Katie's expression darkened when she heard the teasing tone and Mozzie sniggered. "I bet you believe in the moon landing, too."

That one got to even me. "Wait, what?" Mozzie looked a little smug that something had managed to rattle me, but then I saw that Kate was ready to strangle him and remembered that there was a time-sensitive reason that he was sitting in a federal agent's kitchen. I held up my hand and nixed the undoubtedly insane conspiracy he was about to uncover. "No, forget the moon landing, what's up?"

We transitioned into a meeting of business smoothly. There was no fumbling for a change of topic. Even Katie calmed, knowing that anything that drove Mozzie to my door would be something I needed to hear, and she didn't want to take away from something important – especially not something she knew involved her favorite ex-con.

Mozzie took a cheap phone out of his pocket and put it face-up on the table. It was one of several that he just cycled through. He had one phone that he kept on him for longer periods of time, and Neal and I were the only people who I was sure had that number. We were only to use it in emergencies, which was how I had got hold of him when Fowler had faked his soulmark. While not a twenty-dollar burner from a drugstore, it was an older model of a Smartphone, which meant it was relatively easy to get his hands on, whether or not he had legitimate finances.

"I received this recently." He said primly, folding his hands back in his lap, not exactly comfortable at my table.

I looked from him to the phone. He'd never invited me to touch his phone before. He used to go out of his way to keep it out of arm's reach. I picked it up and brightened the screen. It was opened up to an email-enabled app where some junkmail was displayed in the inbox.

A travel agency's logo opened the email and it was followed with flowery blue font. " _Elite Voyages,"_ I read from it. _"Come frolic with us."_ The slogan was followed up with the same generic information that might be on any other travel agency's site. It was an introduction to the company, then some eye-catching sweepstakes offers, and the perks of signing up for the mailing list. I lowered the phone and stared blankly at Mozzie, scowling. **_This_** _is what he dragged me out of work for?_ "Oh, no, you got spam. I'll alert the president."

Mozzie scowled right back at me and raised a hand to gesture at the phone. "Look at the email address."

When his expression remained serious, I did as I was told. The email address was just an average Yahoo account, but the name in the beginning made me pause. "Dante Haversham…"

"It's the same alias I gave when Neal introduced us," he reminded me imperiously. I nodded. I recalled perfectly fine. The question was, who else would have known to send an email to Haversham? No one but Neal, who was the only other person there when the identity was created, and there was no reason for Neal to be sending Mozzie junkmail unless there was a clue within the Elite Voyages message. "See, some things _do_ have secret meanings and ulterior motives," he smugly finished to Kate, looking entirely too pleased.

Swallowing tightly, she put her hands up jerkily in surrender. "Okay. Okay," she repeated, a little louder and higher. "I'll buy it this one time. Is Neal okay?" She tipped her head back to see me, fully acknowledging me for the first time since my arrival.

I hesitated, then ducked my head. "I don't know," I admitted, just going for it. Kate would kill me if I lied, and I needed to save time, not impede myself by creating excuses. "But that's a distress signal." I pointed at the phone and then passed it back across the table to Moz.

_Elite Voyages, huh?_

Katie quietly asked, "McKenna?"

I nodded, exhaled, and felt my molars with my tongue. When I felt like I could explain quickly without sounding too angry or manic, I summarized it for her and Mozzie both. "Neal went for what he thought was an undercover op with Rice, except she had an alleyway deal set up with Wilkes. Wilkes – that's the bad guy – didn't honor his end, so now we have no Neal and no Lindsay, which makes her negligent, irresponsible, and an all-around bad person and makes me the hero again, which is why I'm ditching so fast."

I shrugged my shoulders haplessly, putting on a fraudulent smile. I could pretend that I was okay. I could pretend that I wasn't scared half to death. Mozzie's expression was dark and brooding, contemplating either if there was some way he could help behind the scenes or how likely it was that feds were ever going to stop screwing Neal over. Mozzie could handle me being freaked out. I knew he could, because he'd done it before. He knew what to say to get my head back in the game, for Neal's sake. Katie, however… Katie needed to see someone composed, not someone terrified.

"I've got a team to run," I excused with a smile, rubbing my left hand over her left shoulder. I pressed my thumbnail into the back of her neck, scratching gently at the collar of her shirt, and nodded to Mozzie with appreciation.

* * *

Keeping the rest of the bureau out of the loop when it came to Mozzie was a real trick. It required some creative uses of half-truths and mincing words from both Neal and myself, as well as the occasional crafty misdirect when someone asked a question that couldn't be easily explained. This time, without Neal to fence the information through, there was no way around it: Mozzie would have to be a known variable for getting the tip to look at Elite Voyages.

I called it in to Diana, who redirected me to Rice without thinking about it. She was busy talking with the technicians about arranging a centralized face and mass recognition program through traffic cameras near waterfront locations. Much as I hated letting Rice be in my inner circle, Neal came before any grudges, so I clued her in and gave her an assignment like she'd wanted. I think having something to do made her feel useful, which helped alleviate the guilt and awkwardness from being kicked out of command.

When she asked, I said to focus on the New York branch. Elite Voyages had several offices. I forwarded the email to her and had her ask someone to trace the IP address. It was sent through the office located in central Manhattan, and because Neal would have had to somehow communicate with someone there to have the email sent to Mozzie, we concluded that he had wound up there in person at some point and slipped Mozzie's alias onto the email list while attending to whatever Wilkes wanted. Wilkes was too smart to give him free access to a computer or phone on his own, and if he had, then Neal would've contacted me, not sent his friend junk mail. She questioned where I got the information to begin with, and I told her that I had gotten it from a reliable source who preferred to remain anonymous in exchange for his aid and cooperation. Rice was disgruntled, and, worried that she'd mention it to someone else, I told her that he was a harmless character who functioned as an off-the-record confidential informant for me on several occasions.

Then, for good measure, I asked her if she wanted more information on him so that she could get him kidnapped, too, and get two for two on my CIs. That shut her up _very_ quickly.

I reentered the bullpen, already taking my jacket off. Any time the air conditioner wanted to kick itself on would be very convenient. "Whoever makes progress is getting gift cards!" I called to get the attention of anyone who had something for me to work off of. It was an effective promise, since I was somewhat known for making games or rewards when we seemed stuck on a case. Many times, I would pick up cool pens or ten-dollar vouchers and wave them around until someone did something to earn them.

To my dismay, the only one who seemed to react was the one person I most wanted to throw punches at. With her hair slightly mussed, Rice looked up from over Derek's desk, which I chose to just assume she'd asked permission to use, and waved at me. My shoulders slouched, but, remembering that I'd given her the most promising lead, I went to her side.

She didn't waste time. If she had been this concerned with efficiency instead of power, she'd have avoided the hassle of making illegal trade-offs. "Two hours ago, Caffrey goes into Elite Voyages asking for the itinerary of a Thomas Loze."

The name meant nothing to me. It wasn't one of the bureau's known aliases of Neal, and I'd never heard Mozzie go by anything like it. It had no relation that I knew of to Moreau or to Fowler, either, so for Neal to be asking about it, it had to be because Wilkes demanded it.

Rice pushed down on the keyboard and brought up a formerly-minimized downloaded photograph. My heart leaped and I reached forward on impulse, trying to get to Neal, but caught myself and grabbed onto the edge of the desk instead. The photograph was from a camera tucked into the corner of the room, and it showed Neal sweeping the front office with his eyes while standing before a blonde receptionist, who was doing something on the computer. I looked over the small picture desperately. Neal was okay. He was unharmed, as far as I could see. His tie pin was missing and it laid askew against his chest. His shirt was untucked from his slacks and his hair was messy in a way he never would've come into the office without fixing and he looked exhausted, but he was okay.

_Or… he_ _**was** _ _okay, two hours ago._

I swallowed thickly and hoped that Rice would continue exercising her recently-acquired social skills and not comment on how affected I was by the still frame. "What's the significance?"

"I pulled a file from Interpol," she explained, reaching up and swiping curly hair out of her face and forcing it behind her ears. "Thomas Loze happens to be a favorite alias of Edward Riley."

 _Damn it._ Now that was a big shark, right up there with Dorsett… not quite as high on the ladder as Keller, but far too high for me to want Neal going anywhere near him. "That name I know," I murmured, clearing my throat. "A go-to for rich criminals who want something really valuable moved really, _really_ discreetly. Very violent, very dangerous, and it's a very bad idea to mess with him. Which is probably why Wilkes is having Neal do the snooping, and probably pulling off whatever stunt he's got planned."

"Wilkes is planning a rip-off," Rice surmised, and I nodded my initial agreement. Why else would Wilkes need a front man, unless he wanted to do something he knew would piss off Riley without eliminating the fence entirely? If he intended to murder Riley, then Wilkes wouldn't need to have someone else go to cast suspicion away from himself.

At least if Neal was a front man, then he was – albeit temporarily – safe. That would buy us time. Neal, I had to admit, was a good target for this sort of thing. He was known well enough in the criminal world, and even if Riley didn't recognize him, then after the scam, he would know Neal was clever enough to pull it off on his own, meaning that he didn't immediately accuse anyone else. Once Wilkes had what he wanted, he got the pleasure of executing someone who'd wronged him in the past. It was a double-win for Wilkes.

For as long as Neal was serving as the decoy, he was safe. Wilkes wouldn't kill him until he'd used him, and that meant we had a small window in which we could intercept Neal and make a plan to turn the tables. The first idea was to just grab him and pull him out at the very first opportunity, but then I remembered the reason Rice was here in the first place. Neal would cooperate if his life was threatened, but there was one other way to get him to do what he was told that _didn't_ involve threatening him, and that was to threaten someone else, someone innocent.

Lindsay was Wilkes' insurance policy to get Neal to behave – that was why he hadn't let her go to Rice. Also, because he's a twisted monster, but that wasn't the point. As long as he had a purpose for Neal, then Neal and Lindsay were both safe.

"He's using Neal as his front man. If it goes wrong, Riley attacks Neal and Wilkes gets away clean." I gestured at the computer. "This is why he kept Lindsay. Neal doesn't cooperate, he injures the girl until he does."

"Riley's on an inbound flight from Sydney. He touches down at one." Rice checked her watch, worrying her lower lip with her teeth.

I nodded slightly. It wasn't even noon yet, but I had no idea when Neal was going to arrive. Assuming he came through the international terminal, I could station enough agents in civilian clothes to cover all of the entries, and I could take the one nearest to the drop-off lane. Wilkes would stay as far as he could from the scene.

"I'm going to the airport," I decided, folding my jacket over my arm. "I'll be waiting for Neal whenever he shows up. I'll touch bases, let him know what's going on. Keep going with the search for Lindsay." I swept around to hurry out and to my car. After taking a few steps, I realized that my footsteps had shadows. I turned around abruptly to the redhead on my heels, who leaned back in surprise. "What are you doing?" I bluntly questioned.

"I'm coming with you!" She declared. I snorted. _As if._ I didn't want her anywhere near Neal, no matter who was in charge. Rice reached out and grabbed onto my arm before I could turn my back to her. "I'm not as coldhearted as you seem to think!" She raised her voice. "Look, I realize I messed up, but I don't want him dead!"

I stared at her. She seemed earnest enough, even as I glared. At the least humane level, she could've wanted to go just because her ass would have more cover if she also helped recover the civilian she got kidnapped. If I let her come, she would have to be _really_ stupid to put him in harm's way.

"Fine," I growled. Rice had initiative, if nothing else, and the more assistance I had, the better, no matter who it was coming from. "You come with me, you do as I say. Fetch Diana and bring her, too. Take your own damn car."

I turned to leave and this time, Rice didn't pursue in close quarters. If I had to let her into my car, had to have her sitting in the passenger seat where Neal usually rode, I'd have clocked her regardless of the destination.

* * *

I did what I planned once inside the international arrival terminal. The airport was big and busy, but we had more than enough agents at our disposal to feel confident that someone would spot Neal when he came in. We also collaborated with security and the TSA, showing them photographs of both men we were looking for. We told them that one was to be considered dangerous and not approached, and that the other was a civilian being forced to act against his will, and that while he wasn't a threat, it was absolutely imperative that either myself or Diana got in touch with him.

I knew Neal, and I knew Wilkes… well, as much as anyone could know someone else through studying behavior. My guess that Neal would enter through the first accessible entrance was correct. Although no cars stood out to me when they drove past in the far left lane, as I watched through the window, I saw Neal come into view on the sidewalk beside the lane where cars could pull over and deposit people close to the doors.

My heart jumped. It hadn't been too long since I had last seen him, less than a day ago, but I couldn't control the way my heartbeat pulsed in my ears and I could feel the thumping in my throat. My lover was safe and alive. How could I _not_ be ecstatic? After he was in such a perilous position with Wilkes, inaccessible for over twelve hours, it was truly a dream to see him again, within my reach.

I drank him in through the Plexiglas window. He didn't notice me. I had shed my belt, holster, and blazer to appear less like a fed, and I kept my head down, hair unbound and spilling down over my shoulders in thick waves. It obscured me from close scrutiny from someone outside just in case Wilkes was still hanging around in a car. Neal wasn't looking for anyone – or, at least, it didn't seem like he was – so he didn't see the familiar silhouette lurking behind the glass.

He wasn't looking too much better than he had in the photograph from the Elite Voyages security cameras. Neal walked smoothly, but his left arm was held a little more stiffly, which I definitely catalogued and made a note to check. His face had more color than it had had in the photo, his tie had been fixed to hang straight, and he'd drawn his hands repeatedly through his hair in an attempt to tame it without products. Over his hair was a hat, but instead of the fedoras he liked, it was some sort of driver's cap. All in all, he looked fantastic for someone who'd been abducted, and had I not been so familiar with his usual preferences, I wouldn't have thought there was anything odd about his clothes or hair.

I smiled longingly, letting a long breath escape from my chest, and slipped to the left, slinking around the beam in front of the wide floor-to-ceiling window and hiding behind the wall closer to the door. I stayed a few feet away, but watched Neal enter, one hand in his pocket, raise his eyes briefly to the electronic board announcing arriving flights, and start to take a right.

"I can't believe I'm doing this," I called to him. Several people were within mere feet of us, but he recognized my voice instantly and his shoulders sagged. The comfortable way he postured melted away in a second, the tension that held him like that gone. "But I saw a mockingbird in the park." I mocked Mozzie playfully and held my tongue between my teeth.

Neal looked to the window, checking for a car within view, but whatever vehicle had dropped him off wasn't there anymore. He walked over to me where I leaned on the wall. "There's no need for the tricks, Kenna. Wilkes isn't here."

I smiled at him gently and moved a step forward to meet Neal as he came over. He stopped, arms down, and laughed nervously in relief. I smiled up at him, blinking away feelings that threatened to bring relieved tears to my eyes. He was so close, so real, and his voice was steady. It was nice to hear his low chuckle instead of the hurt noise he'd made on the phone.

I reached for his left arm and smoothed my hand down his sleeve. Neal turned his head to watch. I pressed against his bicep, cupped his elbow, and then slid my hand down his forearm. Neal raised his hand and I grasped his wrist after feeling his entire arm. There was slight localized swelling on the outside of his upper arm, close to his shoulder, but nothing else concerning.

"I'm okay," he said softly.

I nodded. I could see that he was. Biting my lip, I leaned forward and wrapped my arms tightly around his middle, pressing my forehead to his shoulder and hiding my face as tears clouded my vision. Neal embraced me just as suddenly, one arm flying tight around my lower back while the other went behind my neck, cupping my head over my hair. He held me to him just as securely as I held him, feeling his warmth through our clothes. I felt his hand shift in my hair and then he pressed his cheek against the side of my head, looking down my back and sighing contently.

Slow footsteps joined from my left. My vision was fully encompassed by the shadows of Neal's neck and shirt, but I could take a guess at who would stand right beside us. "We're here to help you get out of this mess, Caffrey."

Neal's arms tensed as if he thought I was in danger of being taken away. He picked up his head and glared. "That's kind of ironic coming from you, Agent Rice."

I took my hands off of his back. Neal dropped his arms and I moved a respectable distance away. The first time we were in private, I'd be right back on him without hesitation, and it would take a crowbar to pry me off… but just because I could see he was okay didn't mean that we were out of the woods. Lindsay was still being used as leverage and Edward Riley was about to touch down in our city.

"Hear that?" I asked Rice snidely, unable to resist making another shot. I wouldn't have to be having a teary reunion with my artist if she had just been a decent human being _without_ being shouted at in front of a ton of our colleagues. "He's as done with you as I am." Rice turned pink and looked away, but she stuck it out and stayed where she was. I looked back to Neal and felt myself relaxing again just by seeing him. It was a struggle not to touch him just to reaffirm that he was there. "I hope you have a really good plan for getting whatever it is he wants from Loze, because Loze is actually Edward Riley."

"Damn," Neal muttered. I raised my eyebrows. I rarely heard him swear, so I took that to mean that he didn't have a superb plan worked out. "No wonder Wilkes doesn't want to be anywhere near this."

"Yep. You're a front man." I stated like I was congratulating him and stuffed my hands into my pockets so that I wouldn't just take any excuse to reach out and feel his shoulder or hand. The two of us immersed ourselves in our own discussion, cutting Rice out without intending on it.

"If I don't get his briefcase to Wilkes by four, he'll kill Lindsay," Neal solemnly relayed.

"Proof?"

"Her guard wasn't wearing a mask. And he has a silencer." He grimaced. I nodded slowly, covering my mouth. I knew how much Neal hated guns.

"He never had any intention of letting her go." I smiled sadly at Neal. We would fight to get her back no matter what Wilkes wanted, but it had to suck to be shoved into a case where he wanted to get someone back home only to learn that her captor just intended to murder her for the fun of it, no matter what went down before then. I wasn't surprised, but I hated that he had to be exposed to those kinds of people. "Like I said." I added pointedly to Rice, "This is why is pays to listen to agents who actually know what they're doing."

She looked rattled. Seeing that, I kind of regretted speaking that last sentence without first seeing her reaction to Neal's revelation. "But you saw her in person?" She checked, tightening her hands and lacing her fingers. He confirmed it with a nod. "Where?"

Neal didn't roll his eyes. He rarely did when he was speaking to anyone but me. It was sometimes like he had trained himself not to be so casually rude to people, just in case he was targeting someone dangerous as a mark. I was an exception; someone he was comfortable enough with to feel totally free to be a jerk sometimes. _Lucky me._

"I don't know," he said testily, with the same tone of voice of a person who would be rolling their eyes if they could. He flicked his gaze at her for a second, irritated and dismissive. "They tased me." Rice looked suitably chastened and she cringed. Neal looked back to me, the irritation leaving his handsome features as he reached forward thoughtlessly and took one of my hands in both of his. "Please tell me you're close to finding her."

I hesitated to take his hand, but then decided _to hell with it._ Rice could just go fuck off if she wanted to report me. If she drove a stake in for something as innocent as hand-holding, I would press harder for legal ramifications for what she'd done. I wasn't as seething mad now that we knew where Neal was, now that I _could_ hold his hand, but I still wasn't going to let her get off of the hook for that.

"We know what kind of building she's in and that she's close to the water, but that's still a lot of ground to cover," I informed apologetically, stroking my free hand down the back of one of his, rubbing over his knuckles and the soft skin.

"Her guard was eating mushu pork from a restaurant called Walk of Fire," he remembered helpfully.

"That's a Chinese takeout place near the boardwalk," I turned my head to say to Rice. Not being from the city, she would need to know. She could take the information back to the search teams, they could narrow down their canvas search. It could've been a misdirect, but if they never intended for Lindsay to leave, they probably didn't count on Neal paying much attention to their takeout containers. "That helps," I told Neal gently, praising.

He squeezed my smaller hand in between his. "Hey, I'm staying here," he said quietly, sucking on the inside of his cheek nervously. "If you don't get to Lindsay in time…" He let it hang. We all knew what would happen to the girl if Wilkes didn't get what he wanted before the FBI could intervene.

I held my breath and looked up at his eyes. They were sharp and clear, conscious of his decision. I couldn't argue with him, not when it really was his choice and I couldn't stop him, short of cuffing him, but I didn't have to like it. Neal wasn't looking very eager about it, either, but he did seem resolute. He was going to stay on Wilkes' leash, return to a man who could put a bullet through his head with a smile, for the sake of some nineteen-year-old – the child of the man who ensured his four-year stay in _prison._

"Rice, go," I forced through my teeth, biting down on my tongue. I had to remind myself over and over that I couldn't kiss Neal, that I couldn't go for the full "reuniting lovers" experience, in such a public place. God, I wanted to kiss him. He demonstrated the values I held most sacred and found most attractive, and from the utterly sincere look in his eyes, he wasn't doing it just so he'd get special treatment from me. He genuinely cared what happened to Lindsay.

Rice leaned back and looked between Neal and me. I clasped his hand tighter in case she had anything to say. "What are you doing?" She asked, stunned. Either it was because I wasn't arguing about Neal remaining at risk or because I was sending my ally away. I didn't care less. I just wanted the time alone to talk with my best friend.

I snapped at her. She was ruining the moment. She was making me think about _her_ when I should've just been treasuring the few moments I could steal with my boyfriend before I had to continue the search and he had to deal with Riley. "I don't have to answer to you, remember?" While I glowered meanly at her, I held tight to Neal's hand. He gave me a squeeze. I took a deep breath. "I'm briefing my consultant. You go gather up a search team and focus on the areas closest to the restaurant. Now."

I didn't have to say it again. Neal and I both watched her leave, reaching for her phone to make the call to Derek, who was in charge of the grid search. She left through the front doors to go out to the car in the parking garage outside the terminal. Left in a sea of people who wouldn't know to be aware of the way we held onto each other, we laced our fingers and held our hands between us.

"Wow," he remarked mildly. "What did you do to heel her?"

I flushed in a (misplaced) sense of pride. "Chewed her out in front of the WCCD," I answered, standing up taller and laughing breathily, still amazed to be standing right in front of him. Remembering a device in my pocket, I slipped a hand into my trousers and took out a small bug. "Keep this on you at all times," I lectured shortly, holding it up for him to look. I turned it over, showing just how unimpressive it was, and then I stretched my fingers on the other hand. Neal took the cue and let go, and I reached for his wrist and slipped the bug into the folded cuff of his sleeve. "It's a transceiver. This gadget actually works both ways – Diana's going to stay near and keep an eye on you, following the tracking signal, so she and I can both talk to you, and you can talk to us. She's got an entire team on backup, but they'll be staying out of the way. Don't do anything stupid."

It was going to hurt to leave him, but really, aside from myself, I couldn't have chosen anyone I trusted more to protect Neal, except for maybe Katie or Derek, but one didn't have the know-how and the other was preoccupied.

"Too late," he joked, smiling at me weakly. I tried to frown, but couldn't quite manage it, and instead took up his hand again. "I'm glad you're here. I was really starting to worry. I wish I could kiss you," he wistfully pined.

I sucked in on my lip and nodded. "I wish you could, too," I whispered back. Nothing sounded more appealing than holding his hand to my side and pulling him down by the collar for several long, sweet kisses. Nothing except taking down Wilkes, rescuing Lindsay, and escorting him safely home, that was. I swallowed. We had to start doing something, whether it was talking strategy or parting ways, before I lost my self-control. I decided on the former, giving his hand a tug and leading him to the left, heading toward the terminals. "Come on. We need to figure out a way to get the briefcase without also getting Riley out for your blood."

"We?" Neal checked, eyebrows flying up. He sped up and matched my pace.

I made a scoffing noise. Had he really thought I _wouldn't_ be using that particular pronoun? It was becoming my favorite as of late – _we_ were significant others; _we_ were in this together; _we_ were being targeted by Fowler. I had stood by him when Fowler made him look like the culprit of the diamond heist. I had remained loyal to him, even when Fowler started coming at me because of my alliance with the forger. I had not requested, but _insisted_ on having his back when confronted with Matthew Keller. _We_ was right – we were a team.

"I'm not leaving until you've only got _one_ homicidal wacko to deal with," I confirmed bravely.

Neal dryly chuckled. "This is what true friendship should be about," he celebrated sarcastically.

I stubbornly continued to lead. I knew we could find a private place to plan if I got to one of the TSA guards. They could take a look at my badge and give Neal and I a safe place to confer, and any resources we'd need to encounter Riley with as much safety as we could possibly get. He might put up a fight if a fed suddenly confiscated his luggage.

"You have really strange friendships if they all go like this."

A third person joined us, slipping out of the crowd and seeming to just materialize without warning on Neal's other side. Neal was practically a magnet for people in this airport. At first, I thought it was Rice, and I made to snap at her again. When I looked around Neal to the newcomer, I relaxed. Neal stopped, and when I felt my hand start to pull, I turned back to he and Mozzie. _So we're just going to stand out in the open, then. Fine._

Mozzie had a talent for hiding in the crowds and slipping through the cracks. I had no idea when he'd arrived or how he had found out that we needed to be at the airport, but part of me was glad that he had. I fully intended to detain Riley, get the goods, and pass them to Neal, with neither of them being so much as ten feet close to the notoriously-vicious fence. Still, even with a plan and the promise of TSA backup, it was a comfort to have another friend in the vicinity, especially one that would help me keep Neal seeing reason. With Mozzie around, Neal was more likely to keep his heroics limited to what he could accomplish without being murdered.

"I don't care what you're doing here," Mozzie stated calmly, putting forth to begin with that his priorities were with his friend, not with Lindsay. While the agent and Samaritan in me protested and recoiled, the part that had panicked and flipped on Rice and repeatedly betrayed the bureau for Neal's sake was glad that someone with such firm objectivity towards the goal of Neal's safety was present. "As your friend, I _must_ insist you pull the rip cord."

Neal was delighted. "You got my message!" He stated the obvious, grinning at Moz.

"It's thanks to that message that we found you," I pointed out, realizing belatedly that I had neglected to mention how we'd managed to show up at the right place at the right time. I gave him a literal pat on the back for the cleverness of signing Mozzie up for the electronic newsletter.

Mozzie looked up at his taller friend and saw the driver's hat. I had also skipped past that. Mozzie made a disgruntled face. "What's with the driver's outfit?"

Neal pursed his lips and sighed. "I'm about to rob Edward Riley," he summarized for Mozzie, looking moderately uneasy as if it was only just sinking in for himself.

" _The_ Edward Riley?!" Mozzie's eyes went wide and he raised his voice, not far from yelling. Neal and I both hurriedly shushed him. Moz shook his head incredulously, tensing up to fight or flee just at the mention of the name. "What's your plan, a gun in the glove compartment?"

"Of course not," I scolded Mozzie, rubbing my hand on Neal's upper back reassuringly. "Neal's smarter than that." _And he hates guns, but personal preferences aside…_

Both of us looked to Neal expectantly, Mozzie with his feathers still ruffled. I crossed my arms and waited. Neal hummed uncomfortably, slipped both hands into his pockets, and looked over the top of Mozzie's head towards the digital flight arrival board, pretending to be oblivious.

Neither of us were falling for it – Neal's social aptitude was anything _but_ lacking. My jaw dropped and Mozzie threw his arms up. " _That's_ your plan?!" Mozzie freaked out. "A gun in the glove compartment?!"

"It's a long story," Neal sighed. "One way or another, I'm taking his briefcase."

I looked over my shoulder when someone bumped their elbow into my back. It was just someone with earphones in who wasn't paying attention to where they were going, but I still turned back around to them, more cautious than before. "No one's taking anything if we all get arrested for suspicious behavior – you know, like standing around and saying how we're going to steal someone's briefcase, for instance."

Mozzie reached out and grabbed at Neal's sleeve. "Surely, you won't do this," he said slowly, trying to talk sense into the persistent conman's thick skull. "Because you're not suicidal."

"Thanks for the pep talk," Neal wryly muttered, freeing his arm from Moz's grip.

Mozzie leaned back, huffed, and went at Neal's shirt again, catching a stronger hold. "But," he said, and it looked like it pained him to contribute. "What if he gave it to you? And… was happy to give it to you?"

I made an aggravated noise in my throat. Mozzie was talking nonsense again. Had he hit his head at some point? Gone insane, started hallucinating? Maybe he was older than he looked and the dementia was beginning to set in. If Riley had something valuable enough for Wilkes to want, then he wasn't going to just grin and hand it over while singing a happy tune. I would have better luck going for a friendly picnic with Matthew in Sing Sing.

Neal, however, held a hand out, telling me to be patient. He cocked his head at Moz and the beginning of a smile started to curl his lips. "Zigzag scam?" He guessed, a gleam catching in his eye.

Mozzie nodded and slipped a hand into deep and wide pockets. He took out a couple of spare billfolds that I almost didn't want to look into. "One for me, one for you." Giving one to Neal, he looked in the other pocket and took out wire-framed glasses. Biting his tongue, he carefully took the pair he wore off of his face, replaced them with the new set, and tucked the others away. "Time to get into character," he clucked, smiling slightly.

Neal flipped open the billfold and scanned the inside. I glanced up at the ceiling exasperatedly. Nothing he said would possibly convince me it was anything but a fake ID. My boyfriend sent me a somewhat guilty wince and tried to look cute to get out of the eventual rebuke. Mozzie cleared his throat. The _only_ difference between the two pairs of glasses were that the former pair had more red in the frames, and the new ones looked black. The color change was barely even noticeable.

Neal checked out how his friend had changed his outfit, dropped his hands to his sides, and said mockingly, "You're a chameleon."

"I can hardly recognize you," I agreed flatly.

Mozzie's cocky smile was quickly turned into an insulted scowl. "Stuff it and listen while we fill you in," he commanded, pointing at me imperiously with his finger. I shared a look with Neal in which he nonverbally begged me not to say anything too inflammatory.

* * *

I only gave security a minimal explanation of why we needed a room, but when I brought up Edward Riley, they were happy to cooperate, and seemed relieved that I was the one who was going to deal with it.

The plan for the con was simple. Neal, Mozzie, and I were playing different characters, all from different law enforcement units. Neal was resurrecting Nick Halden, Mozzie was enlisting Dante Haversham, and I was tentatively calling Eleanor Hastings back into action. Eleanor's original character didn't fit the role, but since I controlled her, I chose to ignore her original purpose and put her to work as an officer.

Riley had something in his suitcase. It was something Wilkes wanted. Logically, it was something that someone else would want, too. Out of Nick, Dante, and Eleanor, one of us was going to find a reason to want to keep it for ourselves. Another would be reluctantly convinced by their unfortunate "situation." The third would have a dramatic moral struggle so that it didn't seem too easy. Riley, to save his reputation as a reliable middleman, would hopefully give whatever it was over willingly in exchange for not having the whistle blown on his lucrative cargo.

First, we had to set up a room where we could unlock his suitcase and look through what was inside, as well as have our scam run its course without good-meaning officers throwing us off course or arresting us without understanding what we were doing. A private room was arranged and unlocked for Neal and I to set up while Mozzie scoped out where would be the best place to intercept Riley, both for distance and for our own safeties.

"This place brings back memories," Neal chuckled, looking around the empty room. White linoleum and plain walls greeted us, devoid of furniture. A brown closet door was tucked into the far wall. Windows were lined up on the adjacent wall, overlooking the disappointing view of a portion of the runway.

"How so?" I asked distractedly, going straight to the closet. We'd already been informed that we could find foldable furniture inside. If there was anything else we needed, someone from security would handle it. They wanted Riley away from the public, and wanted to assist the bureau to take down a criminal.

"Well, this is our place," Neal reminisced, looking out the window and tapping the glass. I opened the brown door and turned on the light inside. It was brighter than I expected, but the room was larger than I had predicted. Collapsible white plastic tables and folded metal chairs were up against the dark walls, cleaning supplies were stored on shelves, and mops, brooms, and dustpans were kept in the corner reserved for the janitorial staff, as well as a rinsing station in case there were any eye- or skin-related accidents with some of the more corrosive cleaning solutions. "Way back. First day, remember?"

I stepped into the closet. Neal's shiny black shoes, scuffed from the rough treatment of the last day, clicked after me on the linoleum flooring and joined me in the small space. I remembered the _Blancanieves_ books, and Neal looking so adorably surprised and apologetic when he realized he'd been hitting on a lesbian, and his skilled tongue reverting between English and Spanish to flirt with me, teasing, testing his limits.

"You've attached more sentiment to this room than I have," I informed him unapologetically. I wanted to strangle Neal last time I'd been here. At the moment, the very thought of touching him with harmful intent seemed unthinkable; I'd rather slice my own skin open than tighten my hands around his throat for even a second. "This is a big closet. Help me move the table out?"

"The plastic ones don't usually weigh much," Neal said, unabashedly weaseling his way out of doing heavy lifting. I rolled my eyes and turned around as Neal shut the closet door. I frowned. Neal smiled and came closer, purring. "Which means it won't take long to move them around."

"So we have time to spare?" I asked, raising my eyebrows, holding out my hands.

Neal brought up his hands underneath mine and pulled them to his body, setting both of my hands on his hips. He looked down to me with a persuasive grin and touched his forehead to mine. Convinced that I wasn't going to try to move, he let go of my hands and brought his to my face. The artist slipped his thumb over my mouth, pressed gently over my lips, and brushed back my hair. Beautiful blue eyes wandered from my lips to my eyes and he stretched down…

Fireworks exploded. His lips were dry and hot and when he pressed them to mine, he did so with a slow, passionate burn, letting me feel what he wasn't saying. I tightened my hands into my hips before I realized what I was doing and uncurled my fingers. Neal made a soft growling sound and the hand that had disappeared after fixing my hair rematerialized at my waist, tugging me up against his body and flattening against my back.

"Those are the only bruises I want," he mumbled when I hurriedly apologized. His breath came heavily. There was something more to his mood than just having me alone in a spacious closet, probably something he'd been repressing for a while – fear, relief, anxiety, all manifesting itself in a way that felt more comfortable than stress or anger or tears.

Much as it turned me on to hear him say, it was still sourly indicative of there being other bruises on his body, which made me sad to hear. I could tolerate him having bruises willingly received in a heated session, but any other context was unacceptable. Did he really think he could all but tell me he was injured and have me just pass it over?

It wasn't the time or place to get too busy in the closet. Practicality aside, I'd much rather take him home, see to bruising and swelling, and – if he wasn't too badly discolored under his clothes – make love to him _gently_ , careful not to let it hurt. Neal might need rough and quick, but if he expected me to be the rough one, then I couldn't do it, not right after having been fearing for his life. I didn't vent like that. I couldn't. I saw him in danger, I wanted to _protect_ him, smother him in tenderness and affection. Being mean or leaving marks would feel too close to harm for my comfort. I always had that issue. When I saw really bad cases, no amount of teasing or mocking would convince me to smack Katie's arm, even just in jest.

"You're okay," I promised him, doing as he wanted and leaving a hand on his hip. I refused to tighten my grip again, and he didn't ask. Okay. Maybe he knew how I got about hurting people, about doing corporal harm. Bruises were little, but phrase them as "bursting blood capillaries" and they sounded more serious. "You're okay. I'm here. You've got me."

"I've got you…" he whispered, seeking out my eyes and sealing our mouths together again.

His kisses became less fevered. They became slow, soft. Neal broke our lips apart, took his mouth to my throat and suckled on my neck, tentatively pressing his teeth to the flesh and leaving tiny indentations. I fisted my hand loosely in his hair and he picked me up by my thighs, carrying me to the rinsing station, and sat me on the edge of the counter. This put me at his height and he wrapped his arms around me, stepping in between my knees.

I expected him to… I don't know, do something. Maybe reach for the buttons on my shirt, or grind his hips against my thighs. He brought me right up to the edge of the counter, fitted tightly between my legs, but didn't do anything like that. He just held me close with his arm across my back, the other roaming my body, touching where he could. He stroked my hair while he kissed me, touched my side, my stomach, the swell of my breast, the curve of my hip, the top of my thigh, the back of my calf. He just touched me, reassuring himself I was there, I was alive, he was with me and he was safe.

His large hand swept around my both the curves and the harder edges and he sucked on my lower lip, unwilling to stop kissing. I let him have what he needed. I needed it, too, and I enjoyed that we needed the same thing. I touched his face, mostly, caressing his cheek and jaw, but several times I kept coming back to where I knew there was a small injury on his arm. I wrapped my legs around him to hold him where he was and smoothed my hand down his back, over his shoulder blades, up strong shoulders and around to his chest.

"This is how I managed it, you know," I whispered, as Neal gave me a break to breathe and gave another kiss, flush against my neck, and made a path of closed-mouth kisses up to my jaw. "You being God-knows-where, maybe alone, possibly hurt, definitely scared. I kept reminding myself that as long as I stayed calm, I'd get you back, and I could have this again. This intimacy and security."

He sharply inhaled. I cradled his head in my hands and nuzzled my nose against his cheek. He pushed the side of his face against mine, keeping his warm cheek against mine, the beginnings of stubble scratching gingerly on the lower side of my face.

"Why do you put up with me?" He whispered, turning his nose against my neck and hiding his face.

I stroked one hand through his hair and held the other to the back of his neck, protecting a vulnerable spot and proving that I wouldn't hurt him. He was so sweet, so vulnerable… so needy, too, sometimes, but he liked to hide that, pretend that he wasn't. After all, what kind of con artist was _needy?_ Neediness, clinginess, got cons ruined, got conmen in danger. He was slowly learning it was okay to need things in front of me, even the unnecessary things, like intimacy and closeness and embraces. I wasn't his mark, and he wasn't going to scare me away. I was his _girlfriend._ It was my privilege to help him with his concerns and insecurities.

He deserved an honest answer, so I tried to think of one. Why did I put up with Neal? Because he made me happy, duh. Because having him out of prison meant that a lot more of the people who deserved to be there were going in. Because Katie liked having him around. I put up with him because the good outweighed the bad by a landslide and because he's my best friend. He made my life better. He made me happier. He made my transfer to the WCCD feel like a good thing, because it gave me him. He made me question who I was and what I was becoming and how I could still wear my badge with any sort of honor, but I was a better protector and provider for Katie because of it. I was a better protector and provider for _him_ because of it.

"Because…" I paused, chuckled mirthlessly, and kissed his temple. "Because in a lot of ways, you make me feel like a better person than I actually am."

Neal picked up his head and whispered in my ear that that wasn't possible, that I was better than I thought already and didn't need him, but that the feeling was mutual and sometimes knowing that they would disappoint me discouraged him from certain choices.

Our time was interrupted by the PA system. The loud feminine voice announced, crackling through the system in the closet, that an inbound flight from Sydney, Australia, was now landing and would be emptying shortly. Neal and I both took deep breaths, looking up to the ceiling after the automated system. My long hair was loose and mussed, the strands pulled and clenched by Neal's hands as he fought to feel like he was doing enough to embrace me.

Tentatively, I sought out his eyes again. We had a commitment to Mozzie, to Lindsay, to be where we needed to be. "That's Riley's plane," I breathed, trying not to sound so upset.

Neal lifted his hands to my face and held my cheeks as he kissed me, firmly enough to make my toes curl. "I promise," he mumbled against my forehead, kissing there, and then the tip of my nose, and then both cheeks. "When this is all over, and I take you home, I'll make you feel like a princess."

I didn't need the royal treatment and I hadn't asked for it. "It's my turn to be supportive," I objected, reaching for his belt loops and tugging on them. I let my voice slip into a whine while Neal pecked the frown away. "I'm not the one who was kidnapped." _And I was really looking forward to spoiling you for a change._

He went for my hands, picking up my wrists and holding my hands up. He started with my right hand. "You already support me," he pointed out faithfully, holding the back of my hand to his lips and then turning it over to kiss my palm. "You're the only one who's still here." He laid down my hand on my thigh with care and repeated the treatment on my left hand. "Except Moz," he allowed, lips drifting over my knuckles with a feather-light touch. "But I don't think you and Moz are in the same category."

I let him make me laugh, awarding him a small giggle as he gave me one of his breathtaking, infatuated grins, as if he could hardly believe what we'd done, how we were with each other, and all we'd done was shown how much we cared.

* * *

Mozzie and I made eye contact on opposite sides of the baggage claim, both of us standing by as if we were waiting for our suitcases to pop out onto the conveyor belt. Disembarking travelers kept picking up their things, gathering their companions (be they children or adults), and leaving, taking a right at the silk rope in front of hired chauffeurs. Most of them stood stoically and held signs in their hands, advertising who they were driving for. Neal had a white cardstock board with Riley's alias' surname written on it in all capitals.

It took a while. Riley was one of the last to leave the security checkpoint, but when I caught sight of him, there was already a briefcase in his hands. I made a quick glance at Mozzie to see if he recognized the guy that had just come into the claim station, but Mozzie was already covertly looking around in that overly-paranoid way of his. He'd noticed.

Riley bypassed the conveyors entirely, which made our job a little bit easier. It took away some of the anticipation when he stalked straight to the drivers, where 'Loze' was being held up at eye-level on a board. The fence was a tall guy, standing at Neal's height, but he was built broad and stocky. His fists were almost twice the size of mine, arms and torso thick and muscled. Dirty blond hair was a little messy from the long plane ride, but it was too short for the unruliness to have a negative impact on his appearance. The pale green eyes were sharp and mean, and they locked in on Neal, who smiled courteously and reached for the briefcase.

"Let me take your case for you," he volunteered, but when Neal came close to touching the handle, Riley turned his shoulders, pushing the briefcase behind his legs and away from Neal. Simultaneously, I looked up to Mozzie and tapped the side of my nose swiftly, disguising it by rubbing my cheek with my wrist.

"Just take me to my car," Riley muttered, staring at Neal's suit in distaste.

Mozzie had started at the far end of the claim belt, but he walked quickly and Neal was slow in nodding and holding out an arm in the direction of the doors. With the two of them both working to get Mozzie on the scene, Riley was held back for an extra few seconds. It was long enough for the shorter man to get within earshot and call across the cluttered station, "Thomas Loze?"

There was a delay between hearing the name and realizing that it was supposedly his own, but the delay was short and subtly hidden. Riley turned around guardedly. He probably questioned why anyone would be wanting his alias, who didn't technically exist, but didn't assume it meant real trouble. Why would someone who knew who he was _not_ use his real name?

Mozzie held out one of the wallets with the fake IDs. It concerned me that he'd happened to have two of them on his person. Either he carried them around all the time or he had planned to run a con on Riley since before he showed up at the airport to wait for Neal, in which case he must have, on some level, anticipated that he would need to pretend to be an authority figure. I didn't know which case scenario I found more alarming.

He held out the credentials long enough for Riley to see, but not long enough for him to scrutinize. He spoke with the confidence and passive aggression that a lot of feds would use on suspects without thinking, and thankfully, he had also had the sense to change more than just his glasses (but if I didn't want to think about why he had the fake IDs, I didn't even want to acknowledge that the tailored suit change existed, because that was a level of foresight-slash-convenience I didn't want to consider. Damn con artists).

"Agent Haversham, Immigrations and Customs Enforcement." Mozzie pushed the badge back into his blazer and looked meaningfully down to the suitcase. Neal lowered the sign to his left side and reached into his pocket with his right hand. I pushed myself away from the short metal stands between baggage conveyors and went to join them, coming to Riley from the other side and cutting off a quick sprinting escape. "Word is, you're bringing something into the country that we should know about."

Riley tried the charm. He laughed, yet it came out a little harshly. "Is this a joke?" He asked, voice loud and a little easygoing. He wasn't nearly as good at the charisma game as Neal was, and although I probably wasn't as charming as the latter, I definitely could've won someone over a lot faster than Riley could ever hope to.

"Do I look like I'm joking, Elvis?" Mozzie asked callously, rotating his wrist in front of his face to draw attention to his stern (and slightly pissed off) expression.

Quietly, Neal drew his attention to his own false ID. "Agent Halden, joint task force."

I walked up behind him with my hands behind my back. I had no false alias to fall back on, but I was dressed like a fed and I had the attitude down perfectly (for some mysterious reason), so we were betting that if I introduced myself like one after the boys did, it would be taken for granted that I had my own badge, just elected not to show it.

"Hastings," I introduced, sounding dully bored. "Foreign Affairs."

Neal pointed with the corner of his billfold to the briefcase, which Riley held behind his back again at the motion. "We're going to need you to open the case," Neal said gravely. Riley squared his shoulders and looked around, seeking an exit route. There wasn't one; we were all too close to him, and I pushed my jacket back just enough so that he could see my holster. I made sure not to reveal that there wasn't actually anything _in_ the holster (airport security), but it had the desired effect. Riley swallowed and stared back at Neal confrontationally, but didn't make a move. Neal held his arms out helplessly. "It doesn't have to be a scene if you don't want it to be."

Attacking agents would only get him in bigger trouble, so Riley gave in unhappily. "Okay," he said tersely, taking the case out from behind him and holding it out for Neal. "You guys really want to do this?" He phrased it like we were going to regret it or something. Neal didn't react, just patiently took the offered case. "Knock yourselves out," he snorted.

I wasn't so sure we wouldn't find anything. Wilkes was mean, but he was also deliberate, and he wouldn't put himself in the crosshairs of so many feds and break so many laws at once if he wasn't acting on solid information. Hopefully – for Lindsay's sake – whatever was in the suitcase really _was_ incriminating, and Riley was just trying to psych us out so he could leave without being caught.

It wasn't going to work. He thought he was playing us, but we were already playing him. I had to hand it to Neal and Mozzie – they deserved their props for the thoroughness of their cons and the way they quickly thought on their feet to adapt to circumstances, availability of resources, and even my presence, giving me a role that hadn't previously existed, but that would only strengthen the act.

"Let's go," I encouraged, reaching out with an arm to block Riley from doing a double-take and fleeing. Neal and I very briefly met each other's eyes. Neal allowed the barest hint of a smirk to show before he shut it down entirely, fixing his character firmly back in place.

As we shepherded Riley towards the secured room off of airport security, it occurred to me – and not for the first time – that I would be truly terrified of what the two could accomplish if Neal and Mozzie set out with malicious intent. Now that I was helping them, I felt dangerous and witty and secretly thrilled, as if I were untouchable.

I knew that rush would wear off. It always did. It was like stealing cookie dough from the fridge, or staying up past bedtime and not getting caught; enticing, promising more mischief and more rewards if you just pushed your limits, did it again. _You got away with it last time; why not reward yourself with the prize you'd already proven you can reach?_ The thing about doing it with the law was that it was five times headier and ten times as dangerous, and that knowledge added to the cynicism and self-loathing that I always felt after breaking my vows and double-crossing the agency I'd given so much for.

I thought the temptations and the risks were bad when I'd started sleeping with my consultant, but now that I had crossed some sort of line where I would break the law with just a few complaints and get ensnared within cons run on dangerous criminals, I realized that I had had it good then. Sleeping with my CI didn't make me a criminal, it just made me a poor role model and a bad agent. What I had become, though… Fowler, Moreau, and, to some degree, Neal and Mozzie, had all pushed me to becoming a criminal.

Zarra had become McKenna to be a new person, so she wouldn't have to fight to be one person while she was still in name and legality another. McKenna was suffering from the same difficulties. I felt like I had two alter egos. One was a cop and the other ran with Neal and Mozzie whenever it was convenient for me and my goals.

The question then became how much of it was external influences, and how much of it was just inherently me? Was I doing the best I could in situations out of my control, or was I better suited to crime than to law enforcement?

The potential answers scared me, but none more so than the idea that no one could answer them but me. How could I trust myself to give truthful answers when I wasn't even sure what kind of person I was anymore?

* * *

Riley unlocked the case himself to cooperate. Neal had barely opened it, sterile latex gloves on his hands, before Mozzie was snapping at Riley to lean over the edge of the white table, flecks of grey in the plastic. "Palms on the table!" Mozzie slammed one of his own hands down for emphasis. Riley grumbled something rude and bent over, bracing both hands on the edge of the table where we could see them.

He shifted his weight to one leg and rolled his eyes.

Neal moved around the contents of the suitcase. I decided Mozzie probably wasn't dumb enough to push too far on Riley and walked to Neal's side, observing. Deft hands moved aside a pair of trousers, a golf polo, a change of white socks, and boxers. To the left side of the case were toiletries, including a toothbrush with a cap, a black comb with several prongs bent, and a small tube of mouthwash.

I tipped my head and watched the suitcase instead of Neal's hands. The inside was lined with black suede glued along the interior. When Neal pushed the clothes to the other side, nothing remarkable fell out of any pockets, but I bit my tongue skeptically. _This_ was Wilkes' big score? No, there had to be something else, something we were missing.

"This looks like it's just an overnight case." Neal picked up the socks and held them up for Mozzie to see. His voice was level and casual, but obviously, there was some trepidation. There had to be something for us to use as the ruse to get it away from Riley. I doubted he'd believe we were dying to get our hands on the rare toothpaste… Colgate Whitening.

Riley smirked thinly. "When this is through, I want badge numbers." He stated flatly. Although he was looking at Neal and I, Mozzie made a face full of panic as he realized that we didn't have legit badge numbers to give him – well, I did, but he and Neal didn't. "You can't prove probable cause," Riley challenged.

I tightened my jaw. _I really want to hit you._ I could prove whatever I liked… yeah, okay, that wouldn't hold up in court, but exactly how hard would a judge press to have me sentenced for lying to him? It's legal to lie to suspects in an interrogation, but this was stretching it and might even be considered an abuse of power. Not to mention that I was collaborating with known con artists outside of the bureau's knowledge.

The fence wasn't done. "It'll be all of your asses on platters!"

Mozzie reached his limit. I rubbed the back of my neck when I saw it coming. He was too far away to cover his mouth or kick his shin. "Shut your hole and kiss wood, Riley! Yeah, we know who you really are!" He shouted, pointing at the man's back. Eyes narrowing flintily, the much larger male turned his head to stare at Mozzie, nose flaring threateningly. Mozzie backed up as he was suddenly the focus of that ire, moving to put myself between he and Riley.

"Way to go, Haversham," I complimented sassily, clapping my hands slowly.

"Really?" Neal asked his friend with a soft sigh.

Mozzie took a deep breath, let it out quickly, and then held a hand over his stomach like he was going to be sick. "I just said that to a guy who enjoys killing people with his bare hands," he hissed at Neal and I. Riley looked on, the intimidating glower replaced by something akin to disbelief mixed with amusement.

Pinching the bridge of my nose, I replied, "You're friends with someone who carries a gun. You're pretty safe for the moment."

It was painstaking, trying to figure out what to do next. Now that Mozzie had freaked on Riley, it was entirely possible he would have fewer qualms about trying to hurt us. Hopefully Mozzie didn't realize that airport security had taken away my sidearm… That _stupid_ suitcase was to blame. If it weren't for whatever was being smuggled inside that we just didn't get, then Lindsay would be safe, Neal would be as safe as he'd been last week, and I wouldn't be within ten feet of someone I should've been trying to arrest, but instead intended to let walk.

"Damn this," I muttered, reaching roughly for the briefcase and picking it up by the sides. Neal moved his hands out of the way and I turned around, holding it over the floor, just a second away from dumping it out. Neal could shake out the clothes, I could check inside the zip-up shaving kit, we could see if there was anything hiding. Smugglers could be crafty.

Riley picked up a hand from the table and pointed at me abruptly. "Hey, you damage my property, I'm gonna sue!"

 _Oh, yeah?_ I turned my head slowly and locked eyes with him, face completely blank. He and what army was going to sue me? Yes, because Edward _fucking_ Riley was going to take an _FBI agent_ to court and _win._ With all we had on him? That trial would _not_ go the way he wanted. It was an empty threat and I knew it, and he had to know it, too; FBI agent or Foreign Affairs agent, I was still not someone he would get so mad at as to go through the American legal system, for Christ's sake.

"Oops," I said in a solid deadpan, foregoing my original plan of dumping out the contents. I let go of the sides of the briefcase and send it crashing down to the off-white floor. Riley grit his teeth, slammed his fist down on the table, and turned his head to look away from me.

When the table shook from Riley's mistreatment, the briefcase landed on the linoleum with a much louder crash than I'd expected. It closed, but the impact bounced the lid back up. The lighter contents bounced and the comb flipped up on one end, almost falling out.

So that hadn't really _helped_ anything, but I felt a little better.

I bent down to pick it up and went ahead with my plan to search everything more thoroughly. When I pushed open the top again, instead of looking down into a case of clothes and hygienic supplies, I was looking at the interior backing, which had popped out when the case landed. The side that had been glued to the edge of the briefcase had rows and rows of cuts in the suede, each wide and deep enough to hold cards. Each of these cards were gold-colored. Very much interested, I pushed it back further and looked at the inside. The _real_ lining was velvet, not suede, and it had slots cut in it, too. The entire suitcase was filled with gold cards that shone as if they were made of _actual_ gold, and they were cleverly hidden by a little false materials and glue.

Snarky and annoyed, I sought out Riley's eyes. "Oh, look at this," I said monotonously. "Look at all of this probable cause."

Neal crouched down next to me and looked for himself. He whistled. "Wow." Money was always a motive. _I should've known._

I picked the entire case up and showed the hidden compartment to Mozzie. "Pure gold," he admired, holding his hands behind his back lest he get a bit too excited. "Think they're preloaded?"

"I don't know," Neal shrugged, but then he gave Mozzie a very serious look. The odds suggested that they were definitely preloaded. What would Wilkes do with a bunch of empty cards? It's not like they were worth much. The shine from sunlight reflecting into the window behind us caught the cards and made them flash. _Oh._ "Load them up with a couple hundred thousand each…"

I clapped my hands. "This is easily millions of dollars, not counting the actual gold of the cards." When both men looked at me as if I'd gone off the deep end, I pointed out the glare from the metals. It wasn't just a good dye job – they were actually made out of gold. "If you take one out and look at the writing, I'll bet it's in Russian. There's a bank in Russia that's issuing credit cards made of _actual_ gold. Each card, preloaded or not, is worth roughly sixty-five grand." Which would add another several million.

We all looked over at the fence to see if he had anything to say for himself, but he was steadfastly looking at the wall in the opposite direction. That was an answer enough.

"I want my lawyer," he opted to say when no one else asked a question.

"Oh, you'll need him, Chachi!" Mozzie declared boldly, feeling brave.

 _This is our play, then. Money._ Easy enough. Any one person could come up with a handful of uses for that much money in under a minute, especially anyone as well-versed in manipulation as conmen. _And con-women,_ I amended.

Neal reinforced Mozzie by closing the briefcase, leaving the gold cards and their hidden compartment free inside without sticking the adhesive back to the lining. "I'd say you're staring down ten years, easy," he remarked offhandedly, giving me a light elbow to the ribs. "Like that Field guy, hey, Ellie?"

I raised my eyebrows but had to admire the expertly-forged authenticity. Neal made it seem so much more believable, throwing in references to our older cases and using nicknames for my alias I hadn't even realized he'd thought of. If we were friendly enough to be using nicknames, then for the sake of the act, I'd play along.

"You weren't paying enough attention to that report, Nick. He's got fifteen before he even applies for parole." I nonchalantly lied. Field wasn't doing any time in prison because Hagen had had him murdered to keep his mouth shut. Riley didn't need to know that, and sticking with a name and case we were both familiar with made it less likely that we'd accidentally contradict each other. "Serves him right for bringing in all those counterfeits, I guess. Call the cavalry, Haversham. I'll see about getting this one a nice, comfy place in holding."

I rolled my sleeves up and grabbed at the wrist of each glove with the opposite hand, snapping them off and balling them up to toss out. I liked my taller, elbow-length gloves because they didn't pull off when I had to take latex on and off at crime scenes. Mozzie took out his cell phone, all business, and started to press buttons. He made a calculated glance up, caught the shine of the silver locks on the case, and slowed, keeping the phone screen out of Riley's eyesight.

"Imagine what you could do with just one of these babies," he said longingly, eyeing the latch.

Neal chuckled. "It'd make a great night out with the girlfriend, that's for sure."

"And the best care in the state," I said, biting my lip and looking down at the briefcase for a moment longer than strictly necessary, holding the wadded-up gloves in my left hand. The first person "Eleanor" thought of was Avery, whom I had sort of shot. Non-fatally, but shot, nonetheless, and the physical therapy alone was going to be a nightmare for him. He was going away for a long time, but he still had the right to medical care, and those bills were going to pile up. I did a little reinventing, changing the story, and convinced Eleanor to act as if she hadn't been the one in the vault who had to shoot Avery; Avery was her business partner who had been attacked by a fed whose name she didn't even know.

Just like that, in less than thirty seconds, we had staged ourselves for the scam. We'd mentioned some motives and two of us took it more seriously than the third. Mozzie had yet to do anything more with his phone, biting his lip, watching the case as if maybe the cards would come jumping out and "conveniently" fall into his wallet on the way.

Neal noticed that Mozzie wasn't listening anymore. He snapped his fingers once and stared at his colleague questioningly. "Call it in, Haversham," he prompted, nodding to the phone.

Mozzie shifted and lowered his phone, unable to bring himself to do it. "It's just, I promised-" He stopped, shook his head, tried to pick up his phone… and then failed to dial it for a second time. "I promised Sarah that necklace, with the diamonds!" He exploded, face set with misery.

Neal looked over at Riley, mimicking secondhand embarrassment as "Dante" fell apart and had an ethical crisis in front of someone we were trying to arrest. Riley was listening intently, turned back to us and observing our little argument with interest. _Yes. He's buying it._ Neal grimaced at me and I shrugged slightly. I didn't know how to get Dante to calm down. Hell, I could rarely get _Mozzie_ to calm down.

"So?" He asked Moz quietly.

Mozzie choked. "So?! So, she's gonna leave me, man!"

My eyes flew wide as Eleanor caught on. Her heart made a giddy little leap for her throat but she swallowed it down. She was already in over her head with Avery as it was, and the last thing she needed was another reason to get in trouble. "Whoa, no way, Haversham," I hissed, reaching for his wrist and holding tight to his arm until he looked at me. "You can't _really_ think it's okay. This is all evidence!"

Releasing him, I held both arms out to the table and swept my hair back. "I – I could pay off all Avery's hospital bills," I reasoned lowly, shooting a furtive dart of my eyes in Riley's direction and assuming he couldn't hear me when I spoke more quietly. "But you don't see me getting too tempted. We have a job."

Neal reached for the case and shut the latch firmly, making the little click echo in the almost-empty room. "You're both thinking too much," he declared, sealing the briefcase. "Don't do this to yourselves. Just call it in, I'll finish this up."

I pursed my lips. "C'mon, Nick," I tried to persuade, leaning up against his shoulder. "Alex would _love_ one of them. She's always had expensive tastes." Funnily enough, I didn't say it to prod at Alex – I just knew her tastes because of what she'd said to me about her hotel… was it already yesterday morning? _Whatever._

"She does," Neal agreed, stepping away from me and looking down. "But that doesn't matter. I'm not with Alex anymore, I'm with _Kenna."_

I pursed my lips. He seemed so serious and stern, like he was trying to make a point, tell me something. I hadn't been trying to prove anything or convince him to say anything. If he told me that he and Alex were over, then I believed him. Alex was just the first woman whose name was associated with Neal, other than myself, and it was more comfortable to use someone else's name in the third person than my own.

"So? I bet Kenna enjoys Alex's tastes, too," I reasoned, pretending to remember who Kenna was. "Isn't she some diplomat's kid?" Mozzie looked between Neal and I as we went back and forth, the con getting a little too personal. Neal knew who I was, how I grew up as a daughter of the one-percent, but for all Mozzie knew, I was just making stuff up about myself to intentionally make it more abstract, save our covers and make it easier to act. "She's probably used to the stars, too."

"Listen," Riley interrupted, piping up from the side of the table. He was smirking. That look on his face was smarmy and infuriating, but it meant that he was doing exactly as we wanted. I crossed my arms at him – Eleanor wasn't inclined to listen to any smuggler dumb enough to get caught – and Mozzie held his head a little higher, hopeful at his tone. "This is my suitcase, right?" He gestured to it. Neal nodded slowly and suspiciously. "So…" he shrugged with forced relaxedness. "Maybe I left it on the plane."

We were getting what we wanted, but just to be on the safe side, I feigned cluelessness for a moment, pointing at the case. _Obviously_ he hadn't left it on the plane; it was right there.

Riley's face twisted into an irritated frown. "What, have I got to spell this out?" He asked.

The message clicked. Mozzie took in a quick breath and his face lifted. I swallowed and looked at the outside of the briefcase. _Those hospital bills aren't going to pay themselves…_ Neal seemed to be taking his girlfriend's parentage into serious consideration, having some ethics dilemma that rocked him back and forth. Mozzie and I partnered up, looking at him pleadingly. If we weren't all in agreement, we'd be arrested along with Riley for going bad.

Taking a long look at my pleading face, "Nick" conceded slowly. "… Alright," he said uncertainly, waving at Mozzie. "Call it in. Tell them Loze was clean and we cut him loose."

Mozzie nodded enthusiastically. Riley started to chuckle as if he'd pulled something over. I'd already sent him through a metal detector and knew he wasn't armed, so although it was unsettling, it wasn't too alarming. Riley slid his hands off the edge of the table and sauntered around. Mozzie stepped further away, honestly skittish, and Eleanor gave him access to the briefcase cooperatively.

"You guys are alright," Riley commented with a false sense of camaraderie. He caught my eye as he leaned nearer, unlocking the case and propping the top up. The fence winked and I summoned an appropriate blush to my face by recalling an embarrassing time when Mozzie assumed I was Neal and walked right into the bathroom to talk. Thank God for shower curtains. "I've got to get home somehow, right?" Riley slipped one of the cards out of the hidden slots and then pushed the rest of the case to me. Clicking his tongue, he tucked the card into his back pocket and left the rest of his belongings.

He saw himself out of the room with a relieved gait, checking both ways when he opened the door and then deciding he was good to go. I got out the pager I was loaned as soon as his back was turned and informed the security guards to let Riley go, lying and saying that we didn't have anything to hold him on.

If we did turn in the cards, then they had to go in as evidence through the chain of command. We wouldn't be permitted to take them to Wilkes, and Lindsay would be killed. Officially, I would never have been here – I would've left right after Rice, according to Neal's and my own statement. No one would fault Neal for stealing gold cards under duress, especially when he was stuck between Riley and Wilkes, both of whom would be happy to shoot him, and just in case, he'd lie and say he had no idea what was inside the briefcase. I, as a federal agent who hadn't been kidnapped, wouldn't be given that leniency.

Mozzie let out a long breath. _Had he even been breathing since Riley had come closer to get into the briefcase?_ He bent over and held a hand over his chest, feeling his heart rate. "That's the closest I've come to death this year," he related to me sorrowfully.

"Alright!" Neal let out a quiet cheer and wrapped his left arm around my shoulders. He bowed his head to press a quick kiss to my temple. It was sweet and it was over in a second. The feeling of his half-embrace was gone almost as soon as it had come, and he was closing up the briefcase to take it to Wilkes. "Thanks for your help, Kenna. We couldn't have done it without you, Moz."

Mozzie held out a grabby hand for the case. "Could I-?"

"No," I interrupted, giving him a very hard and stony look. My phone buzzed in my pocket and I pulled up my shirt tail to reach it. "Don't even try." The screen was already on with a notification. I read the message I'd just received and saw the address tag, identifying who the number belonged to. _She must've gotten it from Diana,_ I groaned, not too pleased that Rice had my personal cell. "That's Rice. She's already redirected several search units."

Finding Lindsay now would just be a matter of time. Wilkes wasn't going to be able to get her out because we had closed in too tightly. The problem was that there was still ground to cover, and by the time we found her, it was entirely too possible that her life could have already been stripped away.

I bit my tongue and looked from Neal to the briefcase. Neal was still going to take that to Wilkes. If I left, I wouldn't get to see Neal again until he had already confronted a very angry and very sociopathic monster. Lindsay was important. Saving the victims of people just like Wilkes was my calling in the bureau, the aspect that attracted me in the first place and the reason that I stayed… but what kind of partner was I if I let Neal do this? Could I take his place, or would Wilkes know who I was? Would he listen? Would he kill Lindsay just on the principle of Neal not holding up his part of the show? How could I call myself a provider for the artist if I sent him out into something I knew could get him hurt?

Neal reached for my chin and lifted my head until I looked at his eyes. "Go on," he urged, indicating the door. Moving forward swiftly, he planted another kiss on my forehead. "Go help them find Lindsay," he whispered, stroking my jaw with his thumb. I pushed my head into his hand, unwilling to leave. "I can handle Wilkes from here. And I _may_ have promised her that the best agent in the entire bureau was personally searching to find her."

Here, he gave me an adoring smile paired with clear, innocent eyes. He was challenging me not to make him into more of a liar than he already was, and he knew that, as much as I wanted to shield him, there were already people prepared to do that. Lindsay was alone and defenseless, and if anyone needed me, it was her. Neal still had the transceiver, he had Diana on call, and he had several teams' worth of federal agents ready to listen to him and Diana, in prime positions to close in and protect him.

I couldn't stay with Neal all of the time, I realized; I held his custody, but he was an adult. He had the option of taking safety and he was making the decision to stay on the case. For Lindsay. The best thing I could do to support him was to _find_ Lindsay before she was hurt. I could provide him with a lot of things, but my first responsibility was to be his partner, not his caregiver.

I smiled tensely, sadly, and nodded. Personally and professionally, different variables were obligating me to prioritize Lindsay. _Well, time to resurrect the blue-collar specialist and join the grid search._ I lifted a hand to his face and touched his cheek. Neal nodded slightly. He knew what I was thinking. _Be safe._ I hadn't known it was possible to care for someone the way I cared for Neal, but he amazed me yet again by proving me wrong. It was even more intense, swelling like a balloon in my ribcage, as he put the life of another person before his own.

"Flatterer," Mozzie accused Neal, who nodded and wholeheartedly agreed. Then he gave me a winning, photogenic grin.

"I know he's a flatterer," I stated while Neal pretended to look apologetic. "He always says something nice when he wants me to do something."

"Today, I want you to be the hero and get the girl." Neal prompted, proving that he did indeed want something. He hefted up the briefcase under his other arm. "But instead of riding off with the princess, remember to come back to the knight with the shining credit cards."

* * *

Rice and I led our team on the ground. I'd been searching for over an hour, going through the grid, Rice and I splitting up to take more ground, each of us with a few armed agents. Even the two of us had to wear Kevlar vests in order to join the manhunt. There were no delusions – the people who found Lindsay had guns, which Neal had confirmed, and they would shoot to kill.

Her bright hair bounced on her back and shoulders as the younger agent stalked up the side of the street with me. "We get any closer to Walk of Fire and we'll get further from it," she reported in exasperation, glancing to the downloaded map on her Smartphone to confirm. We were almost parallel to the boardwalk, and we could see the Hudson River from where we were, as well as several smaller boats belonging to tourists and locals.

Speaking of boats – a low timbre bleated from over the river, and the cold breeze from over the water blew at us, flinging my ponytail strongly to the side. Rice held her hair down to keep it from flying in her face. "And that sounds like the horn," I complained. "Where's the building?"

"I hope you're feeling lucky," she expressed with growing dismay. "It's almost four. Caffrey's out of time."

I checked my watch. It was three fifty-nine. I lowered my right hand and raised my left, holding it up to the earpiece wrapped around my collar underneath the bulletproof vest and tuned into the right station to talk to my consultant. Truthfully, I wasn't feeling very lucky at all. Most people whose boyfriends are abducted aren't generally those with luck on their side.

"Neal?" I asked, calling loudly in case the wind was going to fight me for dominance over the microphone. "Neal, can you hear me?"

It took a second. I'd spent most of the time searching on the streets with the earpiece turned off so I didn't have to hear everything Neal was doing. I needed to dedicate my focus in case I walked past something noteworthy, too distracted with worry for Neal. I wasn't sure how hard it was for him to hear us, but his earpiece wasn't hooked on a wire. Even if it was, his hair would've been too short to hide it, so he had to conceal it in his clothes, only checking it once in a while. If Wilkes saw it...

 _"_ _Tell me you've found Lindsay,"_ he eventually answered.

I frowned and shook my head. My lack of answer should have been one on its own, but I said it out loud anyway. "Not yet." I dragged my other hand through wind-whipped, tangled hair, looking around so quickly I almost got dizzy. I wanted to sit down; I probably needed something to drink. When was the last time I'd eaten? I couldn't remember.

This street looked just like the last one, and the one before that, and the one before that. The buildings were unremarkable. They didn't have signs, they didn't have colors. They were bricks and stones, lights off, not inhabited, and the few tourists we'd seen had taken looks at the federal agents with vests and guns and veered clear (after taking photos with their damn phones, of course. Gotta love the twenty-first century).

 _"_ _It's four, Kenna,"_ Neal told me. I checked my watch. The minute hand had changed. It was four on the dot. _"I'm already here." Already at the rendezvous?_ Wilkes was watching him. He couldn't stay talking for long or the guy would notice. I wasn't sure how he was buying time to shield his hands and face as it was, but it wouldn't last without him being hurt.

"Then deflect, distract, or stall," I instructed, trying not to sound too anxious. Something Mozzie had told me a while ago – _second-guess yourself and the con becomes twice as dangerous_ – came to mind. I wished I could pull Neal out, but if he tried to leave… he had already gone too far, gotten too close to Wilkes. All it would take was him trying to back out and Wilkes would shoot him in the back faster than my agents could train their guns. "You're good at all of those. The moment he gets his hands on the cards, Lindsay's as good as dead."

I heard Neal take a deep breath, but he didn't say anything else. He was probably moving the microphone somewhere inconspicuous, for his own good. I imagined he was composing himself as I simultaneously looked around, Rice helping me to canvas the buildings and dismiss them as we hurried past them, somewhere between speed-walking and jogging. It was a pace that let us actually look before we were past them, but it didn't feel fast enough.

A car door slammed and I jumped, only to realize I'd just heard it through the earpiece. Feet crunched on gravel. _"Right on time,"_ a stranger's voice said silkily. _"I love that."_ His tone was jeering, taunting. I didn't need a visual to know who that was. The insolence gave it away.

Neal held his ground. _"Where's the girl?"_ He asked – no, _demanded_ – without screwing around. I was so proud of him. His usual indulgence of word play and attitude games was what helped him to stall, and he was putting that aside for Lindsay's sake.

He'd done a lot of things that made me angry, a lot that made it hard to trust him, and a lot that I admired, in one respect or another, but he'd never done something so completely selfless before. If he pissed off Wilkes, he'd be shot. Not arrested, not lonely – _shot._ Yet he risked doing just that by trying to get information on Lindsay without pleasantries, handling it abruptly and with the same no-nonsense voice I'd have used.

Wilkes hummed, considering. _"Unfortunately, I won't be sharing that information with you."_ He sounded lilting. He'd never intended to… but at least I was right: he'd used Lindsay as leverage to get Neal to play along, which meant that for as long as he believed Neal was a necessary piece, Lindsay was secure. Neal couldn't keep this up for long, but it would buy us a few minutes past four.

I checked my watch. One minute past.

_Stay safe, Neal._

_"_ _We had a deal, Wilkes,"_ Neal angrily reminded, shoe crunching over small rocks as he took a step forward.

 _"_ _I lied. Give it to me."_ There was a bitter pause punctuated by something landing softly. That came from further away from Neal. A clicking echoed as the latches of the briefcase was unhooked, and a few seconds' grace period kept the line silent as Wilkes looked inside. Making an exasperated sigh, he put the case down and cracked his knuckles. _"And I thought we had a nice thing going."_

 _Wait, what?!_ "Where are the cards?" I whispered, too quiet for Rice to hear, scanning over the next buildings. The outside was pale beige, but I gave it a once-over just in case. The outsides weren't always the same colors as the insides, but in this case, there were none of the other architectural anomalies that marked it as the right place.

 _"_ _You lied, I lied."_ Neal slipped back into his lazy, cocky, charismatic façade now that he knew Wilkes wouldn't tell him something about Lindsay, using it as a verbal shield. _"It's like a dance."_ My hands trembled while I looked over the next building. It was squished between two others that looked no newer. The dark bricks ranged from an icky, almost brown color to a brighter, clay-like reddish hue. _"You pull that trigger and all those gold cards I stole from Edward Riley are gone forever."_ Neal challenged.

I checked out the heavy door. A foreclosure poster would lead the average passerby to slid their eyes right past. I looked closer. To the right side of the door, there was a narrow stretch of bricks towards the top that looked like a darker color than any of the rest. The dulled colors tapered and wound down as it reached for the ground level.

"The water damage!" I shouted ecstatically, throwing my arm out to the side, hand in front of Rice's chest to make her stop and look. I looked for the other thing – the window was boarded up so we couldn't see its shape, but the foreboding-looking crack in the structure that Diana had pointed out on the video was up there, deepest towards the ceiling and running almost all the way down. Chips of bricks were lying on the concrete right outside the little building which wasn't even safe to live in. "It's the same damage. It's the building!"

Rice puffed in awed surprise. "We've got him," she breathed. I glanced at her. She nodded, steeling her nerves. Simultaneously, we both drew our sidearms from our holsters. She licked her lips while I tossed my head to knock fringe out of the way a final time before we stormed it.

We both moved out of the way and indicated the agents taking our lead to prepare for a raid on the innocuous-looking wall in question. Five heavily-armed and Kevlar-clad agents took up positions, two on the side where the door opened and three behind me on the side of the hinges. The door looked heavy, but it also looked weak and warped. If Lindsay hadn't tried to make a break for it, it was only because of the gunmen inside. This facility couldn't hold anyone trapped on its own.

I headed up the front. If SWAT had been there, they'd have undoubtedly shoved me back, but no one in the assembled team outranked the case agent, and I strongly doubted that any of them had raided more buildings with dangerous suspects than I had, anyway. My former team and my former position had given me a lot of experience that I was relieved I had now. If there was ever a time I was thankful for everything I had to draw on, it was now, with one of the most important people in my life at risk of serious injury or worse.

Before we broke the door down and raised hell, I still had my lover to fear for. I held up my hand in the universal signal to wait. Rice nodded and held her hand up, showing everyone and making sure they got the message, and while our team of seven huddled outside for some serious ass-kicking action, I listened intently to Neal's showdown with Wilkes.

_"_ _If I don't have those cards in my hands in ten seconds, I'm gonna make a call, and I'm gonna kill the girl. Then, I'm gonna take my time with you."_

An uninvited image of Wilkes shooting Neal in the gut flashed through my mind and I bit down hard on my tongue so I didn't make a sound. A shot like that was lethal, but it took time for the victim to die… and it was painful. The recipient wouldn't be able to run away, much less fight, while torture was inflicted upon them in the meantime. Wilkes was going to hurt Neal over my dead body. Audio evidence against him or not, I'd give the order and have my conveniently-placed team shoot to kill if they had to.

_"_ _Five seconds… three seconds… Aw. Now my guys are going to have to kill that nice man's daughter."_

I couldn't begin to imagine what was going through Neal's head in that time, but he obviously couldn't give Wilkes the cards. No matter what he did, Wilkes intended to have Lindsay murdered. If he revealed the cards, then Wilkes would just kill him, too. I'd still remind him that nothing he did would've made a difference, just to make sure he didn't spend too much time with that weighing on his conscience. I'd made some tough calls that still haunted me because I hadn't had someone think to tell me what I needed to hear to put them behind me. I wouldn't let this follow Neal around like a ghost.

 _"_ _Who says they're still your guys?"_ Neal tried as a Hail Mary.

Wilkes chuckled. _"Is that your play? You turned my crew against me? I expected more from you."_ For someone whose fear factor seemed pretty reliant on his hired gunmen, he wasn't taking this seriously enough. That tipped me off and I tensed, shoulders squaring.

_He doesn't need Neal afraid of the muscle because he can kill him himself._

"Someone step away," I snarled, voice hushed, waving frantically for someone – _anyone_ – to leave the raid team and get out their phone. " _Now!_ Tell Agent Berrigan to have the rifles take aim. Wilkes is armed!"

Someone behind Rice, the one furthest from the door anyway, nodded silently and picked up his radio, leaving the team. Making too much noise would alert whoever was inside. I kept looking between the door and that agent as they holstered their weapon and got onto the frequency.

_"_ _Who do you think has the gold cards?"_

_"_ _You left them with my guys?"_ Wilkes' skepticism was followed by a snort. _"You're not_ _ **that**_ _dumb."_

 _"_ _You brought me into this because I bring up the average. Unfortunately, that makes you less valuable. Your men agreed; it's time for new management."_ Neal bluffed shamelessly. I couldn't tell if he had any physical tells, but going off of his voice, it was a solid performance.

There was just enough of a pause to let on that Wilkes was unsure. _"You're lying,"_ he accused.

 _"_ _Call them, if you think I'm bluffing."_ Neal airily invited.

Something passed between them. _"… I think you're bluffing,"_ Wilkes informed cynically. _"Kill her."_ My heart thudded on my ribs after skipping a beat. He was on his phone already. _"And leave the phone on speaker."_

We couldn't wait any longer. Neal would never forgive me if I didn't react to something like that, no matter what I was waiting on. Before I could psych myself out of it, I gave the signal to the man across from me. He nodded and whirled, kicking in the door. The locks smashed apart and broke. I shouted, altering my voice to a powerful, resonating alto to get the brawns' attention.

"FBI!"

I turned my gun around in the room, moving directly in. Rice and the agent who'd kicked in the door came in right after me, covering me from the right and left. Someone stood up from a table towards the left side of the room, already reaching for a gun jammed unsafely into his pants pocket. One of the accompanying rescue team members shot him in the arm before he could even touch the holster, and he shrieked, falling down with the momentum of the bullet.

Right in front of the door was Lindsay. The beautiful nineteen-year-old was crying silently, large tears running down her red and puffy cheeks, while a long-barreled gun with an attached silencer was held at the base of her neck. She was forced to sit down on an uncomfortable wooden chair, her hands on her knees and her wrists bound with zip ties. Her ankles were similarly locked together.

The man standing behind her was big and beefy. The beginnings of a beard covered his jaw but his upper lip was shaved clean. He looked Asian, with dark hair and eyes, and a big hand fisted into the locks of her tangled and oily hair. He pulled her head back and Lindsay choked on a whimper. I had my gun pointed at his forehead before he could even get his barrel directed at any of the incoming feds.

"Put it down!" I snarled, advancing rapidly to show that I wasn't afraid. He'd taken it away from Lindsay's neck to try to aim, but wasn't fast enough. Either he shot at me and gave me a reason to shoot him, he tried to re-center at Lindsay and gave me a reason to shoot him, or he put the gun down. There was really no fourth option that he could go for, aside from suicide, but that would take longer than just trying to shoot at me or his hostage.

Panicky and looking around, the guy literally dropped the gun and put his hands up, stumbling behind Lindsay. He tripped on his own shoelace and fell over. Two agents raced past me on both sides to secure him and grab the firearm. Another pair went to handle the first one and confiscate his weapon.

 _"_ _Damn it!"_ Wilkes screamed angrily, making me wince as it came through the earpiece. Now Neal was _really_ in danger.

 _"_ _Sounds like they've got company."_ Neal smartly concluded.

I lowered myself down in front of Lindsay, who threw her head forward and sobbed as soon as there wasn't anyone grabbing at her hair. I knelt before her, getting lower than she was to let her feel like she had more power than she actually did.

"Lindsay Gless, my name's McKenna Anderson." I used our full names to help her adjust. I didn't know what they'd said to her, but anything dehumanizing would probably make their jobs easier for them, and she deserved to be treated like an actual person. I reached for her wrists and picked up a Swiss army knife from my back pocket. "I'm Neal's friend," I said, flicking out the blade and showing it to her before going for the zip ties. I cut through them quickly without nicking Lindsay, but I didn't want to hold the knife near her any longer than I had to, so I went ahead and sliced through the binds at her feet, as well, before pushing the knife back in my pants. "Are you okay?"

She nodded frantically. Her long hair dragged and frizzed in a messy rat's nest. I knew from experience that that was the last thing she was concerned about. I straightened my back but stayed on my knees and held my hands up to her. She threw herself at me, draping her arms over my shoulders and crying loudly.

"Sh," I cooed maternally, reaching for her head and tilting my head to the side so she could hide her face in my neck. She hiccupped, getting a hold of herself and working through her panic swiftly, but I still gave her the safe place to rest. There was a nasty bruise forming near her temple and a trail of dried blood ran past her eye and down to her chin at an angle, but it had already stopped bleeding.

A gun cocked. I tensed and held Lindsay tighter before I realized she hadn't responded at all. She couldn't hear it, which meant it was coming from Wilkes and Neal.

_"_ _I guess that makes you obsolete."_

Neal hummed. _"I wouldn't do that if I were you,"_ he mildly advised. _"See, I've got friends with sniper rifles, too."_

Neal was an amazing actor, but even he sounded scared when there was a gun pointed at his chest. His voice was calm and soothing. Maybe a little relieved, but not afraid. I took out my earpiece as the threat passed. Diana had it under control, and Wilkes' self-preservation was stronger than his hatred of my soulmate.

"You're safe," I promised Lindsay, tucking my nose against her hair and hugging her. Her knees wobbled and threatened to let her fall over. How long had it been since she'd been allowed to stretch her legs? "You're safe, honey."

She sniffed and tightened her hands. One of those hands happened to be bundled up in the back of my jacket, and she'd caught the end of my ponytail in her fist. When she pulled with that hand to sit up, I covered up the flinching with a reassuring smile and attempted to pass off the pricking in my eyes as just overwhelming emotions.

"I-Is Neal okay?" She asked quietly, rubbing under her nose with the back of her other hand.

"Neal is fine," I assured her, thankful that she'd asked. It was a weight off of my own chest to be able to tell someone. To speak it aloud – _Neal is fine._ "He's with other agents right now."

 _"_ _We've got Wilkes,"_ my radio spoke from the side of my vest.

I shifted and Lindsay moved with me compliantly, adjusting to hold on without preventing me from getting my communicator. She changed her grip in a way that fortunately freed my hair, but I was still too sensitive to her ordeal to whine about it. "We've got Lindsay," I said into it, holding down the button to open our frequency. "How's Neal?" I asked, just so that she could hear for herself.

The radio static was brief. _"He's safe,"_ the other person speaking promised. It wasn't Diana or Derek, but the voice still sounded vaguely familiar. Probably someone in the WCCD, but not one I often worked with. _"The cards are secured, too."_

_As long as Neal is safe, I do not give a single fuck about the cards. They can melt in hell for all I care._

"Tell him Lindsay and I say hello," I instructed cheerily, giving Lindsay a small smile which she returned. Admittedly hers was shaky and seemed more like a wince, but that could be excused. She didn't seem to have any serious injuries, but she'd still have to go to an emergency room.

They sighed and sounded a little annoyed that their new purpose was as a message relay. _"He says hi."_

A high giggle bubbled out of Lindsay at the tone. I frowned sympathetically and reached up to her face, stroking her hair away from the bruise marring her face. She fixed her gaze on my collar and stared at my neck while I touched her kindly. Everyone deserved kind touches – except for people like Wilkes – and Neal and Lindsay especially were prescribed double doses of them for today.

I'd fought and bitched because I had been denied the responsibility of taking this case on, had been refused the opportunity to revisit my past. Had I known what it would entail, I'd have fought to keep Neal and myself both miles away from it… but, my protectiveness of Neal aside, I couldn't deny to myself that, sitting on the dirty floor of a building in a state of irresponsible disrepair, holding onto a shocked teenager who was going to get to go home to her father, I felt more like the old me than I had in almost two years. The only thing that could have made it better was if my partner had been at my side, sitting down in the dust, arms around both of us, comforting Lindsay in person and holding my hand.

* * *

Richard Gless arrived on the scene with an escort from the bureau in a sleek black minivan. Hell or high water couldn't have stopped him from getting out and running to his daughter. Lindsay and I had been standing on the dock looking at the water, my arm around her while she nervously tried to make her hair look more presentable with her fingers. As soon as she heard the car door slam and heard her father shout her name, she was bounding out of my arms.

"Dad!" She shrieked delightedly, sprinting to him. She ran faster than he did and they met closer to the car than to the dock. I leaned back against the rail, arms over my chest, and smiled. Lindsay catapulted herself at Richard's chest and they almost went down, but neither let go.

I stayed with my back to the railing. Their reunion was bittersweet as an onlooker. Without Neal being in danger, Lindsay likely wouldn't have been saved. No matter how glad I was to have helped the girl, I still would have preferred that Neal remain out of risk whenever possible, and the idea that the only time I could have my old job back was when I had to worry about Neal wasn't a pleasant one. I couldn't choose between Neal's safety and my own professional ambitions. I couldn't choose because there wasn't an actual decision to be made – nothing was worth putting Neal in a position in which he would be targeted by people like Wilkes.

I let out a long sigh and looked to my left as another car pulled up. Diana was in the driver's seat. I flashed a short smile in the direction of the vehicle, knowing that Neal himself would be with her. I hoped he got to see the father-daughter moment.

Maybe it was finally time for me to move on. I couldn't hunt killers the way I used to. To get my old job back, I'd have to give up custody of Neal, and there was no guarantee that I could protect him if I relinquished his power of attorney. Unless Neal asked me to hand those powers over to someone else, I was going to fight for them. Even if I waited until Neal was out of the anklet and had served his sentence, Køhler had been a wakeup call. People were pissed at me. There wasn't a line drawn between home and work that kept me safe. If I returned into that line of business, then more killers would have reasons to hate me. If any of them lashed out… well, I hadn't considered that it would happen before it actually had. If Kate had been home and not me, then she would've taken the knives to the stomach, assuming she survived the attack.

It had been fun while it lasted and it had worked when I had fewer ties and fewer vulnerabilities. Now I knew better. I couldn't get higher than a homicide detective if I wanted to keep my family safe. No more work-related traveling, no more chasing serial crimes. I couldn't take the risk of someone else striking at home and taking out their revenge on Katie or Neal.

 _Possibly, it's for the best._ I didn't really believe that, but I could tell it to myself over and over. Nothing was more important to me than my loved ones' safety.

Richard hid his face in his daughter's neck and Lindsay cried, sagging against him. She stopped being strong, feeling safe in his arms. I wondered if my dad even knew I'd been tortured. Did he or Mom ever find out about the hospitalization? Probably not. Mom never would've let me hear the end of it, would've said 'I told you so' a thousand times in between fixing my pillows and pumping me full of morphine, and Dad would have paid my medical bills and tried to convince me to go back to Europe with them.

 _Would they even care at this point?_ I couldn't say for sure they'd be proud of me for my career path. I wanted to think they would be – I saved lives, for crying out loud! – but with them, I could never be sure. The only time I ever did right by them was when I was doing wrong by myself simultaneously. If I wasn't living up to my given name (which literally translated to _princess_ ), then I was a disappointment. They'd had me for political reasons, not because they wanted a child. I'd had to go through more than a decade of emotional neglect before I realized I was never going to have a relationship like Richard and Lindsay's.

Neal joined me from Diana's car, coming to my left side and turning around to put his back to the waterfront. I reached for his hand and brushed my knuckles against his wrist. _Alive and healthy_. I could mourn the love lost between myself and my parents all I wanted, but it wasn't going to change anything. I'd have better luck convincing the guarded conman to spill about his childhood than I would being accepted by my parents. At the end of the day, I had a sister who loved me, a boyfriend who would put his life on the line for someone in need, and friends that would stop at nothing to protect their own team. I didn't need much else.

"Where were you?" I asked Neal, pretending that I hadn't been figuratively on the edge of my seat during his confrontation with Wilkes. "You missed all of the fun parts."

Neal crossed his left ankle over his right, carefully standing so that his anklet didn't abuse his other leg. "I got caught up with an old friend," he reminisced nostalgically, stretching his right arm along the rails behind my back. Though he didn't move to touch me, just having that nearness was relaxing.

"Oh?"

"I think I may have burned a bridge," he understated delicately, eyes riveted on the Glesses.

I followed his eyes and watched them. Both were crying shamelessly and the agents securing the perimeter were respectfully giving them their space before they began pushing to take Lindsay to the ER. She seemed like she'd be okay, but it was more or less a standard next step, especially given that she had visible injuries. The ER would also sample various articles of her person – clothes, hair, possibly skin – for DNA evidence of her captors to use as further materials in the prosecution of Wilkes' hired musclemen.

I uncrossed one of my arms and pointed at them, holding my hand out indicatively. " _That,"_ I said strongly, pausing, admiring the scene. I didn't usually get a huge emotional relief out of watching them, but later on, it would catch up to me, and I'd nearly start crying myself. " _That_ is good. Scenes like this, they're what made all the trauma of the serial killers worth it."

It was hard to tell how much more I could say to Neal, or when I should stop and shut my mouth. He never stopped me from sharing personal information before, but it was hard to determine when to stop shielding him. The conman wasn't _innocent,_ just… sheltered, I supposed, from the physical cruelties of humans, and I wanted to preserve that naïve shell for as long as I could.

I struggled with it before I sighed. "Sometimes we saved people like Lindsay," I recollected quietly, referencing back to my former division. "Not all the time. There was usually more disappointment." Those were the days when I missed being a rich teenager. Those were the days when I particularly couldn't stand the sight of the soulmark on my wrist, when the trepidation and anxiety over my soulmate's true colors were the strongest. "But the times that it _did_ end well… they made it worth the rest of it."

Neal processed it. He spoke again, but not in response to what I'd said, and I supposed I might hear about it at a later date. When he wanted to approach something carefully, he worked himself up to it, making sure to give himself enough time to think of the most sensitive and least provocative way to do so. "You were kind of in your element on this one."

"Except for the part where an agent got my friend kidnapped," I rolled my eyes and re-crossed my arms, shifting my hands and tightening my posture. "That part's pretty new." I'd have gone insane if it was a regular thing.

Neal thoughtfully looked down to me, taking his eyes away from his new friend and former mark. "Do you miss it?" He inquired, his face open and accepting. Whatever he expected, he wasn't going to make me feel embarrassed or judged because of my answer.

Did he want me to miss it? Did he think I should miss the job when it gave such big rewards? Then again, this job also got me critically injured and left permanent physical and mental scars. Was it crazy of me to pine after the days when I used to be my own idea of a hero, even after it culminated into such a disaster?

I could clearly remember long days and even longer nights. Cup after cup of coffee, just to fuel my eyes enough to stay open and stare at coroner's reports and gruesome photos of crime scenes. Using scented hand sanitizer and holding my hands near my nose so I could smell sugar or mint or really anything but the unsettlingly-familiar smell of a morgue. I also remembered a lot of pain, ice packs, and OTCs – I was always injured in some way. A few times it was from bullets that had luckily missed the mark, sometimes it was from smaller bladed weapons, sometimes it was just a really nasty bruise or two. We always tried to take people down without getting too close, but sometimes we couldn't help it, and I'd get in a fistfight defending myself or a would-be victim.

The job had seemed glorious in its lack of glamor. I wasn't wearing glittery dresses and Cinderella gloves. I was making a difference and coming home exhausted. Those things made it seem perfect.

Bringing someone home always was the best part of the job, but now that I wasn't so fresh into my new lifestyle or so caught up in the drama of murder, I could look back on it and accept that there were aspects that I didn't miss that much, after all. Working in the WCCD made my schedule calmer, more flexible when I needed it to be. I spent a lot less time taking painkillers and a lot more time with Katie. I didn't have to leave the house at two AM because of a phone call. Katie didn't have to wonder if she would ever see me alive again when I traveled hundreds of miles away. I could enjoy a social life when before, I'd been so wrapped up with work that the only people I really talked to were Katie and Derek.

And, if it weren't for Neal and Katie, then I'd give up the WCCD and jump right back into blue-collar, if only to watch Lindsays run into the arms of their hysterically-relieved families.

"I miss this part of it, yeah," I eventually answered, not expressing how I felt about anything else. That was my story to keep, and I'd shared enough.

We watched as one of the female agents came up behind Richard and patiently got the two's attention. Presumably, she started to explain that they wanted to take Lindsay to a hospital. Meanwhile, Rice tied her curly red hair using the vanity mirror in a pair of FBI wheels, using extra pins to combat the breeze coming over the Hudson.

Neal snorted when he saw. "Looks like Agent Rice is ready for her close-up. I heard the camera crew are already on their way."

A little surprised, I leaned away from him and whistled tellingly. Someone was certainly holding a bit of a grudge. Not that I could blame him, but I'd expected that I'd be the most bitter about what had happened. I startled myself by realizing that watching my favorite part of a rescue and standing beside my lover had mellowed out my attitude, and I wanted to stop thinking about her more than I wanted to kick her ass.

"I really don't care," I said honestly. My ambivalence probably wouldn't last long, but it was good news for her. Leading up to the in-office investigation, she could use as little aggression as she could be granted. "She'll need the positivity to brace herself for the whirlwind of inquisition that's going to be coming her way for the stunt she pulled."

The ginger got out of the car, closing up the mirror and pushing it up to the roof. She shoved the car door shut and looked around, putting her hand up over her eyes like a visor. It seemed like a weird salute. When she saw Neal and I against the sunlight, she pointed at us with two fingers of her left hand, rotated her wrist over, crooked her fingers, and moved her attention to her phone.

"Ah, jeez, did she just give us the finger point?" Neal complained.

"I'm getting sick of being given the finger point," I agreed vehemently. It was always followed by something frustrating. "Come on, she's distracted. Let's say goodbye to Lindsay before we see what she wants."

I led Neal towards the two citizens in the street. Richard was in the middle of exchanging words with the agent who'd approached them when we came within a few feet of them. I stopped when Neal did, taking his lead. He had switched sides while he followed me so now he was on my right and closer to Lindsay, subtly forcing more space between himself and Gless.

Richard noticed when the agent saw us and her eyes stayed over the man's shoulder for a bit too long. The greying businessman turned his full body to face Neal. Not me, but _Neal._ Neal smiled sheepishly and sent Lindsay a warm grin. The brunette smiled back at him, tongue poking out between chapped lips, and Neal reluctantly turned his attention back to her dad, steeling himself against whatever was about to come. The last two days aside, he _had_ dealt a pretty severe blow to the man's company and strongly affected his stocks' worth.

Gless looked Neal over head to foot. "I'm told you're the man responsible for bringing my daughter back," he said stiffly, gradually relaxing as he saw Neal as an equal for the first time.

He'd never spoken to the forger like this. The only times he'd interacted with Neal had been very limited and while Neal was in a bright orange jumpsuit with handcuffs and ankle chains. The outfit stood out, had been branded and associated with prisoners, and automatically placed Neal on a lower rank. Standing before him in a rumpled – but still fabulously well-sewn – suit beside an official federal agent, Neal presented a much different image.

At this, Neal's mouth opened and he started to look at me. I recognized when he was about to deflect and made a stern face towards him, warning him out of it. Neal wasn't my pet; I didn't deserve the praise for training him to do something good. He'd made his choices and done his actions all on his own and had earned whatever reaction Richard had for him.

Prevented from pushing the attention to someone else, Neal turned back to Gless and apologetically tried to start. I doubted he actually _regretted_ what he'd done. Neal didn't really have the sense of ramifications to understand the full extent of why Gless had wanted him in prison. As a result of his cons letting him live with his head in the clouds, Neal had kind of… well, had his head in the clouds for a long time, and his experiences since learning that lesson and being released into the real world had been limited to what he could do within two miles of June's manor. However, Neal liked to be liked, and he hadn't forged the Atlantic Partners bonds with the intention of being malevolent.

"Mr. Gless-"

Richard held up a hand, palm facing Neal, and my partner ceased talking immediately with a click of his teeth. "I'd say we're more than even now, Caffrey." He truced solemnly.

 _Good man,_ I thought to myself as Lindsay looked up to Neal, a little shyly remembering exactly who he was and her family's history with him. Lindsay wouldn't have been involved at the time. Hell, she probably hadn't even been old enough to drive when her father had been handling Neal's stunts and the financial fallouts.

"Thanks for… playing round two," she said to him, rubbing the back of her hand as if it were sore. She looked down to avoid his eyes and found the concrete fascinating. Lindsay shivered, but I doubted it had anything to do with the cold. Her abduction hadn't been a game, but evidently her kidnappers had treated it like one and used her to make Neal play along. And Neal had, to protect her.

_Again, right as I think I can't treasure him any more…_

Neal nodded to her. "Don't mention it." Richard looked confused by what they were talking about, but I shook my head slightly, telling him not to worry about it. He could ask Lindsay if he wanted, but that was over and done with, and I didn't think I wanted to hear a recount of what, exactly, had gone on while I wasn't around to protect them.

The two left us, Richard prompting his daughter to go with him. Lindsay wrapped her arms tightly around herself and let him drape his arm over her shoulders and upper back as they found their way between the car Richard had arrived in and the side of the nearest brick building. They'd get Lindsay checked out at the emergency room and she'd be back home by the time they wanted to go to bed. I watched them leave. It was hard to watch victims I'd saved go, knowing I would probably never see them again. I wanted them to move on, but it was sometimes difficult to accept the conclusion of such a turbulent ride when it came so abruptly.

Dutifully, I took Neal's hand and brought him to Rice. Whatever she wanted to say to him, she'd have to say in front of me, too. Truthfully, I sincerely hoped she'd learned something from this misadventure. One of those things would preferably be that, anklet or not, rap sheet or not, convicts are still human beings, and unless they do something to prove otherwise, they deserve to be treated as such.

Rice touched up her lip gloss with a tube of a thin berry-colored sheen. "Was a hell of a thing you did today," she remarked to Neal, trying not to sound impressed as she smacked her lips, evening the coating of gloss.

"I could say the same thing about you," he said back to her warily, with a much different tone.

Rice slipped her lip gloss into her pocket and held out her hand to shake. "No hard feelings?" She tried optimistically.

Neal clenched my hand in his as if making a point by refusing to let go of me in favor of the other agent. His other hand was swiftly moved into the safety of his trouser pocket. "Don't stretch it," he advised her with a sarcastic faux smile. I snorted and tried to cover my smirk with my hand.

_That's right, stand up for yourself._

Rice puffed out her cheeks, looking away from Neal abashedly. There was definitely some reproach in his voice that she picked up on, and luckily for her, she understood that she had more than earned it. While she was distracted, I saw Neal looking down at his ankle. I followed his eyes curiously to see that it was still bare.

 _Right._ It had long since been clipped; he'd been monitor-free for hours and yet had still permitted Diana to drag him back to a scene crawling with federal agents. That was some laudable self-control, even without taking into account that the goal we'd had thirty-six hours ago was to prove to Alex that he could get the anklet off.

I looked at my watch and inhaled sharply. Speaking of Alex… I'd practically forgotten about her with the excitement of everything else. It was impossible to say how long I'd be stuck here, dealing with cleanup, but if she thought we intentionally failed to make the meeting time she'd set, she might not be willing to return to New York any time soon, no matter who Neal tried getting in touch with her through.

Taking advantage of Rice's temporary distraction, I gave Neal a nudge against his ribs with my elbow and stretched my fingers, wiggling my hand out of his. "Go," I whispered, nodding towards the dock. If he stuck near the piers and kept his head down, he could probably get away with a minimal amount of luck required. Then he'd just have to catch a taxi or the subway, and he could arrive back at June's in time.

Neal hesitated, looking around and rapidly sweeping the area for anyone paying too much attention. We were the least of the teams' concerns – they had a crime scene to catalog indoors, in influx of social media buzz from the civilians who'd see something happening, incoming press (if Rice was any indication), and evidence to secure. Neal and I were just the hardworking heroes who'd saved the girl and caught the bad guys – no need to scrutinize us today.

"Go," I murmured again, pushing my hand against his thigh insistently. "Alex won't wait long." If we didn't show, she'd cut her losses and run, just in case I'd changed my mind about playing nice after all. She made me insecure and envious, but she was clever, and she knew better than to take risks she couldn't afford with federal agents.

Neal bit his lip, put on a charismatic grin to not raise suspicion, and bid me a smooth _adieu._ He also added to hurry up with whatever I had to do, and then the conman was slipping away, returning to the railing by the river with his hands inconspicuously in his pockets. He acted as if he wasn't doing anything wrong by ditching without the anklet, and ultimately, his prowess at acting innocent was what kept anyone from looking at him for too long.

By the time Rice had gotten off of her phone, she had a new look to her expression. She licked her lips, tasted the gloss, and ran her fingers through her hair again, visibly concerned about her appearance. I almost scoffed. She had just played a part in a raid. Someone was alive because of her. How could anyone hold a messy hairdo against her?

"Sticking around for the press coverage?" I presumed. I'd preferred to keep my name off the air when I'd been in her place. Rice had some climbing to do before she reached the peak of my career, but if the investigation didn't knock her too far down, she might get there eventually – if she took heed of the things I tried to beat into her skull.

The redhead opened her mouth to reply, but stopped before she said anything. Slowly, she closed her jaw, looked to the street beneath our shoes, and laughed humorlessly instead. "I probably have a disciplinary hearing to prepare for instead," she confessed, swiping back her corkscrewing curls yet again. I raised my chin slightly. I could respect that she was holding herself accountable. "About how things went down last night-"

Canting my head, I arched an eyebrow and interrupted. "I'm actually in a good enough mood to not want to scratch your eyes out of your face, and you want to ruin it by talking about last night again?"

Rice looked down and pulled at her lip with her front teeth. "I probably deserved that," she chuckled weakly.

"Only probably?"

"… That, too." She took it graciously, even though I had bit my tongue and resolved not to go any further. She'd just made it really easy. Rice looked back to me and swallowed her pride back. The difference between now and earlier was that she'd learned from Neal not to try to shake hands. "Even so, I hope we can work together again sometime, even if you're the one calling the shots. I think there's a lot I can learn from you."

If she was still figuring out how to judge a threat and when it was and wasn't okay to fight for authority and recognition, then there was a ton that she could learn from any agent with more experience. I nodded my agreement but didn't let my ego get ahead of me.

"I'm going to hold it over your head that you said that for forever."

Oh. _Well, it could've been worse._

Derek joined us from another vehicle. He cleared his throat and stayed out from between us, looking cautious and suspicious, wondering where the blood was going to start spraying from first. Held with three fingers through the cuff was a tracking device. "I got the anklet, all fixed up and activated and ready to go." He took it off his hand and passed it to me. I made a face but took it anyway – responsibility and all that. _Just a little more than three years,_ I promised myself. _It's slow progress, but it's less time with every day._ "You just have to adjust the strap and fix it on."

Feigning confusion to buy time, I passed from Derek to Rice. "Didn't your people already get the anklet back on him?" I asked awkwardly, lowering the new anklet down to my hip. So long as it didn't seem like I knew Neal had left without having it put back on, we were in the clear. If Derek and Rice figured that Neal had slipped off without it, they'd keep it to themselves – no one would blame my consultant for wanting space after the day he'd had.

Rice snorted and put both of her hands up, absolving herself of responsibilities where Neal was concerned. "Not me! He's your consultant, remember? You can have him." She gestured towards me. "I think he prefers you, anyway."

 _All evidence would suggest that, yes,_ I mentally snickered. "You don't know the half of it," I told her seriously. If she knew how much Neal preferred me – he preferred me enough to hold me, to kiss me, to pledge his loyalties with me and trust me with his freedom – she'd fall over from shock. "Oh, well." I sighed arduously. "I'll go check out the usual suspects." _AKA Mozzie and Katie._

"Do you want some help rounding them up?" Derek raised a hand as he volunteered, but the begging look in his face was louder than his offer. He absolutely did not want to go spend his time trying to track down the elusive and annoying Moz.

"Don't bother." I waved it off, not too concerned. Neal knew better than to take off when we were so close to getting that stupid music box, and it wasn't really my business if Mozzie chose to leave town. So long as he didn't push for Neal to accompany him, that was his prerogative. "I'll just give you a text when I've got it on him." I covered my mouth while I yawned and suddenly remembered I hadn't slept in almost two days.

_This meeting with Alex had better be pretty quick, or I'm going to have to handcuff her to a chair for a nap-sized intermission._

* * *

I let myself into the uppermost level of the manor and closed the door gently behind me. With my eyes shut, I leaned against the wood, a hand flicking the lock on the doorknob. Taking deep breaths, I let my body catch up with my mind. So much had happened since I'd answered the door for Alex in one of Neal's shirts. It felt unreal. Not sleeping definitely hadn't helped the time lapse set in my mind.

I felt two pairs of eyes on me. Alex's prim, picky voice cut accusingly across from the parlor area. "He's late. You're later."

I slowly opened my eyes, finding where she stood in front of Neal by the coffee table and glaring testily. She chose the wrong day to bitch about timing. "It was a long day," I growled, leaving it at that. She didn't need to hear more about a confidential FBI case, and she had no right to know what I was up to in my own life that kept me away from her whims.

I'd already called Katie, checked in, and established that I was going to play Monopoly with Neal before coming home – which had been a code ever since exonerating her high school friend's husband for _I'm staying at Neal's overnight._ With our phones being bugged and tapped lately, it was always safest to use board games instead of the real reasons. Now, all I had to worry about was Alex.

I went to go join them in the parlor. Alex was left unsatisfied by my vague and indiscriminate answer. "And what's with the outfit?" She prodded at Neal, whose getup was still closer to a driver's uniform than his usual "rat pack" aesthetic.

Neal took my lead. "Long story," he said, shrugging it off inconsequentially.

Alex pursed her lips tightly, unhappy with being left out of the loop, but she knew a losing battle when she saw it. I threw my jacket over the back of the sofa while I walked over to join them and worked at the knot in my necktie, loosening it from the collar of my shirt. I couldn't wait to get comfortable – tie off, bra off, and brush my damn hair. Then sleep. Preferably with Neal within snuggling range.

Neal held out his hands as if in preparation of putting on a show. Alex looked at him with renewed interest, and he grandly pulled up his pants on his left leg. He twisted his foot around on his toes, showing off the lack of an anklet over the cuff of his inky socks.

As Alex started to nod in approval, looking a little impressed that we'd managed to pull it off, I took the anklet out of the deep front pocket of my slacks and turned it, waving it up for her to look. "It's transmitting," I said, tapping the blinking green light on the side, "But it's not on him. In theory, we could leave it here and flee the state." Alex looked a little too ambitious, and Neal frowned at her expression while I sternly scolded, "Which we're _not_ going to do."

"Congratulations," she clapped a few times, infuriatingly amused by my ire. "How'd you do it?"

 _Wanna make sure we can do it again?_ Much as I wanted to say it was none of her concern, given what we were asking of her, it kind of was.

"You'd be surprised what a criminal-cop duo can get done in a day," Neal told her, not actually answering her question, and from her fondly exasperated head shake, Alex was well familiar with the deceptive technique. "I kept my promise." He nodded to her. "Now it's your turn."

Alex sighed like she was being put through a ton of unnecessary unfairness by being expected to uphold her end of the deal without first screwing around like cats and mice. Pulling at her neckline with one hand, the long-haired woman reached down her shirt and into her brassiere, taking out a folded origami piece. After a second, I recognized it as the same kind of flower that Neal had found at Robert Moreau's grave – his origami signature.

 _Do you teach origami to everyone you partner up with?_ I almost asked, spreading my feet slightly and crossing my arms as if I was about to take a shove. _Because so far all you've done with it and me is to stick it on my head like a hat._

She started to hold it out for Neal, but then stopped and slipped it further into her hand, pinching down the folds of the petals with her thumbnail. "I give you this," she warned, clearly conditional, "And we get the music box _together."_

"No, I told you." Knowing her better than to try to swipe it, Neal kept his hands where she could see them at his sides, talking her out of her cynicism so that he could take it without starting a fight or fostering any distrust. "It's yours when we get through with it."

Alex bent her elbow to hold the origami piece closer to her chest, threatening to take it away. "See, I don't like the sound of that." Her eyes went cool and challenging. I may want to choke her half the time, but I had to admire that she had a backbone. I suppose a black-market fence without a spine doesn't get very far. "We split it, fifty for me and fifty for… whatever you two want with it."

I knew that I wouldn't be too beaten up if I had to lie to her to get what we needed, but it was a little insulting that Alex didn't think I was an agent of my word. We said she could have the blasted thing after we had gotten our use out of it. What did she think that purpose was? Holding it long enough to forge a copy and trying to pass off the fake to her? What did she think was so important about a stupid fucking _music box_ , anyway? If it was dangerous enough to turn a fed to the dark side because the alternative was being bullied by corrupt agents, why would she even _want_ to possess it?

"What're you going to do with half a music box?" Thinking practically, I almost laughed at her logic. "It's not exactly going to play at that point."

The fence turned her icy and cool eyes back on me. Thinking I would intimidate that easily was offensive. I wanted to say something to her like I had said to Rice – something about how she wasn't even a _shadow_ of the scary things I'd seen. If I needed to, I could smack Alex away, literally or figuratively. She was elusive and I didn't doubt she was athletic enough to be fast and agile, but her hands were soft and small. She didn't have the thick skin or callouses from work. I could probably fight her and win, easy – but cunning Alex Hunter would always try to be three steps ahead, too smart to let herself get caught by a weakness she anticipated.

I thought all of this and let none of it show on my face as she bored me with a lecture of what we both already knew. "It's not _just_ the music that's important." Alex narrowed her eyes at me for being dense. "It's made entirely of amber and belonged to Catherine the Great. There's a great deal of financial and historical value, not just in the aesthetic of the gold or the tune. If either of you decide to screw me on this, you _know_ I can make your lives miserable."

That, at least, was true. Alex could cry wolf even without us baring our teeth and it would hurt, but as long as she did that, then there was always my option of arresting her. We held those threats over each other as insurance. All she'd have to do was blow the whistle, and at least two-thirds of the bureau would be ready to arrest Neal and look for proof afterwards. As for me… well, she didn't have anything concrete to show the bureau, but even pushing accusations in my way would throw shade on my reputation and credibility.

"Well, you're just a little ray of sunshine," I mocked.

Neal had been frowning softly at her for the last few moments, and now he shook his head slowly, his eyes and mouth saddened. "When did you become so distrusting?" He wondered mournfully.

Alex smirked bitterly. "I think you know when, Caffrey."

Neal blinked, and when he opened his eyes, they were devoid of the disappointment he'd worn on his sleeve just seconds before. No matter what he told me about his intimacy with Alex, there was obviously something there under the surface that I couldn't touch on. I'd only get there if one of them told me, and since Alex seemed happy to backstab me if given the opportunity and Neal seemed to be of the opinion that talking about his former relationships was going to break up ours, it didn't look like I was going to be given any information.

"That's over now," he told her finally, his tone stonily resolute. "Nice flower."

She exhaled and handed it over, slowly extending her hand. Neal took it from her, slipping the paper out of her slenderer fingers. "I learned from the best," she boasted suavely, looking right up to his eyes. Neal glanced at her, saw the hidden meanings in her gaze, and averted his eyes quickly.

"That's over now," he repeated in the same unrelenting voice.

I doubled over to put the anklet on the coffee table, slowly pressing it to the glass without letting it cling or clang. Then, stretching my arms behind my back, I padded across the floor in my socks to stand beside Neal in body as he remained faithful to me in words. Sending Alex a nasty look to convey exactly how little we appreciated her seductive line, I put a hand on Neal's left shoulder and looked over his right, holding my other hand gently over his hip. I pressed my palm against his pelvis and massaged my thumb down. If I'd been pushed just a little further – if Alex had said one more thing – I didn't trust that I wouldn't have picked up his shirt and pushed the waistband of his pants to hang lower, revealing the passionate bruises on his hips from the closet in the airport.

My co-conspirator unfolded the yellow origami paper, starting with the base of the flower and then working out the creases of the three folds making up petals. I still thought that they looked more like tulips than any other flower I knew of. As Neal smoothed his thumbs repeatedly over the lines in the upper half of the paper, we both read the penmanship formerly hidden in bends and paper craft.

Neal let out a long breath from his mouth and lowered the paper. I leaned my head forward and pressed my chin to his shoulder. "You go halfway around the world chasing something, and the whole time, it's in your own backyard." He let go of the origami with his right hand and reached behind him, his hand finding my thigh. His left hand tightened its grip and crinkled the paper.

"Unbelievable," I muttered, looking up to Alex's face.

She nodded, entirely serious for the first time that night. Her face wasn't jesting or irritated, but rather set in an atypical mixture of worry and defeat. She and Neal probably both felt like they'd been cheated for having worked so hard to track down something so close by.

"See you soon, Caffrey." Alex's heels clicked on the hardwood floor. She lifted her arms through the sleeves of her cotton shrug and flipped her hair over the back. "FBI." She remembered as an afterthought, just to one side of a sneer.

* * *

 _This is it. I'm domesticated._ I groused to myself while I twisted my hair, looking into the mirror over the bathroom sink. My reflection was behind Neal's, but I was close enough to watch what I was doing and pull my locks into twin braids to keep them from tangling. White foam covered the lower half of Neal's face and part of his neck while he shaved with an electric razor.

I'd taken a shower while Neal got himself something to eat (Wilkes hadn't been very accommodating), and while I went through my nightly routine over the sink, Neal came in and joined me. Less than thirty minutes after Alex left, we were almost ready to go to bed together like a normal couple.

We'd definitely passed the friends-with-benefits thing a while ago, I reflected; last I checked, only couples shaved and fixed their hair next to each other in the bathroom. _Yep. All we need now are some three-foot-tall blue-eyed brats running around._ To my credit, I used the term 'brats' affectionately when referring to our nonexistent children.

I finished my braids and then went from the top to the bottom, loosening them up so they didn't pull at my scalp so tightly. Water dripped onto my nightshirt as the tight ponytail holders wrung my hair out, and I could feel the dampness on my fingers. Neal turned off his razor, bent down over the sink, and scrubbed his face with a wash cloth wet with warm water. When he stood up straight, flicking it off of his hands, drops fell from his sharp jawline to his shirt.

"How'd I do on the test this time?" I asked conversationally, rubbing my fingers dry on my fleece pants.

Neal didn't miss a beat. "Hundred on vengeful wrath and productivity, ninety on timing." _Well, that puts me at… what, ninety-six?_ I pretended to consider the merits of that as if it were an actual grade and nodded slowly. _Not too shabby for someone out of practice._ "You could use some work," he told me mock-condescendingly in the mirror.

I giggled and bumped my hip against his thigh. "I meant in the con." I pushed him out of the way to grab at my hairbrush on the side of the sink and dropped it back down into my duffel on the floor. "I worked out what you're doing," I informed, feeling rather proud of myself for using what I knew of both conmen to see through the coincidences in timing and the increasing frequency with which I was privy to their alleged activities. "Mozzie lets me do these cons with you because he knows I'm supposed to be in on the music box. He's testing me to see if I'm reliable."

Neal raised his eyebrows while he touched his face, patting the underside of his chin and feeling how smooth his skin was. _Again,_ I repeated an earlier sentiment, _I'm dating a human peacock._ He smiled slightly and admired the mirror. "Who knows what Mozzie really thinks?" He asked mysteriously, rubbing the heels of his hands against his cheeks.

"You're his best friend," I reminded, in case he'd forgotten. Which he might have. It was plausible Wilkes hit him at some point. His hair was thick enough that I might not have even noticed a cut.

"And he's mine," Neal loyally agreed with the sentiment quickly. "But I still occasionally give him a half-truth." Satisfied with his work, he tousled his hands through his hair and decided that a shower could wait for the morning. We were both running on the remnants of adrenaline and terror. Forsaking the mirror, he rotated around, socks sliding easily on the tile bathroom floor. "You're the only person I'm honest with," he vowed to me, picking up one of my hands. "You want insight into his head? He goes to your house to talk to you. You have his phone number – one of them, at least," he corrected himself when I looked skeptical. "He went to you for help helping me. He'll drink, play games, and watch movies with you, pull cons with and for you, and when he calls you 'Suit,' he uses it as a proper noun."

Which was an interesting transition. It wasn't very often, either. When he addressed me directly, it was hard to notice, but when he talked about me to someone else, it became more evident. I wasn't _the_ suit. I was _Suit._ As in, the _special_ suit, the one that didn't need a clarifying article. I figured it was the closest I was going to get to a nickname from Mozzie.

"Yeah, I noticed that," I agreed thoughtfully while Neal unbuttoned his dress shirt and started to shrug his shoulders, freeing his upper arms from the sleeves. Mozzie still used the term in distaste. When had I become the exception? And why hadn't I noticed it as it occurred? I started to ask Neal if I'd ever done anything to change Mozzie's mind about me or if it had been gradual, but stopped short when the sleeve came down over the bicep of his left arm. "Oh…"

Tiny, irritated puncture wounds stood out against the unblemished flesh around them. Slightly raised and the skin around them slightly swollen, they were the injury I'd felt at the airport. The redness was tightly localized. I had seen similar marks on myself before, with the help of a handheld mirror, but seeing them on Neal felt like a personal attack.

Just as I went to caress his arm and feel if there was still a lot of heat from them, I saw another set on his throat. His collar had been covering those. They were to the left side and close to the back of his neck, made during a stealthy attack from behind. Neal watched my face go through the reactions with his shirt still half-on, his forearms still caught in the sleeves and the material covering half of his back. A white tank top underneath kept me from seeing much of his chest or back, but I was scared there'd be even _more._

I held his arm still and leaned down, pecking my lips dryly to the side of the electricity burns. I covered them with my hand and reached for his throat with the other. Neal relaxed, tension easing out of his defensive stance, as he rocked his head to the side and let his arms straighten, the sleeves falling down and the shirt pooling on the bathroom floor.

"Didn't feel too hot," Neal commented quietly while I gave his throat the same treatment I'd given him arm, checking the temperature of the injury site while giving a possessive kiss to the back of his neck. Thankfully, the taser had been used on a lower setting, and though it'd left burns, they weren't severe.

It took me a moment to understand. "… Was that an electricity pun?" I asked dumbly, suspiciously glaring. If his sense of humor was that terrible, maybe he'd deserved to be tased. – But no, Neal hadn't done anything to warrant these attacks, and I knew that. I felt it deep within my bones, along with a simmering determination to protect what was mine, and more than a little bit of shame that I hadn't managed to do that. "Do they hurt?"

Neal shrugged as if he didn't know, but then he answered. I almost asked if he'd been tased before, but I'd had enough near-heart attacks recently and didn't need any more scares. "Kind of stings, I guess," he said, taking it easy on the details. "And itches. And I'm sore."

I wrapped my arms around him from behind and shoved my face against his back, cuddling my cheek into the wiry space between his shoulder blades. Neal arched forwards over the sink, flexing the muscles in his back, and I grumbled, holding on tight and trying to make him stop moving.

"That's generally the result of being electrocuted in any way." The fabric of the wife beater undershirt wasn't as nice as the silk shirt, and while it was okay to sleep in, it wasn't something I cared to use to develop a habit of rubbing my face against something. I stood up and slowly unhooked my arms from around him. It was irrational, but I was scared that if I turned my back for too long, then he'd be taken from me again. "I'm going to go get a couple of ice packs from the freezer. Trust me, they'll help."

Neal nodded his assent and I left the bathroom, going back out into the main suite while he lathered toothpaste on a brush. Looking around carefully, I saw that everything was still in place and we were still alone. No uninvited visitors, be they fences, cops, or serial killers, were lying in wait. The bed was neatly-made, the dishwasher had finished running, and the fridge hummed monotonously.

I walked up to the fridge and opened the door above it. A blast of icy air hit my face and dried my lips. On the shelf in the door were several pharmacy-bought ice packs, frozen for coolness and trapped within thick, dark blue corduroy. I took two of the three for Neal's taser burns and closed the freezer. The ice packs were already starting to numb my hand, so I stopped at the drawers and took out napkins, wrapping them neatly around as another buffer.

For Neal's safety, I secured the room again and nodded contently. I didn't feel like I had enough common ground with June to try to push her into getting heightened security, but as soon as Neal got his own place – whether it was next month or not until the anklet was removed – I was going to insist that he let me handle it. I'd get him good locks, deadbolts, panic buttons, and an electronic alarm system like the one Kate and I had at home. He'd be safe and he'd be happy about it.

It seemed like it was going to be a long time before that happened, though. Neal enjoyed it at June's and the elderly woman adored Neal. When I watched the two together, she treated him as if he'd stepped into her home as a foster resident, not as a convict. Unless something happened to change that, this arrangement would be stagnant for the foreseeable future. By the time the anklet was off for good, no one would be able to say anything about Neal and I sharing beds, where I could protect him whenever I needed to.

And, speaking of the anklet, it was still on the coffee table, the green light blinking at regular intervals. I stared at it and sighed. My responsibilities as an agent were still _there,_ and it wasn't like we were going after the box tonight. The point had been made to Alex. Now it was time to pretend like I wasn't planning anything.

Swallowing thickly, I went to pick it up in my free hand and carried it with me to the bedroom alcove, setting down the ice packs on the bedside table and sitting on the mattress, turning the anklet over. I didn't want to put it back on Neal. I wanted him to be free. Putting something like that on him, especially when I knew he wouldn't fight me, felt like an abuse of his trust – except that was ridiculous. The anklet was more symbolic than anything. Whether it was on or off, Neal wasn't a free man, and he wouldn't be for another three years. If anything, it was a prize. While he wore the anklet, he wasn't as tightly confined.

Neal came to the bedroom, his heavy footsteps giving away his presence before I saw his shadow on the floor. He stretched his arms above his head and arched his spine inwards. Holding up the anklet, I watched him make a point of not acknowledging it as he stepped out of his pants and folded them neatly.

"You know, you should be wearing this," I spoke up when he went to strip his tank top over his head.

He paused. I kept my eyes locked onto the anklet, not wanting to see his face. I knew he didn't like it. I couldn't stand wearing bracelets for very long, and he had this thick, heavy, hot cuff strapped to his leg, made even worse by that he didn't get much of a choice regarding whether or not he wore it. I had to play it safe, and that meant reminding him that he had to wear the tracker… even if it made him mad at me.

Neal saw I wasn't looking at him and he forced me to. With a small sigh, he pulled his shirt off and had it join his pants on the chair. In his briefs, he got down on his knees, entering my field of vision.

"It's transmitting, isn't it?" He asked gently. He didn't _sound_ upset. I risked a glance to his eyes and saw him daring to look hopeful. Placid and docile, he crawled to my legs, crossed his arms over my knees, and leaned against me. There was a very discolored bruise over his sternum, about the size of a fist, colored dark blue with sickly yellow surrounding it before the colors blended with his flawless tan.

I bit my lip when I saw the injury, and if I hadn't been feeling the weight of the anklet in my hand, I'd have forsaken the conversation to move his arms off of my legs, slide off the side of the bed, and gently press on and around his pecs. A hit like that could've fractured something. Neal seemed like the kind of person who'd hide it well when he was actually injured. But he just kept breathing slowly, looking up at me with his head tipped.

"Yeah," I confirmed, twisting my wrist so he'd see the light.

"So…" Neal set his chin down on top of his arms, looking up at me through his eyelashes. I reached with my empty hand for his face and hesitated before I touched him. "If I stay here…" He bumped his forehead against my fingers and I slid my hand into his hair. "… Can't it just stay off until the morning?"

 _Bad idea. Bad idea._ The red flags went up to half-mast.

"Is it really chafing that badly?" I asked, putting concern on my face while I scratched at his scalp. Neal leaned against my knees like a pleased cat.

Neal was so very intelligent – surely he knew I couldn't just let him keep the anklet off. There was little I wouldn't do for him, but giving him the chance to run away and aiding the temptation by not fastening the anklet to him? I'd let him run when we needed to meet Alex, but that was for a purpose. Now that it was over, we had to go back to normal; take the next day off, cite emotional trauma and physical duress, and capitalize on the newest intel on the music box. We had to figure out what to do next, how to prepare for when Alex decided she was ready to aim for it.

Neal didn't wait to shake his head. "Not with socks up under it," he readily admitted. I tightened my fingers in his wavy strands in warning. I couldn't just let him break the terms of his deal. We'd broken them before with the cons we'd run for both of our sakes, but leaving his anklet off? Without a very good reason for doing so? That was _asking_ for trouble. "It would just be nice to have one night to pretend that I'm allowed to be your boyfriend when we're not in this house." He lifted his eyes back to mine imploringly. The skylight was behind me and my back blocked the falling sun from hitting Neal, which made his eyes look like an even darker, richer blue. "Having the anklet on, it's kind of a constant reminder that I'm still serving a sentence."

_Duh, that's exactly what it's supposed to do._

With Neal watching me, I didn't feel like I could give him the long explanation. It would seem like I was dragging out an excuse, even though we both knew that I was well within my rights to refuse his request. He was lucky I hadn't already shut it down.

Part of it was the outright neglect of my responsibilities as a civil servant. Giving Neal, who was still atoning for his wrongs in the justice system, the opportunity to run away to some distant island as soon as I was asleep was a major insult to the faith that the citizens put in the bureau and its agents to protect them and their rights.

Another aspect was that I was afraid he might get that idea. I'd be heartbroken if he up and left after taking advantage of my trust and my impatience. Using such a personal pressure point and then digging it in deeper with the closeness and intimacy of how we were positioned… well, that would be incredibly low, even for Neal, but the insecure and paranoid fraction of my brain that still couldn't fathom why he cared so much about being mine wouldn't be reassured.

And by far the largest issue was the power dynamic. When I was the one who chose to get up and stop cuddling, then nine times out of ten, it was because I'd felt or remembered the anklet. It made me very… very _uncomfortable_ in the more intimate settings. Neal was making his own decisions and I wasn't worried about him doing something he didn't want, but it always shoved back in my face that I had so much more authority than he did in the relationship. I had a position of power over him just because I was his handler, and although I did my absolute best never to exercise that authority when we weren't on the clock, it was hard to be hypervigilant about my decisions and how weighted they subconsciously were. If I said no to something he wanted, was it because it risked outing us or just because I could?

So that was it here. If I said 'no' to him… was I doing it because I didn't trust him enough to take the chance, or was it because I simply could, and it didn't feel right? Would saying 'no' be beneficial to him, or would it solely help me feel less guilty about breaking the rules while it simultaneously made him feel less in control?

I took my hands and put the anklet down on the mattress, then covered my face. "It would be really irresponsible of me to fall asleep without making sure you put it back on," I hedged, unsure how to answer. As an agent, I had to make sure it was being worn to bed. As a significant other, I felt obligated to give him his peace of mind and let it conveniently slip my mind until morning.

"What if I swear not to leave the room without it on?" Neal lifted his chin from his arms and reached for my hips, pushing his thumbs into my thighs and pressing in hard circles that could make me sigh and lean back any other time. "Just for tonight, Kenna. _Please."_

As stupid as it was to be won by something like that, his manners were what got to me. Neal had always treated me with respect. The only times he hadn't were when he was either pissed at me or pushing to see how much wiggle room I was willing to give him, and I had given as good as I got either way. He'd always respected my beliefs, my rights, and my wishes (not counting when he stole the Haustenberg). The continued respect here, in the bedroom… well, he was showing me that he still respected me, respected my career, my professional responsibilities, and my emotional difficulty with catering to a different kind of situation.

Without talking, I moved the anklet from the bed to the drawers on Neal's side. There was no way I wasn't going to go to hell for my poor decisions, but there was very little I wouldn't do for Neal. One day I'd reach a boundary line, but that day wasn't today.

Neal lit up, looking surprised but with his breath taken away. He smiled brightly at me, springing up from his knees and standing over me. He held my cheeks with his hands and kissed me thankfully, stealing away my wits along with my air. The artist pulled back for a second, looked over my face with a completely smitten expression on his, wet pink lips showing his teeth as he giggled. Then he was back to me, parting my lips with his tongue and cradling my neck.

We made out carelessly while working to get up on the bed. Neal soothed the anxious fluttering in my stomach with his kisses and his soft, heartfelt pillow talk against my neck and in my ears. In return, I pushed my legs between his until his knees were holding my thighs and I pillowed his head with one arm. Neal shifted, held me flush to his body, and cuddled up closer, the side of his cheek on my shoulder. I reached down for his leg and stroked his thigh, starting at the back of his knee and gradually getting closer and closer to his underwear.

As Neal got comfortable, sleepily yawning and tucking his hands under my side, I hiked his knee up a little higher and then petted him over the blanket. Trying not to jar him, I stretched my shoulder, feeling clumsily over the bedside table. When my fingers hit something cold, I stopped, snagged the corner, and dragged both ice packs off of the edge and onto the bed.

"Get comfortable," I told him when I shoved one of them underneath his left arm and he jumped, eyes flying wide open. Neal settled back down, locking his hands around my abdomen. The artist wasn't as surprised when I pressed the second pack against the marks on his neck, propping it between him and my arm to keep it held on the area. "What happened there?" I finally asked, slipping a hand between us to rest over his chest.

Neal blinked open his eyes tiredly. "Huh?" I hadn't realized he would pass out so quickly and felt guilty for interrupting again, but he seemed so genuinely pleased with my attention that he didn't even tell me to be quiet. "Oh…" When he realized where I was touching, he rolled back, dislodging the ice pack on his neck, and touched the bruise himself. "Wilkes is definitely the type to hold a grudge."

I pursed my lips. Neal beckoned for me to move to follow him, so I rolled onto my side and mirrored the way we'd been lying previously. I was persistent and fixed the ice packs to account for it. I liked to hold him, but it felt wonderful to curl in against his larger form, head on his arm and hand covering his heart and part of his bruises. I glared at them, willing them to heal and go away. Neal brought his hand up from behind my head and started to toy with the ends of my hair, eyes sliding shut.

At first, my body wasn't ready to go to sleep. My internal clock was used to being up later. Overall, it was being beaten down and silenced by the exhaustion of the past two days. Having Neal's breathing near my head was a promise of safety and ease. I could trust him to look out for me and to wake me if I needed to be awake, just like he trusted me. He knew I would protect him. And now, so did everyone else in the WCCD. After I tore Rice several new wounds to compensate for taking my mate away from me, no one else was dumb enough to try… hopefully, at least.

My mind replayed the hits of the argument for me, a soft, tired smile coming to my face and promising a long night of rest.

_I could cover the side of the pillow with my hand and pretend that I was with the man of my dreams._

There was no need to pretend anymore. Neal was really there, alive, well, and happy. God, he was happy – grinning at me, kissing me, keeping me close with his whole body, playing with my hair as his hand gradually stopped moving, dropping down to the back of my head several times before he woke up enough to keep going.

 _This wasn't a time to be rational. It was a time to be_ **_angry_** _, to make her_ **_hurt_** _, the way I knew Neal had been hurt._

And he was hurt – he was hurt, and it made me feel queasy and enraged in equal measure – but I could let go of the anger and focus on Neal, now that he was in my arms. Neal didn't need anger. He deserved tenderness and love.

_She had to look into him, see how he operated, understand the dangers and how to neutralize them, especially if she wanted to involve someone_ _**I** _ _loved._

My eyes snapped open as I realized something that had gone completely over my head when I had all but confessed to myself in the morning. _I love Neal._ My breath hitched like water had gone down the wrong pipe and I drew my knees up higher, curling in to protect myself. I just ended up with even more of me pressed to Neal… whom I love.

"I love-" I said aloud, amazed, awed, and stricken with a rising of desperate affection and desire. For all of a second, it was impossible to keep to myself. Why would I want to? Then it came crashing down when Neal felt me tense and he shifted, picking his head up from the pillow to look down at me impulsively, and I changed what I was going to say when a rush of terror blinded me. "- Your mattress."

_Wow, Anderson. That's even dumber than when you used a bookshelf as an excuse for abandoning him in bed._

Stopping there wasn't an option. I was panicked. I was scared. I loved Neal. Neal was the man I loved. Neal, my soulmate, was the one I loved. I loved him in a way so much stronger and more complex than I'd ever loved anyone before, and I had confused it for companionship, for friendship, for exasperation, for annoyance, for lust, for infatuation. How could I let love rule my actions? I was making decisions with the potential to ruin me because I was in love. Love was fleeting and vulnerable and insecure. I was doing everything I hadn't wanted to do – changing my life, throwing my ambitions aside for the sake of my soulmate.

"I mean, I really love your mattress," I babbled, face turning scarlet. There was no way he didn't feel the heat from my blush against his pectoral. "I haven't slept in a long time, so it's – wow. I mean, yeah."

Neal didn't respond. I drove my teeth into my bottom lip and realized I could still taste the mint of his toothpaste in my mouth from his kisses, which had never been so addictive until I had almost lost him for good. Right as I started to feel like I should get out, jump up and run away from what I didn't want to feel, Neal lowered his hand to my hair, releasing long tendrils and burying his fingers in it. I felt the muscles in his chest flex as he shifted slightly to his left and lifted his neck. Then I felt his soft and hot lips on my forehead, right beneath my hairline.

"I love the mattress, too," he mumbled against my skin, stilling contently. Neal's mouth caressed the words delicately and knowingly, as if he could break them or their meaning by saying them in the wrong way.

My eyes stung and I squeezed them shut, turning my face into his chest. _He knew._ He knew what I hadn't been able to say, and he had said them back – as much as he chose to, that was, committing only as much as I committed to him.

It wasn't until then that I realized how much I wanted his spoken commitments. His _I don't lie to you, Kenna_ s weren't enough anymore. I wanted him to mean them more than he meant the murmured, loving words and promises when his voice was broken up by sounds of pleasure and he was so deep inside of me that I couldn't see straight. The implications of his lips when he kissed me, elegantly and skilled like he'd been trained, paying attention to everything I liked, were a start, but they weren't an oath.

Now that I had heard him holding back, I was desperate to break those barriers down. I wanted him to give himself to me, to jump and believe I'd catch him, to prove to me that my feelings weren't one-sided and that he treasured me as much as I valued my precious, beloved artist.

 _Soulmates have nothing to do with this,_ I scolded myself over my fit of paralyzed word alterations. _I love him and it's more than any superficial tattoo could ever amount to. We're soulmates because the universe knew I would love him dearly, not vice versa._ A soulmark didn't cheapen what I felt. A soulmark didn't get to make me feel what I didn't want to feel, and it didn't have any more of a right to take away what I _did_ feel, and as I lectured myself mentally out of that terrified, impulsive defense mechanism, I felt with all of my heart that I was utterly in love with Neal, and I wouldn't give up that sensation for anything.

Not even for my idealized job, which had been making my life miserable lately – getting the love of my life threatened by bastard agents, bringing said agents to my sister's doorstep, making me constantly choose between what I needed to do for my mate and what I should have done for my title. Time to think of a new identity. I envisioned McKenna as an agent of justice when I invented her. I had also been determined to be who _I_ wanted to be, and yet now I was doing the same things my parents had done to me – pressuring myself into being someone else.

If my job made me miserable, it was time to stop using it to identify and judge myself. How well I took care of my loved ones was a much better judge of my character, anyway.

Neal had done as much for me as I had done for him. He _deserved_ to know how I felt. He deserved to know that there was a thrumming passion in my chest that burned hot around him and ached for _only_ him. He had my loyalty, my trust, my friendship, and my love.

I pressed my hand flat against his chest and admired how our skin tones looked together. I was smaller, paler, and he protected me from my demons at night with his larger and stronger body. Then, once the sun rose, it was my turn, and I defended him from anything that would want to take a swing at him, protecting my sweet love, who would never hurt for anything short of self-defense.

"Neal," I said, bravely screwing up my courage. I was ready. I could commit. There was no one else I wanted to commit this part of myself _to._ "I-"

A quiet snuffling intervened before I could say any more, and I pushed myself up on my elbow and looked to his face. My mate slept peacefully, drifted off with his face calm and relaxed. He swallowed and turned his head to the side, cheek against the soft fluffed pillow, and unconsciously tightened his fingers in my hair.

I swallowed back the rest of what I'd been prepared to say. Maybe it was better. Maybe I was asking for a lot, giving too much. We had a lot of things in front of us that were going to be anything but easy. Alex, Fowler, the music box… Did Neal or I really need to get any more involved, to pledge devotion to each other, when we should've been more worried by things to come?

I watched Neal breathe, in and out, his face as beautiful at rest as he always was. Whether he was distractedly nibbling on a pen, or overcome with bliss as he climaxed, or intently focused on his sketchbook, or grinning around with the excitement of a child, he was the most beautiful thing in the world when viewed through my eyes.

"There's nothing in the world that'll stop me from protecting you," I vowed to him sadly, kissing the corner of his mouth. "But for now, with this, I'm going to protect myself, too."

* * *

**Some other transfer kid is kind of wealthy because his parents own a chain of casinos. He likes to brag about how no one can beat him at cards and how he can spot a tell a mile away. I knocked him off his horse and told him he wasn't as good as he thought.**

**It took a while, but I set him up for a nice hustle. He wasn't completely lying; he** **_is_ ** **good at telling when people are trying to be deceitful, so I had to be stealthy. I went out of my way to be in his vicinity several times, and each time, I planted a subtle, false tell.**

**Still pretending to be the arrogant, impatient bitch (pretending?), I let him challenge my ego into a winner-takes-all poker game, where I then proceeded to use that fake tell to manipulate him into losing. I totally cleaned him out. Then I winked, made sure he was watching, and did the tell again.**

**The first thing to know about lying is that you can – and probably will, at some point – get caught in your own webs. When you assume you're invincible, you actually make yourself an easier target. I taught this kid that you should never assume you're the one with the most aces; or, in this case, the highest flush.**

**I'm laying low in school for a while now, and I've stuffed all the cash I won in a hidden cubby Mom and Dad won't ever find. I'll take it with me when I move my assets. In the meantime, I'm revered in my class with a little more respect. It won't last long, because these things never do, but the transfer learned something from the experience and I feel a little less bored.**

**See? Secrets and safeties can be useful.**

**Love (and cheat well),**

**Zarra LaMontagne**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Love it? Hate it? Let me know!


	29. Tangled and Twisted All Up in Us

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> McKenna's identities, plans, and problems all come crashing together when she forms a crew with Neal, Mozzie, and Alex to steal the music box. She and Neal lure Fowler back into New York, where he strikes revenge on both of the Andersons for the events of their last encounter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Lucy Hale's "Come On."

**Chapter Twenty-Nine – Tangled and Twisted All Up in Us**

Diana, Derek, and I all looked up at once when Neal came back into the conference room, pushing the door open for himself with his back while he carefully cradled a drink carrier close to his chest. The three agents all cheered, and at the attention, Neal started to smile, eyes darting up to Diana with a proud grin.

"You went for coffee!" Derek clapped his hands and sat up in his seat. He was more invigorated by Neal's return (or by the arrival of coffee) than he had been about our discussion. "Nice!" On the edge of his chair, he held his hands out on the table, inviting Neal to bestow him with the drink of gods.

Neal set down the carrier. Now that he was in the room, I could see that he also had a fifth cup from Starbucks in one hand, and the carrier was full. They were unmarked, so I didn't just reach out and take one, lest it be someone else's, and we all waited impatiently while Neal set down his drink and started to sort out ours.

We'd been here for over an hour, growing progressively duller and duller as we tried to work out a new angle to a case that Hughes had personally handed to us involving a company and inconsistencies in several different ledgers. Because it was corporate and they had good lawyers, we were supposed to solve it ASAP. I didn't know that Neal had ever left the building after lunch, but since he had brought back souvenirs from my favorite café, I wouldn't get on him about taking unsanctioned break times.

"Whose is that?" Diana asked, eyeing the drink remaining in the carrier with a gleam of thirst in her eyes, even though there were already cups for everyone.

"Hughes'," Neal answered, not touching it. Instead, he set one in between himself and Derek, moved his own out of reach of any of the three of us, and put two others in between Diana and I. Neal stood at the side of the table, able to lean over the top and reach any of the cups as he so pleased. "I solved our embezzlement scam," he announced smugly. "It's a lapping scheme."

"A lapping scheme?" Diana echoed, tilting her head back to look up at Neal.

"It's another way to siphon money," I summarized for her helpfully. Judging by the expression she sent me quickly in retaliation, she had already known what a lapping scheme was. _Oops._ Helplessly, I put my hands up to show I was innocent.

Neal seemed delighted by my mistake, but he took back the spotlight anyway. "I'll show you!" He worked the last cup free from the carrier and pushed the cardboard towards the end of the conference table. Holding it up demonstratively, he narrated, "Let's say I wanted a sip of Hughes' latte."

Diana snorted. I raised my eyebrows. _Honey, I love you,_ I thought at him emphatically, _but there is no justifiable defense in the world for the stupidity you're about to act on._ I smiled despite myself, biting my lip. _I love you._ It had been so long since I'd felt able to say I loved someone in the way I loved Neal, and it was so much more powerful and potent now than it had been when I was a stupid teenager who would 'love' anyone who treated her nicely. I couldn't say it out loud, to Neal or anyone else, but _I_ knew I loved him, and it was an incredible feeling, to be able to think about how much I loved him and finally feel free to admit that to myself.

"I wouldn't do that," Derek warned, even as Neal brought the lid to his lips and took a long drink. The agent shuddered and looked away.

Neal licked his lips as he put down the coffee, leaning on the table with both hands. "Oh, that's delicious," he commented before going back to the matter at hand. He gestured to the latte and then took the top off. "Now I have a problem."

"Yeah," Derek deadpanned. "Hughes is going to make you look like a Baroque painting for drinking his coffee."

Neal hesitated, just for a second, as he privately realized how dumb of an idea that had been. He glanced surreptitiously out the conference room's floor-to-ceiling window as if he thought an angry supervisor would be watching like a creeper from just outside. "… Right. So, I take a little bit of yours…" He took Derek's out from in front of him, took off the lid of Derek's, and ignored the latter's agitated protests. "… And pour a little bit into here." He tilted it just enough so that some flowed over the edge and back into Hughes' latte. I frowned slightly. Hughes was going to know that someone had mixed his latte with someone else's order. Neal took one look at Derek's narrow-eyed and stoic face before he stopped smiling. "And now, _you're_ going to single-handedly throw me back into a super-max."

"You're damn right I will," Derek agreed with a growl.

In response, Neal stared right at him while he slowly nodded. Then, like lightning, he reached for Diana's, swept it to the side away from her, and skittered out of her reach.

"Hey!" She squawked, looking aghast that he would dare to try it.

"It's a lapping scheme," Neal nervously laughed in his defense as he took the top off of hers, too.

Diana held out both of her arms incredulously, yet she didn't stand up in preparation of castrating him. "That doesn't mean you get to take my coffee!" Neal hurried to pour some of Diana's into Derek's before the idea occurred to her, then quickly pushed that one back to her.

My artist stood up straight with the Hughes' and Derek's coffees in front of him, both of them just as full as they'd been when he entered the room. "I just keep going like this for as long as I can," he explained. Through process of elimination, I knew whose coffee was going to be next, and I wrapped my hand around mine before Neal had the chance to take it. "In the end, I've got a cup full of coffee and no one's any the wiser-"

I interrupted. "Until I catch you and threaten you out of trying to steal mine." I raised my cup in a toast. "Very entertaining, though. Props for the amusement value." With that, I took a drink, closing out the production.

Promptly, I made a disgusted face and shoved the coffee away from me, horrified.

"What the hell, Caffrey?!" I shrieked, making Diana lean back in her chair, giggling. Neal pursed his lips to try to hide his smile, but he wasn't successful in appearing innocent. Derek tentatively shook his cup a little to mix in his order with Diana's, then took a small, cautious sip. He deemed it acceptable with a surprised hum. "This is disgusting!"

Neal stopped trying to hide his grin. "That's because it's Diana's order," he quipped.

My probie stopped laughing.

He wasn't looking like such a catch when he was playing tricks on me with my caffeine. _Someone forgot to bring their survival sense._ "You said it was mine!" I objected, scowling at him, betrayed. Neal fed me good coffee. _Imported_ coffee. From _Italy._ Now all of the sudden he was fooling me into drinking – drinking _whatever it was_ Diana apparently ordered?

"No," Neal defended, holding his hands up and shaking his head. "I just… pushed it towards you. It was an implication, at most."

Diana took the drink I had sampled, sent me a glare for taking some of it, and possessively moved it onto her thigh, where no one else could tamper with what she intended to keep. Derek watched the unfurling match like a ping-pong game, turning his head from side to side and casually staying refreshed.

"You made me your accomplice in the desecration of coffee?!" I demanded, throwing my arms out. "How _could_ you?!"

"Well, now you can't turn me in without it coming back to you," Neal pointed out logically.

 _So not only did he make me an accomplice, but he took Diana's coffee – which was actually my coffee – and gave it to Derek?!_ I stared at him for a very long moment. It was at least thirty seconds between his attempt at rationalizing his actions and my response, and in that time, Derek and Diana both grew more and more anxious to see what would happen next.

Finally, I found my words. "I'm going to take all of your fedoras and send them through shredders!" I declared irately and slumped back into my chair, crossing my arms over my chest while I pouted, glaring at my (possibly soon-to-be-ex) boyfriend.

Derek let out a tiny snort. Diana kicked him under the table.

Someone's phone beeped. Neal took it out of his back pocket to check the notification, scanning his eyes over the screen before he pushed it away again. It was hardly out long enough to see that it was a Smartphone before he was hiding it again, but luckily, neither Derek nor Diana were nearly as suspicious of his actions as they used to be.

"Oh, man, I totally forgot," he groused, planting a hand on the table and leaning heavily over the top. He turned his head to Derek, guessing that the man was probably feeling more hospitable towards him than either of his female coworkers. "June's doing a champagne dinner tonight, with fondue." Derek raised an eyebrow as if asking what Neal expected him to do about it. Neal turned his eyes on me, pleading. "Do you mind if I cut out early?"

_So not only does he get my coffee, but he gets fondue, too._

"Why not?" I sighed, reaching up to pinch the bridge of my nose. I took the opportunity to check the time on my watch while my hand was up and saw that it was almost time for me to wrap things up for the end of the work day, regardless. "I consider this enough of a breakthrough for everyone to go home. Pack up and head out, guys."

Derek and Diana both got up quickly, immediately dissolving into chatter between themselves like high schoolers released from class. Diana was bouncing date ideas off of Derek, and Derek proposed that she and Christy double-dated with him and Katie.

After they left, I was still in my chair. I rolled my shoulders back and stood more slowly, while Neal waited patiently. He collected the cardboard drink carrier to toss it out on the way past a trash can. Rolling my shoulders back stretched my muscles until I felt something pop in my right shoulder, and I sighed softly as I rolled my head.

"Long day?" Neal asked gently, picking up my blazer from the back of my chair.

I looked at him over my shoulder and saw that he was holding up my jacket for me. I turned my back to him again and let him help me put it on, then I turned back around and flipped my hair out from under the collar. "I didn't know desk work could be so tiring," I shared, reaching out for his waist, intent on bringing my hand up to the small of his back.

Neal chuckled quietly and let me guide him. "Hey, Kenna, she made sure to remind me that you're invited, if you're up for it." I was about to ask if the invitation included Katie when Neal lowered his voice to add, "She wants to show you this music box she got, she's curious if you can fix it so it plays again."

I inhaled sharply and looked out over the bullpen as we left the conference room. My wallet and my phone were both still in my pockets, but I'd need to grab my messenger bag from my office. _Music box._ June wasn't big on them, as far as I knew, and Neal wouldn't have waited to tell me after Derek and Diana had left if it were just any old music box picked up in an antique store.

_This is about_ _**the** _ _music box._

It had been close to a month since we'd last seen Alex. After she left the penthouse the day we arrested Wilkes, not even Mozzie had a word on her whereabouts. I hadn't pressed too hard. She wanted that box, and she wouldn't be giving up on it. I knew she'd come back to us sooner rather than later, because if she were capable of getting it on her own, then she wouldn't have risked cutting us into the operation to begin with. The problem was that waiting left the anticipation to simmer, and before long, I found myself just as obsessed with the thing as Neal, saving tabs on my laptop on the Nazi treasure loots and looking up online archaeological websites to speak with professionals who might know anything. I couldn't go through a day without thinking about it, wondering how much longer it would be before we were free of its shadow.

In the meantime, we had to continue as usual. No huge cases had come up, so most of our days consisted of working in the WCCD and taking lunch breaks together, sometimes dragging other members of our team, sometimes going to visit Kate with take-out at her daycare. Kimberly Rice was still awaiting the results of her hearing, but, true to my promise, I had laid off. Since she had tried earnestly to recover Neal and Lindsay both, I didn't make hell for her, but I still gave a thorough and honest review of her conduct. It wasn't going to look nice on her record, but she had made her own bed, and if she intended to continue pursuing careers in the bureau, I would take feeling guilty over worrying that she hadn't learned her lesson.

At nights, Neal, June, Mozzie, and I had a game night at least once a week, usually on weekends. We had discovered that, while Neal and Mozzie could occasionally come to an agreement on video entertainment, it was much harder for the three of us to come to a consensus, so movies were what Neal and I did when we were alone and just wanted to spend time next to each other. I spent a couple nights a week with him, and the rest of my free time was given to Katie, helping her design worksheets suitable for four- and five-year-olds. She had gotten me to help her look into field trip opportunities to get them out of the building sometime.

Things were settling into a nice rhythm. I could say without lying or mincing words that I was more than content. My sister was safe, I had a small and comfortable social circle, I had enough variances in my routine not to be bored, my work was still somewhat engaging, and I had enough distractions through other means not to dwell on the past or my demotion. For the first time in a long time, I was going to work without feeling sour about it, and while part of it was thanks to Neal, I believed that more of it was due to coming to more comfortable conclusions about myself, provoked by the situations I'd been forced into by Neal, Matthew, and Fowler – among others.

Except now that short period of tranquility was coming to an end. If there was something about the music box, something about Alex… well, I'd learned that with the good came the unfortunate, and there was always a catch – especially with something as shady as the things that we were getting into.

I pressed my hand a little bit harder into his back, just to feel his warmth through his clothes. Neal didn't speed up, just let me have the pressure I wanted. Alex and I were not best friends, and that was probably for a good reason. The two of us would never see eye-to-eye, and at least half of it was because of our relationships with Neal. I could be friends with a lover's ex, but not when they kept flirting with him.

 _I love you,_ I thought again, biting my lip. _Alex is just an ally. I know I haven't told you, but I know you care about me, too._ I couldn't assign those specific words to him… I could hope, I could guess, but I didn't want to take anything for granted, and I didn't need him to express commitment the way I might have done in other circumstances to feel safe and wanted.

"Only an idiot would refuse champagne dinner with music and Parcheesi," I answered lightly. June's staff were excellent chefs, and she had a taste for liquor that rivalled Neal's. No one would ever have to be wise to that there was something unscrupulous hidden underneath civil plans of a social gathering.

Neal picked up his hand and waved over the mezzanine at Derek. "See you guys!" He called as I left him standing by the rail, slipping into my office to grab the rest of my belongings.

As I was bent over by filing cabinets to unplug my computer charger, I stopped and looked up at my reflection in the window. Brunette-dyed hair swung down over my front, spilling in curls around my face and making my eyes look bigger and bluer, and since I was bent over, my shirt was pulled at by gravity and I could see cleavage below my neckline. I hesitated to move again, just looking at my reflection with the charger in one hand.

She looked a lot different than I remembered from the woman who had been woken up in the hospital after almost a week of in-and-out drug-induced sleep. Longer hair, different clothes, different posture, more guarded, a little bit more weight.

I took a deep breath. The woman I was seeing had a lot to be worried about, but her primary concerns were a rustic antique and a (so far) nonviolent, lying OPR agent. I no longer had to worry that I might be ambushed in my own home, or that I might wake up to a man standing over my bed with a doctor's mask over his mouth. The person I'd left behind might have skinned me alive for what I was planning to do – what I already _had_ done in my quest to protect my loved ones – but at least now I had the loved ones I did those things _for._

No matter what was going to come from the music box, I was still me, and even though I had changed, that didn't necessarily mean anything bad.

_…_ _Did it?_

* * *

Kate was informed that we were at the store, picking up some stuff for Neal to nurture his artistic hobbies. Neal pleasantly told June that we were at my house, going to the movie theater with Katie. Suffice to say that neither of them knew the truth. I felt guilty for lying to my sister, but even the minimal involvement she'd had during the diamond heist was enough to attract Fowler's attention last time. I was wary to even give her information, lest she be made into a mark again. Mozzie was probably the only person who knew where we really were.

A splash echoed through the acoustics of the large, open indoor pool.

Well, Mozzie was one of _two_ people who knew where we really were.

Neal kept a few feet between himself and the edge of the swimming pool. It had its own small building, attached to the public gym that had closed almost four hours ago. Neal had brought his lock-picking set, but we'd found the door to the pool jammed open with a thickly-folded origami flower. Even if there had been a question about who was using the pool after hours, there was no doubt in my mind after that.

I looked over the surface, rippling softly. Bright lights glowed from the bottom of the pool, underwater lights making the color turn a light blue in some places and a darker blue in others. The chlorine was pungent and offensive, but I couldn't deny that there was something inherently peaceful about the wide, darkened room, only one row of overheads turned on. On the other side of the pool, near the stairs in the shallow end, was a pile of clothes. My eyebrows arched.

Neal slipped his hands into his pockets. I crossed my arms and ventured slowly a little closer to the edge. I wasn't worried about falling in, since I still wore my shoes, but I wasn't a big fan of public swimming pools. A lithe blur of tan and brown swam under the surface.

About ten seconds later, the water broke, distorting in waves from the center of the disturbance. Alex tossed her head back, slick hair flying out of her face and plastering itself to the back of her head and neck. She reached up with her hands, wiped her eyes, and started smiling, slicked brown hair clinging to her face. The fence brushed it away and blinked, looking up at Neal and I from where she paddled to stay above the water in the deep end.

_There's something poetic and fitting about that which I don't want to acknowledge._

I glanced back to the clothes on the other end of the pool and sighed, looking to her shoulders. No, I couldn't see any bra straps, either from a bikini top or a bra.

"Classy," I dryly complained, voice unintentionally echoing. I startled myself a little bit with how loud it was to speak out loud. The hum of fans and the water filter in the background, the chemical smell, and the wavering blue lighting made it all seem tranquil and dreamlike, as if I could blink too hard and wake up from anesthetic. "You know, if you wanted to go skinny dipping, the Hudson wouldn't have required breaking in."

Alex grinned at me mischievously and let her head bob halfway underwater. She tipped her forehead forward and then swept her hands over her hair, using water to mold and weigh it back so none of it was in her way.

"I got your message." Neal's voice sounded even louder than mine, but, standing next to him, I could tell he was only using his normal volume. "Was wondering when you were going to call." He was casual. I was a little annoyed. This wasn't the _first_ time Alex had stripped off her clothes in the same vicinity as my boyfriend, and this time she was entirely naked.

She drifted back from the edge, gliding through the water gracefully, until she was a couple of yards away and able to stand on the tips of her toes. "Hop in," she invited, raising a hand above the water and crooking her fingers. "We'll chat, hang out a bit…"

 _We'll definitely not have sex,_ I thought, fighting not to growl or glower. Alex was being unnecessarily provocative. Couldn't she take a hint?

I lowered myself into a kneel at the edge of the pool and dipped my hand over the concrete edge, expecting it to be cold. It was cool, but I suppose the lights in the floor must've been keeping it warmer than it should've been otherwise. After watching as my hand slipped through the surface, I looked back up to Alex.

"I'd understand the assumption if we were in California, but sadly, I actually do _not_ wear a swimsuit under my clothes at all times."

Alex was not modest. She raised both of her arms. Everything below her throat was still submerged, but the clear water left very little obscured, even taking light distortion, diffraction, and reflection into account. Gesturing to indicate how empty the place was, she not only made her point, but she also made another: she didn't have a problem with being undressed, and she expected us to join her.

"This building is _closed,"_ Alex emphasized, her voice teasing. "There's no one here to get on you for jumping in in less than proper swimwear." She looked past me and up to Neal, smirking at him. "If there was…" She bit her lip and giggled quietly. "I'd be in trouble."

I took my hand out of the water and crossed my arms, unimpressed. By no means was I a prude, but skinny dipping in a public swimming pool long after the sun had gone down was the kind of fun that I'd long since outgrown. Maybe I'd have been laughing, too, if it weren't for what we were there about. If it weren't for that she was naked, enticing my boyfriend to similarly strip.

Standing up, I stepped back from the edge, back to Neal's side. Alex was _his_ contact. If I reacted in the wrong way, then she might just refuse to talk to me, which wasn't a risk I was willing to take. I let him make the decision. Thankfully, Neal didn't seem all too eager to jump in at her invitation, either.

He surveyed her skeptically. Alex sighed and she gave up the pretenses of playfulness. Getting along was a stretch. Whatever had happened between her and Neal in the past made me wonder, and their trust in each other was very conditional. When she spoke again, her voice was its normal, calm, and half-irritated tone. "Relax. I know you're still wearing the anklet. What I _don't_ know is if you're wired. Get in."

I forced the bristles to go down. That… actually made sense, and I reluctantly concluded that I couldn't argue her logic. Someone in her profession would have to be dumb to take it for granted that a fed was still going rogue and wasn't actually looking to catch her on audio evidence. The anklet didn't record anything, and the only way to be sure we weren't wearing a small mic affixed to any clothing was to have us shed it all and get in water, which would destroy most recording equipment. Being naked might have been a come-on, and it certainly doubled as one when she approached us the way she had, but moreover, it was a semi-respectful indication. She was doing what she expected of us, holding herself to the same standards.

In hindsight, I felt a little bit silly for assuming that she was hitting on my boyfriend. Not everything was about me and my relationship. Alex just had a way of making me edgy and defensive.

"I hate public pools," I grumbled, just to make sure everyone knew where I stood on the issue. Then, just to get it over with, I started to quickly remove my jacket and my sidearm, moving to start a collection like Alex's, far enough away from the edge of the pool so that they wouldn't be splashed.

Undressing in front of her didn't really faze me. I knew that she had started it, and the worst thing she could say to me would be about the scars on my stomach. However, in spite of the personal grievances with her, she was courteous (to an extent) and tactful (when she chose to be), so I wasn't very worried about that being an issue. Undressing in front of Neal, for that matter, was barely worth blinking at. I figured that my modesty where he was concerned had kind of been thrown out the window, and just wanted to strip quickly and get in the water.

A hand touched my shoulder. I paused before I could get more than two buttons undone on my shirt and looked over at Neal. His face was questioning. I turned to face him with my head cocked. "What?" I asked plainly.

He was the one who was desperate to get the box, and he was the one who felt Alex was the best person to go to for assistance. I would've thought that he'd be jumping in headfirst at the incentive of information, a new lead to follow. Sure, it was skinny dipping with his ex, but I was there, too, and hell, I was already getting in on the action, so to speak. Neal had his quiet, well-hidden issues where he wasn't too secure about himself, but those were more emotional and intellectual than physical, and he exploited his beauty often enough that I didn't think it would bother him, even if he and I weren't together.

"Let me?" He asked quietly, rubbing his hand down my collar and to my front. I lowered my hands. Neal kissed my cheek, his lips warm and dry, and started to undo my shirt for me. Both of my hands fell to his hips and my eyes slid shut. Some of the tension drained from my shoulders as he lowered his head to my neck, pressing his mouth to my throat as he gradually exposed more and more of my flesh.

How he turned something clinical into something sensual – or why he tried it at all – was beyond me, but I found myself softly sighing and relaxing, spreading my fingers against his sides. Before he had pulled the side of my shirt down my left arm, I had reached for the front of his pants, pulling at the hem of his shirt and untucking it from his trousers, reciprocating the actions and divesting him of his clothes. As I pushed the buttons open, Neal bit softly and sucked on a hot spot on my neck. I inhaled shakily and felt more than I heard our clothes falling to the floor.

The fence in the pool was curiously quiet. I unbuttoned Neal's slacks and hooked my thumbs under the waistband, sliding my hands around his hips and to his back, and deft fingers snapped open the clasp of my bra. While I toed off my shoes and our pants and underwear joined our shirts, jackets, and shoes on the floor nearby, I opened my eyes enough to look at Alex.

It wasn't my imagination that her eyes were half-lidded, or that she was sucking on her bottom lip, or that both of her hands seemed awfully close to her breasts. I felt as though I'd triumphed somehow, what with having Neal's hands on my bare thighs and his head down on my shoulder, my fingers in his hair.

The water reflected pale blue spots over Neal's torso and I traced the light as it moved with the ripples of the pool, crossing from his ribs to his upper arm and then disappearing, returning on the far wall behind him. Standing entirely nude in the public pool, I cupped his chin in my left hand and kissed him, tasting his tongue and pressing my chest against his.

I hadn't ever thought I was into exhibitionism. Had it been someone else in the pool and I probably wouldn't have been. Something about making Alex watch and see that Neal was _mine_ and I was _his_ and neither of us (and especially not him) were hers made me feel more comfortable, and, yes, a little bit egotistic.

We jumped in from the deep side of the pool. The water felt cooler than it had seemed on my hand, and as I rose back up and my head broke the surface, I gasped quietly as gooseflesh rose on the back of my neck. I tangled my hands in my hair, doing as Alex had and streaming it down my back. Neal was already rubbing his eyes from the sting of chlorine, and his hair was slicked down like wet fur. Through the water, we couldn't see each other as clearly, and that, coupled with the cold rush, eased the sexual tension.

Neal was the first to speak after we proved no one was looking to double-cross anyone. "Where's the music box, Alex?" His voice was low, confident and smooth as silk, and I thought it was impressive that he could still be so sure of himself, even after that show we put on, making out in front of his ex-lover. Maybe that was _why_ he was so at ease; maybe he thought that cleared the air.

She arched her thin eyebrows. "No small talk?" The brunette asked, feigning a wound.

 _What do you think the three of us have in common to talk about?_ I didn't have time for games. Neither did Neal. If someone else checked his anklet and came to see why he was at a gym after closing time, they'd find us both having a covert meeting with a known black market fence.

I felt I'd indulged her enough by going for an unplanned swim without a swimsuit. "Your note said it's in Manhattan." I stubbornly stayed on-topic. "If you're back for it, then that means there's an opportunity to get to it."

She stopped smiling. Her joking expression turned into a slight frown. "I'm not going to give you all of the information. I'm not _dumb._ I want to make sure you won't go get it without me."

Mozzie was lucky that his paranoia had an eccentric charm to it. Alex's was just getting on my nerves.

"I told you," Neal reiterated, sounding sincere as he offered her a conspiratorial, sneaky smile. "We'll get it together."

She pursed her lips like she didn't believe him and she crossed her arms under the water level, another indication of skepticism. The three of us all stood in a raggedy triangle in the pool. Neal and I had more of our bodies out of the water, since we were both taller than Alex, but it was still so high that if I looked down too far, I'd end up with a wet face.

Finally, Alex gave in, still looking suspicious. "It's in the Italian Consulate," she reluctantly divulged.

I groaned and tipped my head back, looking up at the high ceiling. It seemed two stories above my head, and the narrow, crisscrossing beams supporting the overhead lights appeared as if they could snap and fall at any time. "Of course it is," I whined. "Why would it be somewhere easy to get to?"

When I looked to them again, I got the impression that Alex had just finished rolling her eyes. "I traced it to the consul general. He tucked the box into his own private safe in the Consulate last year, and he's flying in next month to pick it up," she explained to Neal.

Although it was hard, I managed to resist the impulse to ask how she could've figured any of that out, what kinds of contacts she had, and if she had had to break any laws to get her paws on the information. "And then it'll be in Italy, where it's at least ten times harder to get to," I predicted.

"A Consulate's a hard target," Neal pointed out the obvious, a frown on his lips. Unfortunately for me, that frown was more indicative of him thinking than it was of him resigning. He was taking it as a challenge, not a deterrent.

"They're having a party this week," Alex informed with a pleased smirk. "That's our chance to get inside."

His lips quirked. A trail of water slipped from the shallow dip in his collarbone down the back of his shoulder and rejoined the liquid in the pool. "I'm always up for a party," he grinned, turning his eyes to me hopefully.

 _A Consulate? This week?_ My stomach twisted. It was awfully short-notice, and although a party was good enough for them, a Consulate wasn't even technically American land. If we were caught, we'd be facing the jurisdiction of an entirely different country. Trying to rob from another sovereignty's land was definitely worse than trying to break into a post office. It might've been naïve, but I'd been subconsciously hoping that the music box would be hidden somewhere inconspicuous and low-risk.

But we needed to get it. Neal's sister and mine both had lives and emotions that were manipulated and threatened because of Fowler, and he wouldn't stop until he'd gotten the amber music box. If I said no, then Neal and Alex would probably go after it on their own, and I shuddered to think of what kind of trouble they could get themselves into. Both of them seemed like the impulsive kind.

"Okay," I hesitated to say, and knew I'd regret it on some level when we came up with a more detailed plan. "But what about when he notices that it's not there? Then it's taken to the authorities. The bureau is _definitely_ going to hear about it." I didn't need to remind them both that any high-profile theft in the New York area was going to turn heads to Neal before anyone else was considered. We'd already proven that once in the last year.

Alex and Neal both shared a reasoning glance between themselves before I became the center of attention again. "The Nazis took it from the Russians…" Alex started to prompt me in the right direction.

Neal concluded the thought for her. "He wasn't supposed to have it in the first place, so he won't talk when we steal it from him," he said, sounding certain enough to stake his freedom on it. When he smiled at me reassuringly, I forced one back, but it seemed more like a grimace. Mostly because he really _was_ staking his freedom on it. And Alex's, and mine.

 _This is insane,_ I realized with a flood of vertigo that suddenly hit me. If I hadn't been supported by water on all sides already, I'd have sat down hard. _I'm signing on for a heist. A real, live heist. Of Italians. Of the Italian Consulate. Oh, God._

I raised my hand to wipe water from my face before it dripped into my eyes. I only smeared more of it over my forehead, but it did take away the threatening drops over my eyebrows. "Okay," I said, forcing myself to take a deep breath. It felt weird, a little stifling, to do so in a pool, because the liquid kept pressing in from all sides. "Question that's not related to the consulate."

Neal looked towards Alex curiously, interested in what sort of thing I'd ask of her that didn't have to do with the sole reason I was willing to talk to her. My relationships with most of his contacts were weird; I had a friendship with Mozzie layered with banter and arguing, I disliked Alex yet conspired with her, and I pretended that the people I knew he and Moz chatted with to get info didn't exist. I didn't usually ask things I didn't think I could get legitimate answers to, so what I wanted to get from Alex had to be a very limited field.

Alex looked a little surprised, too, but she covered it well, underneath an assured smirk and a stretch of her shoulders, pushing her arms behind her back. This really would've been an incredibly awkward meeting if it weren't for the pool doing its part to obscure views. "Shoot," she invited.

"You chose to meet here, so you knew we'd be swimming." I put a hand on my hip underwater, only reminding myself how I was completely nude when my fingertips slipped over slick skin. "How come you didn't plan on a swimsuit, either?" She couldn't be trying to record Neal or I; if she wanted to turn it in, she had no cover (such as being a federal agent) to excuse the fact that she was here with us.

The fence just grinned wolfishly at me, giving me a sexy little tilt of her head and holding her lower lip between her teeth. It was not a promising reply, and I ground my teeth while narrowing my eyes at her.

* * *

With wet hair and damp clothes (we may have slightly overlooked the problem of drying off…), Neal and I sat with Mozzie around the dining table near the kitchenette. We parted ways from Alex at the gym. She remained in the water, practicing her swim strokes while we pulled on our clothes and departed. The woman claimed she was waiting so that we weren't all leaving at the same time, but I suspected part of it was so that she could watch us (specifically, Neal) while we dressed.

My bra was very uncomfortable when it was wet, my hair was dried out from chlorine, and some warm pants, be they mine or Neal's, would've been greatly appreciated. Instead, we took care of the important discussions first, and when Mozzie was already in the penthouse by the time we arrived, I concluded that Mozzie had likely been the intermediary between Alex and Neal about where and when to meet up.

This talk did not end so well. With each sentence, Mozzie became less and less pleased. His excitement over having a target to steal did not compute with his desire to stay far away from all forms of official government when the mark was the consul general of the Italians. While Neal and I sat there, tired and resigned, Mozzie went through an indignant spiel about how he was not looking to die for a _box,_ whether it played a tune or not.

"A _consulate?_ Oh, great, it's become an _international_ incident," he sarcastically drawled, throwing his arms. Neal and I glanced at each other, sighed in synchrony, and stared at different spots on the table while we let our friend get his ranting over with. "Look, I don't want to end my days in some underground prison, adopting cockroaches as pets!"

Repulsed, I wrinkled my nose. "Ew. Even if we _were_ arrested and extradited to Italy," I made sure to say it hypothetically, because I had no intention of doing this without a more-than-decent plan, an escape route, and some sort of insurance to ensure everyone's individual cooperation, "I'm pretty sure we wouldn't be kept underground. And I hope there would be better pest control if we were," I amended as an afterthought.

"We're not breaking into North Korea." Neal responded similarly, rolling his eyes and reaching out to place his hand over Moz's. "It's just the Italians, Moz."

I frowned at the chess board altered to hang on the wall and cocked my head. _I dunno if we should go_ _ **that**_ _far with the mitigation…_

"They do prison just fine!" Mozzie swore, taking his hand out from Neal's reach, tossing himself grumpily back in the chair, and crossing his arms in a sulk. "Ask Galileo!" _He has a point,_ I acknowledged with a flutter of nervousness. They wouldn't screw around if – when – we stole from them. If this wasn't a smooth, one-and-done heist, then the ramifications would be… extreme. The conspiracy theorist swallowed and shook his head less fervently. This time, his face suggested he couldn't believe he was even considering this. "Can we do it without Alex?"

Neal was indicating a negative before Mozzie had finished asking the question, but I took up the burden of verbally answering. "She's counting on us wanting to try, so she's not going to tell us which safe we need to break it out of until she's already in on the action," I explicated delicately, trying not to let it show how agitated I was by her forcible involvement.

Mozzie sighed down at the table. "She always was a smart girl…" he wistfully reminisced.

"Yeah," Neal agreed quietly, with a voice that sounded like he wasn't too happy to think about it.

I wondered more about their relationship with the crafty brunette. Neither of them had ever said anything to make me think Mozzie hadn't known Alex as long as Neal had, but everything about her seemed to focus on her history, both as criminals and as partners, with Neal that sometimes I forgot she had a past with Mozzie, too. More than I had earlier, I felt left out. These three that I was trying to break laws with had known each other for _years_ and shared a bond I'd never be able to have a part in. For all that I was breaking my own rules, the country's laws, and a lot of my self-imposed morals, I still thought Mozzie was wrong about the merits of crime. I still thought four-oh-ones were important, that it was good to have accessible records, that the government was important and usually beneficial.

Even while I was spending more and more time in their shoes, I was still a federal agent. I looked down. Much as I wanted to understand and empathize with them both, it seemed unlikely that I would ever come closer to understanding it than I was right then, and… it was still as murky as ever.

Mozzie shook himself out of it first. He sat up straight, squaring his shoulders. "All of this is moot, anyhow." He briskly went back to business, shrugging his arms. "You can't get out of your anklet anytime soon. If you do get it off for a case, you'll still have to lose a bunch of tails; that alone will put suspicions up."

I paused, chewing thoughtfully on the inside of my cheek. "Fowler's putting himself in a lot of nooses to get this box," I gravely mentioned. They both looked even darker when reminded of the common enemy we all detested. "If he wants it, he has to shut down the anklet, or at least manipulate the tracking aspect. He's done it before, he'll have to do it again." I shifted to change how I was sitting, and dampened and stiffened clothes scratched at my torso. Cringing, I pushed my chair away from the table and rose. "I get that this is an important decision, but my bra still hasn't dried, and I'm guessing neither of you understand how uncomfortable that is, so I'm going to go change into dry clothes."

Neal made a horrified face and I took that as meaning he wasn't going to try picking a fight about it. I pulled up my shirt's neckline to straighten the fabric. Mozzie's chair scraped as he pushed his feet against the floor. I went by him calmly, already reaching for the buttons to begin taking my clothes off.

"We would've been just fine if you had simply said you were going to dry off!" He told me firmly.

"Yeah, but then I wouldn't have gotten to bother you as much!"

I paused in the short hallway between the studio apartment and the bathroom and laundry, both small rooms that really were crammed when two people tried to use them at once. It occurred to me that I hadn't brought anything to change into except the pantsuit in the bag stuffed in his closet, and I didn't want to stay the night in that.

 _I'll just get some of his,_ I decided. I liked Neal's clothes, but not necessarily for the sappy reasons. While I did like the idea of just wearing what was his, and he liked to smile at me and roll up the sleeves of his shirts so I could make pancakes, I just liked a lot of men's styles of clothing. His sweatpants were comfortable and loose, and his tank tops and casual shirts were roomy and warm. Typically, they were also more expensive, which usually implied they were softer and held more heat.

Before I could venture all the way to find some, I heard Mozzie's voice picking up again where we had left off.

"Let's say you get Fowler the box," he proposed cynically. "Then what happens?"

A second passed in which no one responded. "What do you mean?" Neal asked then, a little guarded. I suspected he knew exactly what his friend was getting at, although it eluded me. If it were something that I should be concerned with, why wait until he thought I was out of earshot to bring it up?

Mozzie made a sympathetic, but frustrated, sound. "You give Fowler the music box and he gives you Kate, who comes running back into your arms." Mozzie's voice was a little sardonic. Fortunately for me, when Mozzie was appraised of my conversation with Moreau, he was much more open to questioning the motives of everyone involved, so when I told him my suspicions about her and asked him to keep an eye out for Neal on his end, Moz didn't waste time or energy protesting that there was no way Kate would betray Neal. I knew what I'd seen, what she'd said. "What do you think is going to happen then? Kate and Suit become best friends, you finish your term with the bureau, then – buy a fixer-upper in the suburbs, have a picture-perfect life with your sister, girlfriend, friends, and two-point-five reasons to join the PTA?"

_Why the fuck would Neal join the Parent Teachers' Associ- oh._

My right hand covered my stomach protectively before I really thought about moving. I looked down at my abdomen as if I could see the silvery-grey lines through the fabric. Aside from the assumption that our relationship would even last that long (which I truly hoped it would, I loved him, I love the man for Christ's sake), it was a huge leap to guess that we'd ever invest in a family.

Especially since I wasn't sure I could even offer Neal a biological family, if that was what he wanted. There was a very high probability that Køhler had damaged my reproductive system when he attacked me, but because I'd been bitter, spiteful, and altogether sour about what had happened and how the bureau had handled it, I'd refused to see any more physicians than necessary. That included an OB/GYN, since there was nothing obviously wrong with me. _Would Neal want kids?_ I supposed, if he got out of the life of crime and settled down… well, he did like children, and seemed to enjoy playing with them when we saw them… My stomach twisted uncomfortably. I didn't even _want_ them. Maybe my opinion on that would change someday – anything was possible – but if I couldn't have children, that wasn't something that would alter itself just because I wished it to do so.

Couples in love had broken up for much less.

I shoved those thoughts away meanly. Just like way back when, I refused to think too long about what could've been done to me, the longer-lasting repercussions. I could see an OB/GYN sometime when it was convenient and relevant, not when I was planning to steal a national Russian treasure that had been looted by Nazis and found its way in the hands of the Italian government.

My focus was back on the men at the table quickly enough to hear Neal's response. He had steeled his tone and held his jaw tensely, which effected the way he sounded. "Yeah," he said testily, daring Mozzie to contradict him.

 _He sounds pretty dead-set on that happily ever after,_ I thought uncomfortably. We'd never talked about it. It was a big commitment – a _huge_ one. Was it a fantasy he had in his head for himself, or was it a fantasy he built around _us?_ What would happen if we didn't share the same ideals once the dust had settled and we had the options of moving forward?

"Neal…" Mozzie halted for a moment. Honestly, his voice was _sad._ Disappointed, upset, and more than a little bit sympathetic, as if he was mourning for a lovely potential future that he knew could never happen. "Happily ever after… it isn't for guys like us."

"It is this time." Neal stubbornly insisted, voice quiet and determined.

 _If he won't even listen to his best friend talk to him about it, how can I have any sway?_ Feeling like I was going to be sick, I pressed both hands harder into my abs, ducked my head down, and watched my feet on the floor as I hurried to the laundry room to borrow some pajamas.

And possibly to turn on the sink so neither of them heard me dry-heaving in the bathroom.

* * *

I wasn't going to lie – I felt a little crowded, pushed into the side of the couch while Neal leaned against my shoulder to see the screen of my phone. Mozzie sat on Neal's other side but maintained his personal bubble, elbows on his knees while he worried the hems of his sleeves. The speakerphone button was lit up.

The number for the OPR offices in DC was on the top of the screen. The first step to doing anything about the music box this week was to figure out the anklet. If we couldn't get what we needed from Fowler to do his dirty work, then there would be no point in detailing a hypothetical heist.

I ground my teeth as I was patched through to a secretary. I _hated_ that I was doing Fowler's work for him. It felt like I was letting him win and use me for his own gain. What choice did I have? If I refused, then the torment on my family continued. If I intended to just get the box before he had the chance, I would've been alright with that, but no; I was running his errands for him.

"I want to talk to Agent Garrett Fowler," I said clearly, tone cool and hard. Neal and Mozzie were both silent, not even daring to move. The dim penthouse room was kept light with a lamp turned on in the corner. "Extension two-two-one."

 _"_ _One moment,"_ the secretary politely requested, turning the phone over and transferring the call.

Long fingers forced themselves underneath my left hand. I picked up my wrist and let Neal wrap his fingers around mine before settling my hand back on my thigh, squeezing him reassuringly as we waited. Calling Fowler… were we allying with the enemy, or did the ends justify the skeevy means? Whichever it was, whatever kind of people we were, we would be seeing the ending of this soon.

The line changed and the microphone picked up more background noise. _"Agent Fowler's office,"_ he promptly greeted. I didn't recognize the voice.

Well, he wasn't Fowler, but he was close enough. Refusing to talk to anyone but Fowler would've probably raised more suspicion than I wanted. Without introducing myself, I went ahead and spoke while Neal's grip on my hand tightened. "Leave Fowler a message that I have the information he wanted on the music box."

It was such a weird message to leave that I wasn't surprised when the clicking and tapping keyboard of the multitasking agent stopped. He paused before replying, and when he did, he was cautious and confused. _"Who is this?"_

 _As if I'm going to tell you!_ Voice recognition would be the undoing of any mysteries, if they were determined enough to find out for sure, but I was betting that Fowler would know as soon as the call was relayed to him that it was either myself or Neal. Hopefully, he'd have the sense to realize that he should contact me and not my informant if he was desperate to get in touch.

"He's a smart guy," I rolled my eyes. _A smart man wouldn't've have started this mess_ … but, at the same time, a stupid man wouldn't have been able to almost get away with framing a diamond heist on an innocent one. "He'll figure it out." I stopped a second for effect. With everything that had gone into this so far, Fowler would've had to be pretty dumb if he couldn't logic out who we were. "Also tell him that we want to meet at midnight tomorrow."

Typing resumed, probably as a message was written up. _"Where?"_ The brisk, businesslike demeanor was a relief. I'd been getting a little worried at how I would field away questions without putting him on alert.

I glanced to my side at Mozzie, who was staring rigidly at the floor by his feet. "He'll figure that out, too," I responded tonelessly, not giving away anything I didn't have to. Mozzie wasn't very proud of his own ingenuity tonight.

I hung up the phone, severing the connection before any elaboration could be made or asked for.

The means of contacting Fowler had been mostly Mozzie's idea. I was the one who established that we could not talk to Fowler about the box over phone lines. I didn't put it past him to record us just so that he could stab us in the back after he got what he wanted. That meant we had to lure him out to New York, which I'd just done.

Next, we had to actually confer about the box and Neal's anklet, which had to be entirely discreet and off-the-record. We needed to stay so far outside the box that we couldn't do it through the bureau at all, so we had to choose a different venue. A secluded one, without security guards or cameras, one that was unimportant and left alone at night. Neal suggested the second-highest floor of a parking garage within his radius; the garage wasn't in a ton of use during weeknights, and the top several floors should be practically empty. Even if there were other cars, the point of a parking garage is to park and leave. It was a relatively open space, so it would be hard for someone to spy without getting caught.

Signaling the parking garage to Fowler was a trick. That was where Mozzie came in. He had proposed that we use Fowler's hypervigilance about Neal's anklet to indicate the right place. While simultaneously scoping out the garage, Neal's anklet would create a cartographic figurative flashing neon sign. Why else would someone spend over an hour hanging out outside the corners of a parking garage? It was within his range, so no alarms would go off, and no one really bothered to check Neal's anklet without incident except for myself and Fowler.

 _Now we wait._ It would take Fowler until morning to get the message, when he went back in for work. Even if he took the first flight to Manhattan, he wouldn't get in before lunch. For the night, our jobs were done. We had a respite, however brief, before things would snowball and we'd be up to our eyes in crime and conspiracy.

"Was that too cryptic?" Neal asked. The fact that he had to ask belied his uncertainty just as much as his tight grasp on my hand.

"No," I promised, stroking my thumb over his knuckles. "Fowler knows the context for everything I said. The bastard who pulled the strings behind Tulane and _Le Joyau_ can riddle it out himself. Hey." I said quietly, giving him a nudge with my elbow. Neal scratched behind his ear and held his breath. "It'll be okay. We just have to get this stupid box and then we can be done with all of this. It'll go back to the way it was before we even met Fowler."

"Time only ever moves forward, Suit," Mozzie mumbled from the other side of the couch, and, personally, I agreed.

My nerves wouldn't quite settle themselves. I wasn't nearly as confident as I was acting, but if neither of them were sure of themselves, then I had to pretend to be. Mozzie had taught me that cons have a higher chance of going wrong when the con artists start to second-guess their plans. I knew we had made the best decisions we could and were acting to the best of our ability to take care of ourselves and our friends, but that didn't mean I wasn't scared that maybe it wasn't good enough, or maybe we would be caught.

Fowler had done a lot to damage my faith in the bureau. Corruption happened, but it was never so smoothly integrated that kidnap, conspiracy, criminal activity, sanctioned theft and burglary, stalking, harassment, fraud, bribery, obstruction of justice, and a dozen other criminal acts were all permitted to happen without getting caught. Even if things went back to the way they'd been on the outside, my perspective on my career and where I stood with the law had changed.

I would never be able to shake the guilt and shame of becoming a con artist alongside my soulmate.

* * *

The shutting door was the indication that Katie had returned from work. In the kitchen, I sipped some more coffee. The taste felt muted against my tongue, and though the heat numbed my cheeks, I didn't feel it the way I usually did. With my computer out in front of me, I read up on the Italian Consulate's website, skimming my eyes over Italian paragraphs for the fifth time, committing everything I'd need to know to memory.

I paused with my finger over the arrow key, hesitating before I clicked it to move down the webpage. "Hey, Katie," I called preemptively.

"Hey!" Katie responded suddenly and with a yelp. A minute later, she entered through the doorway. I was already focused on my laptop again, scrolling down and coming to the next header. "You scared me," she accused, taking it lightly. She dropped her purse down on the marble island and put a hand against the wall while she kicked off her shoes. "I didn't think you'd be home early on a weekday."

This time, I didn't stop to talk, just kept reading. When I tried to take a break, I just made everything worse. My anxiety would build up to an upset stomach and I'd end up either stress eating or gagging. I'd come home a few hours ago, leaving Neal to orchestrate the rough outline of the heist with Mozzie while I stayed away. Spending too much time with him would be a little risky.

I needed time off of work. I couldn't go in and face my colleagues today. I couldn't walk through those double-doors and look in their eyes, talk to their faces as I planned to betray them and their agency in one of the truest ways I could. Had I gone in, I'd have surely had a nervous breakdown, which I was managing to avoid doing as it was merely by keeping my mind occupied. So I called in sick, said I had a migraine, and then came home, just in case some concerned good Samaritan decided to check on me or bring me some ice cream, which Diana and Derek were both likely to do.

It turned out that that worry had been unfounded. They were both so wrapped up in compiling the evidence against the corporate lapping embezzlement with our forensic accountants that they hadn't even realized I was out until a few hours ago, and although they called me on speakerphone, I told them to stay in. Neither of them seemed very torn to pieces that I wasn't there, so my secret lack of illness was safe. Neal's company would've been liked, but I preferred being safe. Taking comfort in his confidence would've been all fine and dandy, but it would've backfired, had a very not-sick handler been found hanging out with her parolee.

"I didn't go in today," I finally answered as Katie made herself a snack. Surely she assumed the conversation had already ended from how long it took me to reply.

She stopped, closed the fridge, and waited. When I didn't say any more, she leaned on the counter and asked expectantly, "Are you hurt?"

 _Not physically,_ I almost said, but then I would've had to answer why I specified, and I couldn't in good conscience say that I was shaking at the seams and I was one nightmare away from doing something rash. As if robbing the Italians wasn't rash enough already.

"I'm fine."

"You're uptight," Katie corrected suspiciously.

 _Damn it._ "I'm nervous," I corrected, holding my chin up huffily. I wasn't _uptight._ Well, I was, but I didn't want her to see how true that was, nor did I want to have to lie to her about the reasons.

Katie and I shared almost everything. She knew about my parents, about Zarra, about Køhler, about the reckless things I did when I was a teenager to lash out or to get attention. I told her about how hard it was when crimes were against children, I told her about how I felt when I was demoted, I confided in her constantly about my complex feelings for my thief. I had even told her about it when I realized how in love I was with Neal. The only things that had been off-limits were the specific cases during my blue-collar days and the dirty details of my sex life.

 _Until now._ Possibly the worst decision of my entire life had been made, and it was entirely possible I was going to pay for it dearly. I didn't want to worry her with it. I didn't want her to waste her energy freaking out about something she wasn't going to talk me out of. I didn't want her to feel guilty or remorseful if she found out that a huge part of my motivation for doing it was for her behalf. I didn't want her to know any information on it that someone else might want to know; not only could she become a target (if it was this important to Fowler, it had to be important to other people, too), but she could be charged with crimes for not reporting mine.

I felt exponentially lonelier after making the decision to cut Katie out of this one, but Neal, Mozzie, and I had all agreed that it was the best course of action for her sake. If she was reason enough for me to give up on the ethics I'd stuck to for most of my life, then telling a little lie to her was nothing in comparison.

Katie sighed softly and hung her head. Although the air conditioner was still rumbling on in the room across the hall, it felt like we were the only people making sound. The only things my ears told me were worth registering were the clicks of my keyboard and her footfalls on the kitchen linoleum.

When she finally spoke again, she sounded sad in a way that made my heart ache. "This isn't something that you want to talk to me about, is it?" She guessed dully.

The only thing that kept me from spilling my guts at how dejected she sounded was the knowledge that we'd both be hurting even worse if I didn't keep my mouth shut. I suppose neither of us had realized how much we enjoyed my potentially-dangerous job being suitable for airing openly between ourselves until it no longer was.

"I wish I could," I promised to her, turning around to look over the back of my chair. I looked as earnest as I could, hair swinging down loosely, eyes wide and pleading. "I just don't feel comfortable telling you what's wrong. It's mostly a personal problem, you know?"

I wrung my hands. It was a tell of mine that I was well aware of. Katie saw and smiled sadly.

"Well, on my account, the bugs around the house are becoming a serious problem." She bent one of her knees and scuffed her toes along the floor, turning her heel uncomfortably. "We may need to call in an exterminator again."

 _I wish it were just bugs this time,_ I tried to tell her with my eyes, squeezing them shut and looking down. I twisted back around to look blankly forward at my laptop.

A moment later, I felt her leaning down behind me, her arms going over my shoulders and squeezing me from behind. "If you can't tell me, that's okay," she whispered into my ear, resting her chin on my shoulder. "Just know that I'll listen if you decide to share. I love you."

She kissed my cheek and held her lips to my face for a few seconds, then tilted her head so her forehead was pressed against my temple. I heard her breathing, steady and soft, and closed my eyes, reaching to tangle my fingers in her hair.

"I love you too, Katie," I replied, leaning my head into hers. "I love you so much," I whispered like a record.

* * *

Neal and I entered separately, but both of us were on the floor for almost half an hour before Fowler arrived. He took the elevator up from a lower floor. When it dinged, we both shared a look and waited to see who came out of it. Neal's face was shrouded in shadow from the walls of the garage, and the moonlight was blocked by the stone ceiling over our heads. The only way to see each other and the new arrivals were the dull, orangey overhead lights and the yellower fluorescents near the elevator.

The doors slid open treacherously slowly, and out stepped a black-haired man with his mouth thinly pressed and his suit absolutely impeccable, straightened dozens and dozens of times. He was an agent I recognized from when Fowler had framed Neal for stealing the pink diamond. After no one tried to murder him, he signaled with a hand behind his back, and Fowler left the elevator next.

"Fowler," Neal called, insolently speaking with a lilting, jeering voice. "Oh, you brought a friend!"

The blond's head snapped around to us and he sneered. We ambushed him, coming closer to the elevators. As the steel doors slid together behind him, Fowler had nowhere to go unless he could get through us first. He had expected us to be there, but something about our attitudes and the barely-constrained hostility kept us all on-edge and ready to run.

It did occur to me that a place chosen specifically for its discretion would be a good place to dish out some satisfying vengeance, but then I remembered that Neal was against that and, if I wanted to be a better person than Fowler, Wilkes, and Matthew, then I needed to be, too.

"Nice to know that none of us are stupid enough to come alone," I drawled, coming out. Fowler and I were both dressed like typical agents, but neither of us wore our holsters. I kept my blazer open over my front so that they could see I wasn't hiding anything, and Fowler's, which was never cut to close in the first place, offered the same view.

Fowler sent a scowl at his accomplice. The brunet stalked forwards swiftly. Had he gone for his gun, I probably would've attacked him before he attacked me, but he was equally unarmed. I lifted my arms, understanding why a coward like the OPR agent before me would want a human shield. If he needed to have us pat down to trust that we weren't going to kill him, then so be it. If it made him feel like a man to be one of the people who warranted those kinds of underhanded attempts, then that was his problem.

The man stood behind me and felt my shoulders, my arms, and my lower back before I started making comments. He touched my hips to feel for any holsters or handles and I scoffed loudly.

"Whoa there, honey, I don't put out on the first rendezvous!"

Fowler's face turned pink in annoyance. The man behind me didn't lower himself to acknowledge what I'd said, but the blond looked ready to break my nose for it. I made a sassy face at him. What was he going to do about it?

Mr. Grunt moved on from me and went to Neal. Neal held his arms out and spread his legs so his ankles could be checked. I kept my eyes on them in case the silent one tried anything stupid. "We're not wired," I announced irately.

Fowler smiled at me saccharinely. "You'll forgive me if I don't take your word for it," he sourly remarked.

My eyes darkened as I glared. _Oh, I_ _ **will**_ _, will I?_ I didn't like it when Katie told me what to do, much less when some jackass puppeteer tried it. Icily, I clenched my hands into fists and took a threatening step forwards. "I _really_ don't think you're in a position to tell me what I will and won't forgive," I growled.

Fowler's "friend" (did parasites ever really have friends?) stepped back from Neal and rubbed his hands off on his pants. "They're clean," he confirmed dispassionately.

I looked over the puppeteer dubiously and jerked my head towards him. "Quid pro quo," I said to Fowler, "Or we shut up and walk out."

Fowler pretended to know the meaning of graciousness. "By all means," he offered sarcastically, holding his arms up and putting his hands behind his head. A glance was shot to his accomplice, and the other man did the same.

I cleared them both, not touching them for any longer than I had to. Neal checked his watch and seemed to dislike that I was so close to either of the antagonists, much less both of them at once. While I checked out Fowler, I longingly stared at the back of his neck and thought seriously about chopping him in the throat, knocking him out with the pressure point. Moving away from them without inflicting violence was harder than it should've been.

As I rejoined my boyfriend, I stood by his side and crossed my arms. Fowler, I noted, hovered very close to the elevator, anticipating needing a convenient escape plan. He saw me looking at his hands behind his back and moved them into his pockets instead.

"This had better be good," he threatened lamely. I couldn't imagine what he'd have done if it wasn't "worthy" of his time. We were vital to his plot, otherwise he wouldn't have bothered showing up in the first place.

I gestured for Neal to go ahead and start. I was mainly with him as his version of Fowler's stooge, except I was talkative and very pissed off. I wanted to ensure Neal's safety more than I wanted to stay away from my enemy, and I didn't trust anyone I didn't know well not to harm Neal if given the chance, left alone in an empty parking garage at night.

Neal lifted his chin, exhaling shortly through his nose and holding his hands stiffly in his pockets. "We're getting close to the music box." The men locked eyes meaningfully.

Fowler's lip twitched. "Is that supposed to mean anything to me?" He played dumb, playing like he hadn't spent at least the last six months screwing up other people's lives for it, playing God. I _hated_ faux gods.

I cocked my head and stormily interrupted. "You flew all the way to New York from DC, so I'm pretty sure it does." I cracked my knuckles furiously. I was doing this for reasons that were important to me, forced into taking action because he wanted some fancy block of amber, and the least he could do was not be a dick about it. Hadn't he done enough of that already? "Or was there some other reason you spontaneously booked a direct flight?"

Fowler hatefully bit his lip. Neal cut in before things devolved and got nasty, which they were wont to do. "The window to get the box closes in the next week. I need my tracking anklet off now to make it happen." He tugged on his pant leg indicatively, staring right at Fowler, looking for a micro-expression or a tic.

Fowler rocked back on his heels. "You're not suggesting something _illegal,_ are you, Caffrey?" He taunted insincerely, feigning shock. I wondered how much of it was to save face before I realized that there was no one he needed to save face _for._ No agent without something to hide would have agreed to this kind of meeting.

"If he was, don't you think I would arrest him?" I crossed my arms, rolling my shoulders and pushing out my shoulder blades tensely. I could feel a bubbling pit in my abdomen that I could've sworn was more than just an emotional response. It burned and stung and rose to my throat like bile, and all of it called for an immediate assault. On Fowler's face.

I continued. "We _are_ officers of the law, aren't we?" He stared right at my blue eyes. I looked into those of the devil and smirked while I did the same thing he did, pretending to be innocent of all lawbreaking. _Really gets on the nerves, doesn't it?_ "And we'd _never_ think to take advantage of that, and twist circles around such an _upstanding_ federal agent like yourself."

His eyes lit up meanly. Fowler's lip curled and he bared his teeth, snarling, "You're pushing it, Anderson."

"You pushed it when you invaded my _home!_ You destroyed any boundaries when you screwed my sister over with some Henna dye and a clever acting job!" I raised my voice at him in revulsion.

Neal touched my side and offered his input. He was better at staying controlled than I was. Most people couldn't push my buttons the way that the scum before us could, but then, most people had never led my sister around by the nose and then broken her heart.

"I think we're in a reasonable position to want to push it some more, so I will." He strongly offered his deal, but let Fowler know exactly how bitter he was, too. I kept my gaze locked on the two corrupt agents, but admired my lover's composure. "We will give you the box, and we never hear from you again." He negotiated with a firm, unarguable hand. "You lose our numbers, and you forget entirely about Kate Moreau, Katherine Anderson, ourselves, and the rest of our families. _That's_ the price you have to pay for what you want."

For someone being bargained with, the blond didn't waste much time actually thinking about the stipulations. "You know, I don't give a damn what you do," he frankly spat. It was relieving to have the pretense of civility disregarded. It was much more comforting than having him pretending to be something he wasn't. Either we'd really pissed him off, or he just didn't give a fuck what happened to his chess pieces in the future as long as he accomplished his goal. He was incredibly determined to get the glorified box. "Just don't make it my problem." Dismissively, he waved his arm at us like telling flies to shoo away.

"Then don't make it our sisters'," I retorted, incensed, to his turning back.

It was a sort of concession, but it laid poorly with me, and even though we'd done what we'd wanted to do, I felt as though something was missing or wrong. _Probably because I didn't get to make him bleed,_ I rationalized.

* * *

 _"_ _This_ is the Italian Consulate." Mozzie whacked a thin metal rod on the front of a page of blueprints, set up against one of Neal's art easels. Mozzie ended up almost poking a hole through the diagram. I pinched the bridge of my nose while he circled the front doors. "It's not a bank, or a museum; it's a little, tiny piece of a foreign country shoved into New York. If we had an air force, _maybe_ this would seem doable."

Not even Zarra had access to an air force, and although Zarra could get me a lot of things, she couldn't get me much more than a swift, easy way in the doors. The rest of it would all come down to scheming and plotting, which was why the brain trust had gathered in Neal's loft for a session of heist planning with a side of champagne.

Neal stood at my left with his arms crossed in pajama pants and a plain white muscle shirt. "Well, we don't have an air force, but the party will get us in past the first line of security and into the main ballroom."

"Where did you get the floor plans?" Alex questioned, nursing her glass as she sat on the sofa, one leg up and crossed over the other. The brunette's hair spilled down her shoulders loosely and her heels were sitting on the floor beside her feet.

I held up my hand halfway and sent her a look not to ask too many questions. "That would be me." It was bad enough that I was abusing my powers and government access; I didn't want to have to say aloud that I was doing it, especially not to _her_ , of all people.

Neal walked forward to Mozzie, took away the long metal stick, and leaned it against the other side of the easel. Mozzie crossed his arms now that he didn't have anything to wave around imperiously. Neal used his hands to indicate the different rooms and security levels while Alex and I attentively watched. I had already memorized most of the blueprints, but reviewing them while the experienced con artists determined their relevance seemed like the smart thing to do.

"There's only one way into the inner sanctum, where the safes are kept." True to its name, the inner sanctum was close to the core of the consulate's manor, yet slightly more towards the back of the building than it was to the front. It was small, dense, and separated from the easily-accessible portion of the building by a thick, bulletproof glass door. It was easier to exit than it was to enter. "It's through this security door. This door is our biggest obstacle."

"Ah, yeah." I agreed, ignoring the guilty conscience telling me to shut this down and find another way to get the box. "I even tracked down the corporation that installed the electronic bypass, but there's not a cheat."

"There's no keypads, no biometrics, no lock to pick." Mozzie listed off the hackable means of entry like they were no big deal. "The only way in is to be buzzed through by a guard already stationed inside."

Neal held up a hand to him. "Let me worry about that part," he soothed.

I raised my eyebrows skeptically, and despite myself, I glanced at Alex. She happened to have the same reaction, so the two of us shared a doubtful look in a moment of camaraderie before we both turned back to Neal, who was staring at us with sarcastic appreciation. There was no chance he had missed the cynicism of his partners.

"Grand," Mozzie sarcastically grumbled, but having that responsibility reassigned did lessen the bristle in his tone.

Neal pressed his hand over the light blue sheet past the security door, hemmed in on either side by narrow walls told apart in dark blue and thin black lines. "Once through, there's this long hallway monitored by a closed-circuit camera. When I make it down the hallway, I can get into the vault room." The vault, as he gestured, was a larger, square-shaped room to the left of the hall past the door.

"Where he will then break into the safe and recover the music box," I concluded. That was part of the plan, but even once all of those kinks were ironed out with a game plan, we'd still have to make an escape plan and back it up with a contingency. "Which safe is it, by the way?"

Alex smirked. "I'll let you know," she promised, not missing a beat.

I sighed. Mozzie looked frustrated and disappointed. Neal tried not to react as obviously, but still squared his shoulders as he concentrated on the easel. "It was worth a try," I justified with a shrug of my shoulders. I hadn't _really_ thought it would work, but you never knew.

"I have to admire your persistence," the other woman allowed courteously.

Neal tapped his fingers on the paper sheet. "When I find the safe, all I have to do is crack it."

"Oh, well, if that's all," I mocked. I couldn't crack a safe if my life depended on it. I didn't even know how to use a stethoscope on a combination safe, much less break through whatever biometric lock Mozzie had been talking about. The best way to open a safe I didn't have the key to was to use some controlled explosives.

I never wanted it to be said that I didn't admire Neal's abilities. His intelligence and his adaptability were laudable traits and I enjoyed listening to him work his way through problems. That said, it would never stop being alarming to see those skills being put to criminal use. I could get past it without too much analysis when it was for cases, but times like this, when I was actively involved in something I knew to be very, _very_ illegal, it scared me. A lot.

"Don't be bitter," Neal chided. "Safecracking's not for everyone." _That's not what I meant and you know it!_

"It's high-security and torch-resistant," Alex warned calmly. She didn't seem too concerned about what this meant for Neal.

While I perked up, thinking that maybe not all safes were designed the same and she had just possibly given away a clue, I simultaneously questioned exactly how good Neal was at this sort of thing. I knew he was a master lock pick, but it wasn't like I'd spent much time face-to-face with all of his dirty work. Peter hadn't had a ton to stick him with forensically, so even when I looked at his case files, safecracking and locked places weren't strictly linked to him. There was a reason he had only been convicted of _one_ charge, out of the likely _hundreds_ of times he'd broken various laws.

Mozzie held up a finger and opened his mouth, hesitating before confirming it. "You'll need heavy metal to get through the fire-resistant plate." It sounded more like he was talking to himself, making a list of what materials he'd need to inconspicuously gather.

"Alright, those are the details. One thing at a time, Moz." Neal left the blueprints where they were, but he changed the focus to getting through the door. "Let's start with the party invites." He pushed his hands into his pockets and surveyed his three partners-in-crime.

Alex uncrossed her legs elegantly and smoothed her grey skirt down her thighs. "I'm looking for a man without a plus one," she announced. The fence didn't rely on Neal or Mozzie to guide the moves she made like I did, and that made me a little jealous. I thought an independent person was much easier to work with, and feeling dependent on them in comparison made me feel like more of a burden than an asset. "I'm leaning towards Sir Ignacious Barden."

I exhaled and dropped my head down into my open palm, squeezing my eyes shut.

"Why him?" Neal prodded, likely intending to vet whoever Alex intended to use.

"He's a foreign duke," I answered before the other woman had the chance. Picking my head back up, I smiled thinly at Neal's ex. "You're aiming high, Alex." Warning her seemed like the best thing to do. Our goal was to be inconspicuous, not to be wearing diamonds on the arm of royalty. We didn't want anyone to be able to remember what we looked or sounded like.

The only exception to that was me, and that was more because I had the identity to be permitted in without leaving probable cause for questioning. Alex didn't have that luxury. Neither did either of the men. I preferred to stay stealthy and unnoticed, but I was resigned to doing damage control and being a distraction if one of them received too much attention. Having been an Italian civilian in the past, and being part of a family that was well-respected for their diplomatic work in Italy, the consulate would let me in if I used my former name. I had already cleared it with the PR executive planning the event.

"Wouldn't you?" The brunette asked mischievously, showing a flash of pearly teeth as she bit cheekily on her pink lips.

"Um…" I looked down and ran my hands through my hair nervously. "I don't need to aim," I confessed, wincing. Looking up to Neal, I locked eyes with him to steel my nerves as I came clean to the other two. I didn't really give a damn what Alex thought about it, but I was more than a little worried that the admittance to Mozzie would push us back to an earlier stage in our friendship, before he trusted me even half as much as he does now. What if he took it as a threat that I had never told him about Zarra? "I'm sort of already there."

Her scoff was cautious and wary, set on alert by the cryptic words. I cringed to myself as I realized I shouldn't have been so vague. Mozzie looked to Neal with narrowed eyes when the latter didn't seem at all surprised, and he took a step further from me. I tried not to feel that it hurt, but being treated like that by a friend stung.

Neal was the only one who didn't act like I was about to pull my badge and reveal a wire. I went for a slow break instead of a sudden reveal.

"The LaMontagnes have always had a pretty good relationship with the Italians. I wave a name like that around and I get in, easy." I snapped my fingers to demonstrate and looked down. Mozzie and Alex both relaxed slightly, but Alex, who had yet to actually decide whether or not she trusted me to any extent, remained on her guard.

Mozzie started policing my chosen method using the same logic I had applied to Alex's. The brunette hung back by the sofa, watching me closely. "Wouldn't something a little less conspicuous be better?" Moz suggested, throwing a look at Neal for some input. "They might recognize the name and know who you _aren't,_ or there might even be actual LaMontagnes there."

I grimaced. I had thought of the latter already, and although it wouldn't be _fun,_ it still wasn't anything that would out the heist or my co-conspirators. "Not a problem," I promised him, looking right at his eyes as I vowed. "Mostly because the ID isn't a fake."

A clip from Alex's hair could've dropped, and we probably would've been able to hear if it had landed on a padded cushion. Alex set her wine down on the coffee table. Neal awkwardly lifted his shoulders when Mozzie stared at him suspiciously, as if to say _surprise!_ , and I waited expectantly for any sort of response. When I got none, I tentatively made a decision to go forward.

"I mean, sure, other LaMontagnes might make it a little bit uncomfortable," I allowed, because I definitely didn't feel like reconnecting, "But nothing that will warrant apprehension. Surprise; my name used to be Zarra. I don't want to hear it from you, Alex." I pointed a finger at her to shut her up before she had the chance to start on any string. I did not need her approval and I didn't care to work to receive it; what my name was, where my family came from, and how I was raised had no impact on that I was still in a position in which my sister's security was dependent on getting the music box. I turned my focus to Mozzie next, who was uncharacteristically quiet, and instead of disrespectfully pointing at him, I just tried to look as honest as possible. "Before you go off on me, it's not exactly something I like people knowing," I explained, knowing it wasn't exactly up-to-par with other justifications I could've made.

Last time I had had to explain any of it to Neal, I had ended up crying, and he'd brushed away my tears. I didn't want to cry in front of Alex at all. Mozzie didn't respond the same way to my empathies; if I wanted something from him, I was more likely to get it through confidence than vulnerability. Both to save face and to preserve the working balance until I could more thoroughly address the matter privately with Moz, I had to keep it short and undiscussed.

"How are you planning on getting in?" Neal asked Mozzie, jumping on board with my actions helpfully and turning the conversation away from my hidden past.

Mozzie, to my great shock, didn't press or pitch a fit about it. Instead, he stared at me very closely with squinted eyes. I held my hands out sarcastically. Whatever he saw must've fit his temporary requirements, because he made a mocking half-bow that I took to mean that we were okay.

"As the princess has become a civil servant, so the thief has become a catering servant." Mozzie rose from his bow without further pause. _He took that better than I expected._ Neal's expression suggested he thought there was a caveat to the acceptance, but neither of us were going to bite the proverbial hand. "As the proprietor of _The Greatest Cake_ bakery, I fully expect a glowing reference."

"Of course," Neal graciously promised, what with being the bakery's owner and highest authority.

"You kept the bakery," I groaned, recalling the small little shop Neal bought with liquidated funds from one of his bank accounts. I'd thought they were just going to sell it after they used the canopy to assist Neal's window-jumping spree, but they had _kept_ it, and even _staffed_ it. They put it under someone else's management and now Neal was technically the owner of a bakery.

 _I can't believe these two,_ I exasperatedly rubbed my face.

The three of us all just sort of happened to look at Alex, who hadn't said anything. She steadfastly observed her fingernails and didn't once look in my direction. "What's your in?" She asked, rubbing at her cuticles with her lips tightly pursed. I didn't know what that reaction meant, but it couldn't be particularly fond.

Presumably, she was talking to Neal; he was the only one who hadn't already explained his entry plan. He gave me a helpless lift of his right shoulder but then gestured with his hands that it wasn't a big deal and I shouldn't worry about her response. I wasn't so sure I agreed with that, but I let him handle it. Neal knew Alex much better than I did.

"I'm planning to make a very generous donation to the people of Italy," my boyfriend thoughtfully proclaimed.

I opened my mouth to interrogate him on the specifics of a planned donation that wouldn't be too heavily questioned, but stopped myself before the impulse carried itself out. I clicked my jaw shut and then asked tactfully, "I'm guessing this has something to do with the boxes of art supplies you had me pick up and pay for with cash?" They'd been retrieved from outside of his radius, which was why Neal needed someone else to do it for him. He insisted that the materials he required for his project were unobtainable within his allotted area. Neal looked up at the ceiling and didn't answer. It was its own reply. "Alright," I sighed. "Well, this is definitely going to be a wild ride. … Anyone else want some vodka?"

I decided I probably didn't want to know what Neal was planning until closer to the heist. It would be pointless to add to my already noteworthy anxiety.

"I should be getting out soon, actually." Alex smiled plastically at Neal and didn't even go to the effort of trying to seem like she wasn't just getting far away from me as quickly as possible. I sighed again and bit the inside of my cheek. Whatever her hang-up was, she would just have to grow up and get over it. "I have correspondence to make and an errand to see through."

The fence started to slip on her heels. They were made like sandals, so they were easy to pull on and off in a matter of seconds. She stood up, left her wine glass on the table without finishing it, and reached to fluff her hair.

I remained quiet, feeling like I'd driven her away. The feeling of being more trouble than I was worth came back in full swing and hit me hard. Any other context and I'd have been pleased that she was leaving, but as it was, she was essential to the plan.

"We should space out the times when we leave," Mozzie decided. From the way he folded the blueprints down and covered them up with a half-finished sketch of the Chrysler on canvas, he wasn't in a hurry. Being abandoned by Alex wasn't as personally harmful as being ditched by Mozzie, so I was thankful that he was staying a little longer, no matter what his reasons were. "If someone's keeping an eye on the house, they could already have reason enough to know we're all involved in this."

"Hiding from my own agency," I moaned into my hands, closing my eyes as I mourned for a career ideal I'd been forced to let go of. Alex straightened her purse on her arm as she opened the door and slipped out of the loft, quiet as a cat burglar and swift as a fleeing fox. "God, I hate this." I sat down on the couch and covered my eyes.

I was officially conspiring to commit a crime and actively concealing my intentions. Now that I'd come this far, there was no turning back. I wasn't alone in my choices, but somehow, knowing that I was doing this with Neal was only comforting in that I could confide in and trust him. In every other respect, it made it worse. It meant that I had an entire second person to care for, to fear for if something were to go wrong, and adding Mozzie to the list made three.

How could any decent cop be where I was now?

* * *

With just over forty-eight hours left on the clock, I returned to Neal's loft after a long and uneventful day at the office. It was so quiet, in fact, that it _hurt._ I wanted to scream and yell and throw things. I was _right there,_ surrounded by federal agents. Could none of them see that I was becoming a felon?

I didn't _actually_ want to be caught, of course, if only because getting caught would put them on Neal's trail. It was an ongoing mental struggle between feeling confident that the intentions justified the actions and fretting that I was losing sight of myself, giving away my integrity for the sake of a man I thought I loved. Who _did_ that? What kind of independent role model was I if I was forsaking all that I valued for the sake of a man I'd only known for a year? If someone caught on and took the choice away from me, I no longer had to endure the stress of swinging back and forth.

The FBI didn't feel safe. It felt like a trap. Every phone call was the beginning of an interrogation. Every agent that walked through the doors to the division was there to arrest me. Each email was regarding Neal's suspicious anklet activity from the parking garage.

I tried to pinpoint the last time I had felt so anxious, which was easy: it had been when Neal was kidnapped by a homicidal brat. The last time I had been so fidgety, however, was… gosh, I didn't know if I'd ever been so outwardly nervous. When Neal had been kidnapped, when Fowler had invaded my home, when a serial killer was hunting down his next victim, I had a clear-cut goal: rescue Neal, chase away Fowler, catch the serial killer. I had a logical, understandable, and approved motive. This time, I didn't have that neat little safety net. I was about to rob an Italian Consulate for an amber music box. What was the reasoning behind that? Why didn't I just take what I knew to the authorities and get Fowler in trouble?

I looked at the photograph on my desk. The picture frame that held the Halloween picture of myself and my honorary siblings had been partnered up with a new friend, a photo of Neal and I toasting with bottles of water to celebrate closing a case.

 _Oh, that's right._ Without fail, that photo reminded me why I wasn't doing what any sane person would do. Fowler had such a position of authority that he could crush me and everyone I loved without trying. Sure, I could take the moral high road… but all it would do is get me fired, my partners possibly scrutinized or demoted, Neal incarcerated, and my sister unsafe in her own home. Playing by-the-book would only hurt my loved ones, so I had to work around the system and hope for the best.

Pretending that everything was fine when it felt like I was about to snap at the next person to say my name was more difficult than it sounds. I even stayed a little later than normal, just to be convincing, before I feigned a yawn as I said goodbye to Diana out in the open bullpen, where several other agents bore witness.

In two nights, everything had the potential to come crashing down around our heads. A misstep, an error, a change of plans... a betrayal from Alex… any of it could lead to us all being imprisoned. This wasn't just about keeping evidence away from someone else, it was about committing its own _huge_ crime. If we stayed away, we weren't risking anything immediate, unlike when Clark and Fowler had recorded me in the judge's chambers.

There was no way of telling for sure if I would get another opportunity before the job to enjoy the tranquility of my lover's apartment and his company, so I arrived late, let myself in with the key under the mat (June told me about it, so I didn't feel like I was sneaking in), and crept up to the penthouse while trying not to let the stairs squeak.

"Neal?" I asked quietly as I entered, closing the door slowly behind me. I tried not to let the latch make any noise, but it clicked anyway when I turned the lock. The lights were off and the only illumination came from the door out to the roof and the skylight over the bed, which cast shadows of city lights into the alcove.

An adult-sized lump under the blankets remained still. I smiled slightly to myself as I watched his breath shape his body, his back rising and falling steadily. He didn't stir.

I put down my bag on the couch and started to strip out of my pantsuit to join him, pulling my shoes off and silently placing them by the door. Then I took off my jacket and placed it over my bag, where it was joined soon thereafter by my shirt and pants. My undergarments remained on me, but mostly because it was a little too chilly to take them off and stay cozy. Checking that my phone was on vibrate instead of maximum volume, I padded over to the bed and set my phone on the table, then picked up the blankets and crawled in behind Neal.

The mattress sinking interrupted his slumber. My thief started to roll from his stomach onto his side. I reached for him before I was fully laying down, propping myself up on my elbow and stilling his movements. "Sh," I cooed. "It's okay, darling. It's just me." I rubbed my hand over his shoulder until Neal mumbled something incoherent into the pillow and the tension in his upper body eased.

More carefully, I laid down and tucked the blankets, snuggling up into Neal's back. The convict wore pajama bottoms, but going by how he was huddled into the comforter, he was close to regretting the decision not to pull on a shirt to sleep in. I pressed tightly to his back, hugging him from behind, and pressed a kiss to the nape of his neck before settling in with my forehead against his shoulder.

The docility was more soothing than the bureau offices had ever been. Despite how at home I used to feel there, it had never been this intimate or warm. The bureau used to make me feel safe and wanted and useful, but the bureau was an entity that looked after itself, not the emotions of its employees. Neal was a very emotional and very sensitive person who made me feel safe and wanted and useful, not just because I had a good track record, but because he felt those things, too. He knew I'd protect him, he knew I loved him, and he knew I probably wouldn't have the guts to use crime as a way to attack Fowler and protect my sister if it wasn't for his assistance.

He was hot to the touch, and yet didn't rouse as easily as was typical. I wondered what he had been doing that tired him out. Maybe the stress was just getting to him, too? I felt like it was eating me alive, but Neal knew better than anyone what was at stake for us. He'd already spent four years being caged. My breath caught and I pressed my palm flat against his stomach, squeezing my eyes shut. _Not again_. Neal would be _safe._ I'd make sure of it.

Except if I was being Mirandized, I wouldn't have much say over anything that happened to him, would I?

The truth of the matter hit me hard all over again and I fought the urge to turn my back to my boyfriend and curl up shamefully. This was possibly the last time I'd get to share a bed with him for a few days ( _be positive,_ I could practically hear Mozzie scolding me; _you have more tells when you're nervous_ ). I wasn't going to waste the opportunity by being fearful or guilty.

Although I wished Neal had been awake to hold me or talk a little bit, I was glad that he was getting some well-deserved rest. Both of us were going to need it – as would Mozzie and Alex, wherever they were staying. I pressed my cheek to his back, being lulled to sleep by the rhythm of his breathing.

* * *

I usually didn't mind being left alone in bed. I liked to spread out and hog the mattress. If Neal was still there, then the odds were high that I would cling to him like I was glued onto him, and I knew it would happen even while I was unconscious.

Rolling over onto my right side, I blinked my eyes open sleepily and looked out of the alcove, sheets twisted around my legs and tight across my back. I could see Neal from where I was, standing in front of a large pedestal that hadn't been there when I'd entered. _So he'd had it stashed._ If that wasn't enough to tell me it was suspicious, then the pieces of drying, grey clay sticking to his hands and wrists did. Neal was artsy, but when he was nervous, he didn't sculpt statues his height. He sketched in his nice sketchbook.

For a few moments, I admired him as he worked. It amazed me that he could bring things to life so vividly. There were a lot more layers to him than I had realized, and with each new layer that I found, I fell a little bit more in love. I loved the charming gentleman. I loved the sensitive artist. I loved the idealistic romantic who liked to make love to me with the lights low. I loved the devious, sharp-minded conman, too, although that particular layer had the potential to scare me more than the others.

It wasn't clear just to anyone, but to me, who had seen Neal at any given point of dress before, it was obvious that he hadn't bothered wasting time after waking up to get back to work. He was still in his pajamas, still shirtless, his hair fluffy and soft but falling down unevenly on his forehead. He looked messy and sleepy and focused in a way that seemed staged, but it was just a supernatural ability he managed to have: graceful, even in crime.

I stretched my legs from my thighs down to the very tips of my toes before I even set foot on the chilly tile floor. The first thing I did was take a silk button-down shirt from the armoire and slip it on over my arms, flipping my hair out from under the collar. While I fixed the buttons so it closed in the front, I circled around Neal, watching him mold what looked like a kneeling old man out of grey clay that hardened to look like stone. Reference photos had been printed out and taped to the glass door leading out to the roof.

It almost pained me to wait for him to take a break, but when he arched his back, leaning backwards to survey his work-in-progress, I stepped up behind him and slipped my arms around his middle, hugging him loosely and pressing my cheek against his upper back. Neal relaxed as if my touch drained him of tension. I unclasped my hands and laid my palms over his stomach, gently tracing my fingers over his six-pack muscles and nuzzling my nose against the back of his neck.

"This is incredible," I murmured against his shoulder, leaving it up to him to decide whether I was referring to the partial statue or the gentle curves and elegant planes of his body. Both of them were art. I definitely knew which I'd prefer to have in my bedroom.

He reached to his abdomen and covered the backs of my hands with his. Dried clay flaked off when our skin rubbed together, but I didn't mind. Clay would wash off in the shower. I kept my hands against his flesh while Neal rubbed his thumbs into the sore joints of my fingers.

"It's still a work in progress," he informed me modestly.

_Neal? Being modest? Huh. The world really has flipped._

"But wow," I insisted, pressing my lips against the nape of his neck. I turned my head to the side and laid my cheek on his shoulder, forehead towards his throat. "It seems weird that we have a plan, you know?" I asked quietly. Neal's hands stilled. "It's been so abstract and now that we're actually going to do this, it seems… unreal."

Neal took a deep breath. I felt it through his back – it was deliberate, big, and meaningful. There was intention behind it that he hadn't had before I had said something. Before I knew that he was moving, Neal had already twisted in my arms, turned to face me and wrapped his arms around my upper back, cradling my body to his front while still being able to look down and make eye contact.

"After this is all over, I promise I'm going to pay you back for all of this," he vowed, voice a hushed whisper as he stroked my hair and leaned his head down. I pushed just slightly up onto my toes so that our foreheads touched, and he rested his head on mine while cupping the back of my neck through my hair. "Everything you've done, everything you've risked, everything you've been put through just for being associated with me, much less by helping me. I'll make it all up to you."

I snaked my arms up his back. It was as close to an embrace as I could get without changing how we stood and taking away the breadth Neal felt we needed to talk. "None of this is your fault," I promised, lifting my chin and gingerly pushing Eskimo kisses over his nose. "It's all Fowler, and whatever it is that he wants the music box for."

Mozzie's words came back to me. His paranoia was rubbing off. His concerns for Neal's ideas on what might happen after everything came together were becoming more and more valid with the more I saw. My mate acted as if he thought that once we had the box, we were out of the woods. As if we wouldn't have to deal with the fallout of robbing Italians, or of conspiring with-and-against Fowler, or of misappropriating FBI authority and resources to do so. He wouldn't be free to do much of anything, much less make any perceived debt up to me.

"Forget about paying me back," I told him, dragging my right hand sensually down his side. "I'm not just doing this for you, remember? And even if I was, I know what I'm getting into." _This is what people do for the people they love,_ I thought, but no, it really wasn't a romantic must-do notion. We were never going to be a normal couple.

I still wanted to tell him I loved him, though, but something prevented me from saying the words. I was getting frustrated with myself. They were three words. Tiny words. Monosyllabic words, even. A mere, skimpy eight letters.

His eyes shut. Neal seemed like he was about to kiss me, but he didn't close the space between our faces. As if arguing with himself, his eyebrows furrowed and his face frowned delicately.

"Kenna," he started to haltingly say, his breath warming my lips tantalizingly. "I-"

At that exact moment, the door to the penthouse swung open. Neal cut himself off instantly, looking chagrined, and a pale blush dusted his cheeks adorably. I looked over my shoulder, questioning how the fuck to explain to June why I was wearing one of Neal's shirts that barely covered my ass, a flimsy excuse about spilling coffee on my pants on the tip of my tongue. I ceased all plotting when I saw that it was just Alex, dressed in a black chiffon gown, dark nylons, silver sandals, silver wrist bangles, and a dark purple shrug.

"Aw," she cooed tauntingly. Her voice wasn't malicious, but it wasn't sincere, either, and her tone put me on edge defensively. The fence held her hands up and framed her thumbs and forefingers like a rectangular camera. "Look at this!"

Had Neal been wearing a shirt, I'd have curled my fingers into the material to hide my aggravation. As it was, I grit my teeth and scowled. She just let herself in as if she belonged in Neal's home. The last uninvited woman to do that had held a gun on my boyfriend not an hour later.

I couldn't shake the feeling that Neal had been about to tell me something important, something that made even the confident wordsmith pause and reconsider trying to articulate. A large part of me hoped that maybe it had been the same battle I'd been fighting, over whether or not I was strong enough to say one of the most vulnerable sentences in the world.

Clearing his throat, Neal removed his arms from me and moved a step back. I missed his hands and his smell already. Sulkily, I crossed my arms and turned to Alex, making it clear that I didn't appreciate having our privacy interrupted so rudely.

"Your date went well, I take it." Neal's voice was subtly rude, inflected with just enough sarcasm to suggest to her that he had been _trying_ to spend time with _his_ significant other.

She giggled girlishly. "You'd be amazed the kind of places a duke gets you access to," she gloated.

I rolled my shoulders back and bit down on a snide remark about how being a LaMontagne opened a lot more doors than she realized. I had money, I had a name. McKenna, Zarra – whoever's resources they were, if Neal needed them, he had them. I could provide for him, and I didn't need _her_ flaunting it in his face that she'd scored the attention of an influential entertainer.

I swallowed. Getting into another war over possession on Neal was uncalled for. He was not a possession to own, regardless, and he'd made it clear to both of us that his affections were with _me._ Whether Alex was trying to make him jealous or just always boasted in a somewhat flirtatious manner didn't matter, because I trusted him when he said he wanted me.

"I thought you were just going to use him to get into the Consulate?" I asked tightly. My question had a legitimate concern to go with it. The more time she spent with the duke, the higher the odds that he rethought who she claimed to be.

Alex cocked an eyebrow and slipped her velvet shrug down her shoulders. The chiffon accentuated the curves of her torso while simultaneously flattering the simple pendant of her gleaming necklace, and it flowed enticingly down her legs with the smoothness of water. Part of the reason she made it so hard for me to see straight was undoubtedly that it was easy to imagine anyone preferring Alex to myself. She was fun, she was confident, she was sure of herself and knew what she wanted, and she dressed less professionally. I rarely wore anything other than pantsuits or jeans, which certainly effected how people approached me. If Neal wasn't a factor in our dynamic, and I wasn't a cop or she wasn't a black-market smuggler, I could've seen us getting along. I might have even been interested in pursuing her.

Her attention had moved to Neal's clay structure before she'd even answered me, but she did so airily and carelessly, which wasn't very promising when it came to how she viewed my right to ask questions and be involved. "No harm in having a little fun while I'm at it. Wow – your gift to the Italians?"

Neal looked to his side at the sculpted body and a proud smile overtook his lips. It was small and modest, but genuine. It wasn't even his original art, but he still took pride in his ability to recreate it. Had I had that kind of talent or passion, I probably would've gone into art restoration, not con artistry.

"It's Fancelli's study, _Statue of Divo Cano._ "

Meant nothing to me, of course, but Alex made a humming noise in her throat as she stepped closer to examine it. Again, I felt left out. Again, I felt inferior to her. God, I hadn't known when I'd had it good; at least Kate Moreau had never been competitive in the romance department.

"This is beautiful. It looks like the real thing," she complimented, stepping around towards the reference photos and comparing them to the different angles of the three-dimensional replica.

Neal's wan smile turned wry. "Don't let it fool you," he somberly cautioned. I felt there was more to it than what was simply on the surface.

Going by Alex's reaction and the way the temperature seemed to drop five degrees, I was dead-on with that assumption. "I won't," she swore with a firm, stony quality. Her face had shadowed and her praising smile had fled from her beautiful face. Their obvious history and inner messages made me feel like an outsider, so I again reminded myself of how I trusted Neal. I did trust Neal. I just really didn't trust Alex. "About your tracker," she changed the subject inorganically. "We've been avoiding it. If you can't get it off, then none of this is going to matter."

Both of them looked down to Neal's left ankle, where the sweatpants caught on the bulge of the anklet and pooled around the top. A dim green light reflected on the plastic sheeting he'd used to cover the floor while he worked with wet clay.

Neal looked up and gave his pant leg a tug, which unsettled the fabric and let it fall down around his ankle, completely obscuring his tracker. "It'll happen," he stated definitively, leaving no room within the subject for argument.

Alex snorted. I stepped up to Neal and raised my left hand to the center of his back, silently supportive. _I've got you,_ I might as well have said. _I've got this._ "We've ensured it," I told her flatly. If Neal's word wasn't good enough for her, mine sure as hell wouldn't be, but if I got the message not to push her luck across, she might heed. "Looking very sharp there. Where exactly did you go?"

"Oh, a few places that cost a pretty penny." The fence's evasion of a direct answer did not escape my notice. She sent a full, amused smile our way. "None of mine, though."

"Of course," Neal agreed dryly, unsurprised.

He didn't sound like he condoned it, exactly, but I didn't understand how he could condemn her arguably reckless choices when he, himself, had made many similar ones in the past. He never seemed to regret anything about his criminal history except for the part where Peter caught him. I convinced people in the bureau that prison had reformed him, but I knew deep down that it had done no such thing. That thought intimidated me a little. If he hadn't really learned a lesson, then what was to say he wouldn't repeat his old errors?

After rubbing his hands together to shake off the last of the flaky, thin clay, Neal raked a hand through his thick mess of hair. "Can I offer the beautiful women a glass of wine?" He offered, looking between Alex and me with a hint of his sexy, alluring, womanizing smirk.

 _Oh, no, you don't._ I knew that look. It was one thing for him to take advantage of his looks and his charisma when it was for an ulterior motive, but it had no place being shared with Alex. It wasn't supposed to be womanizing when he looked at me like that. It was supposed to be fun, and playful, and a little bit challenging. Alex could take away my security and she could take away my privacy, but she was _not_ going to pollute the behaviors and comforts of my relationship.

So although Alex answered with a seductive affirmative, biting her perfect white teeth into her glossy lip, I reached for Neal's shoulders and stroked my left hand along his jaw, turning him to face me and pressing a long, hard kiss to his mouth. Neal swept me up right into it, palming my sides and sliding his hands down my hips. On the return journey up to my waist, he hiked up his shirt and pulled the hem up past my panties.

 _My boyfriend's shirt, my Neal, my rules._ I thought victoriously, suckling on his bottom lip while Neal groaned as if I was driving him nuts and pulled away. I smirked, licking my lips from the taste of his mouth, and played innocent when he shook his head at me slightly, an amused and pleased expression on his face.

* * *

I had been on this couch hundreds of times in the last year of my life. Many times, I'd been sharing it with more than one person. It had never seemed as small as it did when the third person I shared it with was Alex. Even though I was cuddled into Neal's side, his arm around my shoulders, my legs were pressed to Alex's. I could feel the softness of her dress against my outer thigh and the heat from her seeping into my skin. Truthfully, it was comfortable. I liked the heat and the sensation of chiffon. I didn't like that it was comfortable. I should've been angry and unsettled that she was invading my personal space. There was about a foot on her left that was completely unoccupied.

I didn't know _why_ I liked being sandwiched between her and Neal. That bothered me the most. It obviously wasn't because she was Neal's ex. If I was being realistic, then maybe it was because this wasn't her first con. No matter how nervous and frightened I was, Alex being there was more proof that I wasn't going in alone. Neal aside, there were two other con artist experts on my team.

My emotions about Alex and her presence were a mess, and not the way that my emotions about Neal could go through highs and lows. The sooner she left, the better, but for everyone's sake, I needed her to stay until after the heist. I didn't say anything about how close she was.

Because I would have to go to work in just a couple of hours, I turned down the offer of alcohol. I had a pretty high tolerance, but Derek always knew when I'd had something to drink. Something at night was no big deal, but something that motivated me to drink in the morning was going to make him ask questions. Instead, I just kept lazily kissing Neal, then licking the taste from his tongue and my lips while he and Alex enjoyed theirs.

It was quiet. Dawn was just breaking. Despite the presence of someone I would've preferred not be there, it was peaceful and relaxing. The chill of not wearing pants was soothed by the body heat from my partners, the reference photos for the sculpture were being tinted with pinks as the sun started to filter though the paper, and birds outside were starting to trill. The noise was starting to rise again as people started on their early days, and although the closed windows and doors mostly muted the sounds during the night, they were more noticeable during the day.

Alex sighed and tossed her head back. Her long brown locks fanned out on the back of the couch cushion and smelled like vanilla. "Remember the last time we were this close to getting the box?" She asked wistfully, turning her thin champagne glass around in slow circles.

A handsome smile lit up Neal's features beautifully. "Copenhagen," he answered nostalgically, flexing his arm against me, rotating his wrist around in a stretch. "Sneaking into the Amalienborg Palace, hanging out with the royal family."

 _Does he even realize what he's doing?_ I was mostly resigned to impugning my own honor as an agent of law enforcement. Much as that saddened me, there were more important things – such as protecting my loved ones – that I made those decisions for the sake of. There was no way I could knowingly turn him in on anything he admitted to me. Did he ever consciously take advantage of it? Or were the times when he shared information I would rather not have known just come naturally as a byproduct of feeling safe? Was it a test, or an indication of security?

Alex bit her lip and held out her right arm. She turned it over so the pale inner side of her forearm was held out to the light and pointed out a slim mark from the crook of her elbow to almost a third of the way to her wrist. "I have a scar from the jump off of the gate house," she remarked.

Neal lifted his chin to see over my head. "It healed nicely," he commented.

"You didn't visit me in the hospital." Alex stated stiffly, as if offended that he had an opinion on it now that he hadn't been there while she recovered.

Neal's grasp on me tightened. I grimaced and wriggled to sit up when I sensed the conflict. "You didn't visit me in _prison,"_ he retorted swiftly. Alex had the decency to look a little guilty, but just as quickly, she seemed annoyed with herself for responding that way.

I could see both sides of the argument – even Alex's. Neal and she made a commitment to each other for the duration of their con, and when it went wrong, they should've been in it as equals. If she had to go to the hospital, she must've been hurt semi-seriously. An injury like that on her inner arm could've nicked an artery. I'd be pissed if my partner didn't seem to care. At the same time, Alex would've had to get emergency care right after that happened, and it would've definitely gotten attention. Had Neal shown up, he might well have been in serious trouble.

As for prison, much the same thing applied. Although the situation was slightly different – Alex couldn't get in trouble just by visiting an inmate – anyone Caffrey saw would've been looked into closely, and if they discovered that Alex had a file and a record? Well, things may not have ended well for her. She probably would've been taken into custody, even if there was nothing that would stick, out of paranoia that she was helping Neal to plan an escape.

Ultimately, my sympathies for the situation had to lie with Neal, and not just because I was his girlfriend. Alex had never been arrested in Copenhagen or any surrounding locations, so clearly, she hadn't just been abandoned to closing-in police, and Neal was the one who had been confined against his will in a hostile environment. They had their reasons, but I thought Neal had gotten off worse.

Revisiting old wounds, though – especially literal ones – was not going to be conducive to working together, much less on something high-stakes, and I knew that without needing a lecture from Mozzie. "Hey," I said softly, interrupting, putting a hand on Neal's leg reassuringly and turning to look at Alex, placating. "Maybe now's not the best-"

I had no sway on the latter's mood. Inflamed by Neal's accusation that she abandoned him, she sat up straight. "You burned that bridge and cut-" she started to raise her voice.

Neal raised his even louder. "You cut _me_ out!" He declared, while I put my head in my hands. I hated being in the middle, and I was very much in between them physically.

Alex's voice dropped back down again, and that, more than what she said, soothed Neal's raised hackles. "We cut _each other_ out," she murmured thoughtfully, casting her eyes down to her lap. "That's…"

"Who we are," Neal reluctantly agreed, sinking into the corner of the sofa. "It's not a game this time."

 _Abandoning each other when you need each other? That's who you are?_ Abruptly, I jumped off of the couch and walked away. If it was 'who he was' to leave his partners… what was to say he wouldn't leave _me_ , the way he had apparently left Alex? I wasn't just his business partner, but then, neither was Alex. He promised me I was more than she had been to him. Did that matter? Was it true? Was it fair? Was it any indication that his loyalty to me could vanish as soon as I was more of a liability than an insurance? What if I wasn't worth as much to him once he was off of his anklet and _didn't_ need the help of an inside cohort?

I lifted my phone from the counter. My first impulse was to call Katie. As my heartbeat increased, the first thing I wanted to do was talk to the one person who made everything better. I had never felt insecure like this with Kate, never felt like I might lose her for no reason other than being an inconvenience. I loved Neal so much that I couldn't imagine doing that to him, but I couldn't remember _not_ being afraid of Neal taking off, even before we were sharing kisses and caresses at twilight. The stakes if he ever left were higher now than they had ever been.

Then I remembered that I was taking the first step of what I was terrified of Neal doing to me – cutting Katie out of this event. She didn't know anything about the music box. She didn't know anything about Alex. She definitely had no idea that we were planning to rob the Italian Consulate, for fuck's sake. I couldn't risk letting her get involved, even for something like this, that made my hands start to shake as I looked at her contact ID in my phone.

I defected from that and opened up a new contact, carrying my phone back to Neal and Alex on the couch. They'd grown suspiciously quiet. I avoided looking at Neal while I handed my phone to the fence. They were far from stupid, and I strongly suspected I'd be having another careful talk with my lover before long. He had to know what had triggered me to get up and remove myself.

"Phone number," I said, standing over the back of the sofa and looking down at the screen of my phone while Alex held it. "Come on."

She scoffed. "What makes you think I'll just give it to you?"

Rolling my eyes where she couldn't see, I pinched the inside of my left wrist. Even Mozzie wasn't this difficult. "You _really_ can't think of a situation in which I might need to get into contact with you quickly?" I deadpanned. "We're planning a major heist together. We're a little past the 'fed versus fence' thing." Not only were we partners-in-crime, but I had my position in the FBI to exploit. The reasons I could need to talk to her were unlikely, but serious. I would be the first to know if something came up that would harm our plan, or if something had drawn attention to Alex and she needed to hang low for a time.

Pursing her lips, she started to tap numbers into the box. "As soon as this is over, I'm changing out my phones again," she told us both, clearly less than pleased with me having her contact information. "I don't need any more heat falling on me because I didn't take the right precautions. It's not just you," she told me to take the sting out of it.

If there was actual sting, I'd have appreciated it, I guess. Except it didn't detract from that she had implied that it was _partially_ me, but that wasn't very offensive. It was no secret to anyone in the room that Alex and I weren't what anyone could call _friends,_ and I couldn't imagine wanting to be able to call her up and chat for no reason anyway, so I kind of preferred being denied the responsibility of keeping her contact info a secret.

"Sure," I said amicably.

Neal chuckled. "Look at that. You're getting along with Kenna better than we do, evidently." There was something like regret in his voice that he tried to drown with his wine, polishing off the rest in his glass.

She saved her phone number under a simple 'A.' I almost made a _Pretty Little Liars_ reference, but didn't have enough patience with Alex to start cracking jokes about her pseudonyms and aliases.

"There isn't a long history to make a girl touchier," she told Neal, handing two phones over the back of the couch. I pocketed mine and opened hers. Her swappable phones were more expensive than the twenty-dollar drugstore flip phones Mozzie kept on him. I woke up the monitor with a touch and started to dial my own phone number.

Instead of calling, I saved the number as a new contact, and put in 'Z' as the name. Although legally my name started with an M, her touchy behavior about my former identity was not forgotten, and it was easier to be dismissed when the initials used didn't appear to match my own. For the mission, I was using my old name as an alias. It was good enough.

"Okay! There's mine." I gave her phone back and smiled plastically. "I expect you to lose it once you skip town. I don't need to be linked to you if you get caught on anything else." No matter what contact ID I chose to go by, I could still be identified if they called the number.

Alex took it as graciously as I had, sliding her phone back into her dress. _Oh, so that's where she was keeping it._ Neal twirled his empty glass with nimble fingers. "Never mind," he commented, taking back his earlier observation. He watched the blank TV while he played with the glass, but then he stopped. His wine glass stilled. "Huh…"

"What?" Alex and I asked in tandem, and we gave each other weird looks over the back of the couch afterwards.

The man moved one of his feet off of the coffee table, but sat up and pulled on the leg of his pants. The grey sweats pulled up past his ankle to show all of the tracker, including the lack of light from the device. I swallowed hard when I noticed it right away.

"This light has never been off before," he told Alex, rubbing his fingers around the line where the plastic pressed into his leg.

"That light's the sign that it's transmitting," I quietly informed, crossing my arms.

We no longer had an excuse to back out.

Fowler may have come through for us in this instant, but what if it was part of a plot? What if he was going to reactivate it in the middle of the heist? – _That would be incredibly dumb of him,_ I calmed myself, tightening my fists worriedly. _He won't get the box unless he lets us get away with stealing it._ He had done this seamlessly before, so we all knew he could pull it off just as perfectly and convincingly as he had last time. There was no real reason to fear that it was part of a ploy to get Neal arrested, because if the music box was just a misdirect, then all he had to do to put Neal in prison for good was to manipulate the tracker in the opposite way.

Still, something felt wrong. It was the same gut-wrenching, paranoid feeling that I'd felt in the parking garage – the one that twisted my stomach and made me feel queasy. Like I was forgetting something, or that something just didn't quite add up, and for the life of me, I couldn't figure out what it was.

Neal looked up at me, his hand still over the anklet, a little amazed at the first taste of freedom he'd had in five years. Any other time when he'd clipped the anklet, a half-dozen federal agents had been ready to give chase if he went off-script. Now, though… now the anklet was dead. It could be cut without setting off an alarm, and by the time Fowler would think to turn it on after the heist, he could be halfway across the world.

A chill went up my back as I realized how much faith I was putting in him, in Fowler, in Alex… in all of these wild cards I didn't know, because while I did trust Neal not to intentionally hurt me, Mozzie was possibly the only person who understood as well as I did that our friend had a bad habit of acting before thinking things through.

"I think we're in play," Neal said with a slow smile as things came together.

I nodded, far from assured, and swore to myself that I had to stay with him. Especially now that not having an anchor could let him make a terrible mistake, I couldn't back out. The cold in my feet was from the tile. That was all.

* * *

Neal's work on the lapping scheme gave us what we needed to finally make an arrest. The guy came willingly as soon as he saw our badges, though he clammed up and didn't say anything. Diana, Spencer, and Cruz were escorting him to booking while Derek and I went to go to his office to collect his computer. It was entirely possible there was digital evidence that we could use against him in court.

Working the two different cases at once made me feel like I was living two lives, trying to be two different people. During the day, I was the same McKenna I'd been since I'd turned eighteen: hardworking, determined, and confident, hell-bent on the nearest goal within her sights, playing by the rules and only occasionally toeing the company line when I absolutely had to. By night, I was Zarra again: idealistic, romantic, frightened, repressed, and desperate, acting impulsively and telling myself that it was okay because I wouldn't get in trouble.

 _This double life is going to make me slip up sooner or later. I'm glad the heist is tomorrow; it'll be over sooner rather than later._ I blinked as I unlocked my van remotely. _And that's not something I ever expected to be thinking._

Derek whistled and skipped off the edge of the sidewalk, jogging around to the passenger's side during a gap in traffic. I climbed into the front and started the car, putting Neal, Alex, and Mozzie out of my mind. It was time McKenna was piloting.

Derek turned down the CD that started playing automatically when the car was turned on. "This guy's gonna go away for a long time," he said delightedly, settling in against the seat as if it was a masseuse chair.

_Just like me, if I'm caught._

_Go away, Zarra._

"Mm-hmm," I agreed distractedly. This arrest wasn't as big a deal as many others, so Derek wouldn't think it was weird if I had other things on my mind. It was hard to feel satisfied or proud when I was constantly fretting about everything that could go wrong in a much more personal battle. "Thanks to Neal figuring out how he's taking the money," I added.

"Right," Derek allowed, laughing quietly and shaking his head. I pulled us out into the traffic and merged into the lane nearest to the highway. I'd need to turn off and go to Queens to get to the arrestee's business office. "For a con, he's pretty invaluable. Hughes won't think so if he ever finds out about the coffee thing."

For a moment, I didn't know what he was talking about. The props had been a matter of mere days ago, but it felt like so much longer since our devious plan had begun coming together. I had more important things to worry about now than Hughes' coffee or how Diana drank some disgusting order that happened to be the bitterest coffee I'd ever had.

I guess while I thought of a response, Derek thought I just didn't have anything meaningful to reply with. After fidgeting in his seat, he settled in with his left leg drawn up onto the seat, his knee bent and foot almost solidly on the floor. "Hey, babe, I need to level with you about something," he said plainly.

"Seatbelt," I ordered. Derek rolled his eyes and strapped himself in while the car accelerated, and I said, "What is it?"

With a punch of his finger, my brother turned off the stereo system altogether. "I think someone's been listening in on my phone calls," he admitted somberly, looking into the side mirror outside of his door.

While driving, I snapped my neck around to stare at him. I decelerated for the cars in front of us jerkily, pressing on the brakes harder than strictly necessary. My hands sorely held onto the wheel. Derek hissed and grabbed onto his seatbelt, glad now that he'd put it on when I told him to, and sent me another bewildered look.

"You're serious?" I demanded, heart sinking. _I should've known. Compliance was too much to ask._

Nervously, Derek nodded. I could understand why he hadn't wanted to tell me in the office earlier, but waiting until I was driving probably wasn't the best decision he could've made, either. I hoped he realized that now. I swore under my breath and slammed my fist against the steering wheel, then rubbing my temple, scratching woolly pink gloves on my cheek.

"I was talking with Katie while she was going to work this morning and I heard the clicks," he explained, voice lowered. He sounded apologetic. _You have nothing to be sorry for,_ I wanted to assure him, but to do so would be to confess that I knew who was stalking him and why. "I've tapped dozens of phones myself. I know what it sounds like."

 _Damn it._ The odds were slim that he was the only one. I hadn't heard any such thing on my phone, but if it had only started this morning, then I wouldn't necessarily know. I hadn't had an actual phone call since yesterday afternoon, instead texting Katie a few times and Diana once. _Diana…_

"Have you asked Diana about this?" I questioned tightly, acting as if I didn't feel incredibly guilty for them being pulled in yet again. I had been so careful not to let anyone else get involved, but it was fruitless – Fowler was making them a part of it anyway.

He was gesturing positively before I had even finished asking. "She's agreeing with me. I asked her first; I didn't want to alarm you over nothing. But now Fowler is back. Do you think there's a connection?"

Of course. He was staying in the city until he could leave with the music box. We had told him we'd get it by the end of the week. He was just taking our word for it… and dishonoring his own by making it our friends' problem, on top of everything else. That bastard was probably hanging out in the OPR offices, leaning back in his comfy office chair, safe behind bulletproof glass and a badge he didn't deserve.

My jaw hung open while I pinched my tongue with my teeth. What did I say to that? How did I tell Derek that I knew there was a connection? Would confirming that I knew there was raise suspicion, or would knowing about Fowler's plots with _Le Joyau_ and Judge Clark be enough reason for him? What if I didn't agree, said I didn't know, and he started looking into it himself? That would be worse – it would lead him right into the path I was trying to shove everyone else away from.

I was saved by my phone ringing. Katie's ID came up on the screen display in the center console. Although Derek made a discontented sound about not getting an answer, I hit the green button on the monitor, taking the interruption with a sigh. This would give me a couple of minutes to develop a response crafted to get Derek worried about something else.

"Katie?" I called towards the microphone behind the steering wheel. "You're on speakerphone with me and Derek."

_"_ _Kenzi, help!"_

Derek and I both looked at each other again. I knew Katie wasn't in Queens, so despite my previous destination, I turned on my turn signal and moved into the other lane to head towards her daycare. Her daycare and our house was in the same direction from where we were.

My sister sounded terrified. Her voice was pitched and harsh and hysterical. I couldn't hear any violence in the background, but she hadn't sounded like she was that scared since Køhler put me in the ICU.

 _"_ _Stop it, those are mine, you put them back!"_ She shrieked at someone I couldn't hear. Something creaked near to her phone – it sounded like a squeaky piece of furniture. _"I need you to get over here now, they won't stop tearing everything up!"_

I activated my sirens.

"Who?!" I demanded, looking in my mirrors. The break in the median was coming up, and cars were parting to let me rush through as I came up to them, slowing to crawls in the next lane or on the shoulder of the road.

Who would be tearing anything up? What kind of enemies did I have?! Katie worked in childcare; she didn't _have_ enemies. Barelli? No, he and I had a sort of deal – so long as I left his churchgoers out of our legal dispute, he would leave my family alone. Køhler and other people like him would never have let her call me if they were striking at me through my sister. I couldn't think of any enemies I'd made in white-collar, other than Barelli with his mob ties, that weren't behind bars. Even Wilkes was firmly secured.

 _"_ _The FBI!"_ She screamed, and whatever I had expected, it wasn't that. Derek and I were both horrified and speechless. Our own organization was harassing her? _Katie?_ The sweetest woman ever? My sister, his soulmate? She started to shout at someone else. _"No, don't touch that, it's my personal computer; you can't touch that!"_ She sobbed. No one answered or listened to her. _"They did a raid and they shut me down and sent all of the kids home. I can't even get up because I'm handcuffed to my chair!"_

"You're _handcuffed?!"_ I raised my voice furiously.

Handcuffs were only to be used when a suspect was under arrest or posed a threat. If she was under arrest, then why would she still be in her chair instead of led to a squad car? She could fight back – I made sure to teach her some basic hand-to-hand, for my own peace of mind – but she would never harm anyone in her care, and she knew better than to start a fight she couldn't win, much less with anyone on the police force.

Derek's face shadowed darkly. "What the hell is going on?!"

"We're on our way, Katie, I promise," I tried to say as soothingly as possible through a tightness and dryness in my throat. "Just – just don't disobey them, don't give them a reason to arrest you."

 _Fowler,_ I snarled mentally, vibrating with rage. I made a deal with him. He was dishonoring his. _I should just give up on the box. He shouldn't have what he wants if he's such a brat he'll go back on his word._ I knew that would just make the situation worse, but God, I had never wanted to spite any brat more than I wanted to punish Fowler for his tantrums.

 _"_ _Are you kidding?!"_ She screeched at me incredulously. _"I didn't! I've already been Mirandized!"_ Derek punched the side of the door. I couldn't even be pissed at him for property assault. All I could think was _at least he didn't punch the window._ My sweet, darling Katie, arrested? For what?! Glitter-glue trafficking?! " _Get out of my purse, you creep! … Oh, I'm sorry, you found tampons?! Well, that's the kind of thing that happens when you go through someone's personal bag!"_

I jerked a hand roughly at the monitor. "Look up the fastest route, taking traffic accidents into account," I commanded with a throaty growl, making a U-turn and picking up the pace. Derek was on it in an instant, talking to her through the speakerphone, trying to calm her down so she'd stop crying, asking why on earth she'd been arrested, coaching her to demand to see the arrest warrant, because they couldn't possibly have probable cause.

 _They don't need to have probable cause,_ I realized. The last of the trust I had ever had in the bureau felt like it was hanging by a thread. _They have OPR in their pocket. Everyone is fair game._

* * *

From the moment I stepped foot in the daycare, I knew something was wrong. Not only was the parking lot almost empty, but the front room was a mess in a way Katie never tolerated. She always, _always_ made her kids pick up after themselves, and she did an extra sweep before she came home. If she had voluntarily ended the day early, then there wouldn't be glue sticks out on tables, shimmering piles of glitter dumped onto the floor from an open bottle, or markers left open to dry out. Construction paper, dull craft scissors, and wadded-up tape belied what they'd been doing before they'd been rudely interrupted.

"What the fuck is going on in here?!" I bellowed, giving a hard kick to the door to her office, which was attached to the front room. It sprung from ajar to gaping, letting Derek and I storm in as if we were raiding a suspect's apartment.

The first thing I saw was Katie, sitting slumped over in her chair, pulling uselessly on her left hand, which was chained with a set of silver handcuffs to the arm of her rotating, wheeled chair. Her short heels were buried in the carpet. Going by the tread of wheels in the short fuzz, she'd been wheeling herself around like a maniac to yell and protect her things. I would've giggled, if we were alone. Men and a couple of women with their hair up donned gloves and rifled through things in cabinets, drawers, and folders that had been dug out of her desk, and Katie's purse was upturned on the edge of her table.

Fowler, in the flesh, stood gloating in the corner of the room, watching the chaos. I dismissed him at first, going for my sister. I knelt down in front of her, taking out the key to my own handcuffs. FBI-issued cuffs used the same kind of lock, and even if my key hadn't fit, I'd have taken a pin and picked the ones on her.

A nasty scowl formed on Fowler's face and he came out of the shadows. I was surprised he didn't melt when he was struck by sunlight through a window. "Stay away from my suspect, Anderson!" He jeered.

Derek took up a position behind me as if he thought someone would attack me before I could free Kate. She kept her hand still but her feet bounced impatiently, face red and tear-streaked. By now, her fear had transitioned to anger, which kept her cheeks red and her jaw set sternly as if she was about to give the mother of all lectures. Her cuffs clicked and popped open. She took her wrist out so quickly that one of the sides scratched the back of her hand.

I rose up to my feet while Derek knelt in front of her, taking her arms in his hands. "Your _suspect?!"_ I snarled, disgusted. I advanced on Fowler, pushing the sleeves of my shirt up to my elbows. "Well, you just don't know when to quit, do you, you little bitch? You can't be her mate, so you'll be her arresting officer?"

"You are _insane!"_ Katie put in from her place on the chair. She hadn't gotten up – her legs were shaking, and Derek had his mouth to her forehead in a kiss while she trembled, pointing at Fowler anxiously. "I don't know what we ever did to you, but I'm pretty sure at this point that you deserved it!"

He snorted through his nose. "You'd better calm down your sister there," he told me airily. It amazed me that he could be as callous as he was now and still have managed to successfully convince Kate that he had wanted to fall in love with her. "We wouldn't want to have her charged for assault. She's already threatened to punch my teeth out."

Indignantly, she shrieked again. "I am _not_ calming down!" She probably wasn't helping her own case, but until he produced probable cause for this, I would not let him walk all over her. He couldn't seriously have thought that he'd get away with causing her all this distress, did he? "You've terrified my kids and handcuffed me to a God damn chair!"

"Oh, I'll threaten much worse than that," I vowed, sneering. "What are your grounds?!"

"Oh…" The OPR agent smiled coyly at me. _Don't you know already?_ He seemed to be asking with his eyes. If I'd started foaming at the mouth, I wouldn't have been even slightly surprised. "Suspicious bank activity with the daycare's funds. Some assets were recently liquidated and given to-"

At the accusation, Kate was sent over the edge. Seething mad, she stood up and stalked over to us. I moved out of the way graciously to let her yell in Fowler's face.

"He's talking about reservations I made for a field trip I'm planning next month!" She spat, smacking her open hand against Fowler's chest with a resounding slap. The agent looked briefly startled and took a step back.

"That is assault!" He shouted, drawing the attention of his lackeys who were combing the daycare for 'evidence' of 'suspicious activity.' Fowler raised his right hand up above his head as if to retaliate, and Kate flinched, lifting her arms to defend herself from a blow.

Several things happened at once.

Derek roared, _"Don't you touch her!"_ and lunged into the fray, wrapping his arms around Katie and carrying her away like he'd pulled her out of the way of a car. Fowler started to bring his hand down to strike, but never got the chance; as a desk drawer broke when it was permitted to fall off of the counter by a shocked agent, I pounced on Fowler, redness clouding my vision as my face warmed.

I dove right in, clocking him dead-on in the face – in the mouth, in fact, and I felt the wetness on my knuckles before I'd even taken my hand back to see that my punch had split his lip on his teeth. I raked my other hand down the side of his face, leaving pink crescents from my acrylics, perilously close to his eye. _Next time, I won't miss!_

I took my hands back to fight again, but before I could strike, multiple hands came to Fowler's rescue. A familiar and yet painfully tight set of arms wound around my midsection and picked me up off of my feet, carrying me backwards before I could land any more hits. From my front, a woman with a black ponytail grabbed at my hands and shoved my arms down towards the floor, and a man stripped off one of his latex blue gloves to put a hand on Fowler's chest to push him further away from me.

Derek set me back down on the floor after a few seconds, when I was at least a yard away from where I'd been and I was no longer trying frantically to swing my arms at the target no longer within reach. What had just transpired had probably seemed, to an outsider, like the kind of thing that only ever happened on TV. I'd just gone fucking _ballistic._ Any modicum of self-control had run screaming in the other direction the moment it looked like he was going to abuse Katie.

We waited in stunned silence. Fowler dragged the heel of his right hand over his lip and chin, feeling the split and the blood dripping down from the rip in his flesh. My chest swelled with pride and satisfaction, the sneer fixed on my face as he looked at the red liquid staining his skin. No one else dared to speak, too afraid of what Fowler's reaction would be.

"In a room where no one so much as asks if you're okay because they're afraid of you, do you finally feel like a man?" I found my voice again. He didn't scare me.

Glancing down to his bloodstained hand, Fowler looked back up to me slowly. And started to smirk, his lips pulling apart to show blood marking his formerly-white teeth. It looked grotesque.

Even Kate was stricken in horror, her hands covering her mouth. The violence wasn't what really shocked her – it was that I had done it to Fowler, in this capacity, at this time. I'd just gone flying viciously at someone we all knew had it out for my mate, and Kate was probably terrified of what that would mean for me and for Neal.

Her voice trembled when she whispered, "You shouldn't have done that…"

"Am I really the only one who sees him grinning like the fucking Joker?" I complained, looking around the room. I refused to be chastened. I'd protected my sister. I would _not_ let anyone make me feel ashamed for that.

Fowler turned his hand around so I could see the blood. Cheekily, I curtsied. Fowler narrowed his eyes, keeping up the pretense of barely-lidded fury. "You just got yourself a suspension," he hissed at me, pressing his fingers tenderly to his lower lip. "Attacking a federal agent?"

_"_ _You were going to attack my baby sister, you son of a bitch!"_

"I'm sorry," Fowler paused mockingly, "But can you prove that you were defending anyone else?"

I bit the inside of my cheek as I realized what even Katie had thought of first – I couldn't prove anything. I hadn't let him go far enough to leave any evidence. The only people who would stand up for me were a civilian currently under arrest and a lone agent who everyone knew had been in my corner since we transferred to the WCCD. On the other hand, there were almost a dozen agents on-scene that answered to Fowler. Even if they would tell the truth ordinarily, he would intimidate and threaten them into lying about what had happened, just to cover his own ass.

Discounting the testimony of Katie by placing her under arrest… _fuck,_ I thought, jaw going slack as I breathed heavily from the whirlwind of a fight. _He never needed probable cause. He didn't do this to fuck with her. He did it to take me out of the game._

"You can't." Patronizingly, Fowler smiled. "I, however, have witnesses and injury. Look at this, I'm bleeding." He waved his hand around and got a drop or two of blood on Kate's office floor. "This is proof against you. Agent Johnson, take her gun and badge."

Derek froze up behind me. "You crafty little fuck," I accused, finally piecing it together. I felt pretty stupid for not getting it sooner, but I was still holding my head high in pride. I had defended my family as I'd sworn to do. If I would rob the Italians for Kate's sake, then making someone I hated bleed was nothing in comparison.

 _The handcuffs that he knew I would let her out of, the threats of assault he knew I'd respond with if he treated her like that, the physical assault he knew he'd get if I thought he was going to touch her._ Any single one of them were grounds for OPR to suspend me, pending some sort of investigative or disciplinary action. I'd let my anger and protectiveness blind me and walked right into the trap, like a fly drawn to honey, and now he was going to get what he wanted – me, not able to shield behind the bureau or hide within their walls.

"I'm not going to help you suspend my sister, you slimy, pathetic freak," Derek was insulting when I came back to the present, glaring at Fowler stonily.

"Take her gun and badge," Fowler repeated persistently, testy and resolute. There was a threat of his own mixed in there when he had to repeat himself, an unspoken vow that if he had to tell Derek a third time, then I wouldn't be the only one having my credentials taken from me.

As bad as this was going to look on me, it was still bringing unnecessary attention to Fowler, who was going to be getting the hell out of dodge as soon as he could to avoid being associated with Neal's malfunctioning anklet and the Italians' missing treasure. I stared at him and started to smile right back, in an eerie, inappropriately delighted way.

He wouldn't have done this unless he felt like he had no other choice. He thought he was backed into a corner because he was afraid of me – afraid of what I could do if I wasn't cut off from my resources.

_Finally, you're right about something. You're right to be afraid of me, now more than ever._

"Don't argue with him," I told Derek in the silent battle of wills between the two men. "He'll suspend you, too. That's what this was. This entire thing was a setup to provoke me into attacking you." I accused Fowler, who feigned innocence and confusion so poorly that it wouldn't have even fooled his own agents. A couple of them looked very uncomfortable. "You never would've worried about being reprimanded for hitting Katie because you knew I would never give you the chance. Want my things?" I asked, letting a careless smirk take over my expression. "Come get them."

If my position had already been stripped from me, then I had nothing to lose from misconduct. I took my sidearm out of its holster, removed my badge and credentials from the back pocket of my slacks, and, while showing both items to Fowler, I walked towards the counter near the window. Locking eyes with him, I moved my badge into the same hand as my gun, reached behind me to move back the curtains, and unveiled the class pet – a copper-colored ball python, twice as long as my arm.

I dropped both gun and badge into the terrarium with a content smile. The snake hissed at me and Katie looked torn between nervous laughter and concern for her pet. It slowly slithered up to the gun (safety still on, of course) and laid its thick upper body over the barrel, wrapping around the items and claiming them.

Fowler looked distastefully through the glass. No one seemed excited to find out who would be ordered to retrieve my things.

"Derek, take my car and go straight for the FBI." I ordered, scooping my keys out of my pocket and tossing them to my partner. He snagged them out of the air and clenched them in his fist in case someone else tried to take them. "Inform Hughes of what's going on. Make sure to tell him all about how Fowler decided to arrest my sister without a warrant and made a move to attack her _before_ I hit him."

Derek nodded. He had absolutely no reason to follow my orders anymore except for loyalty, which I truly appreciated. "What are you going to do?"

I took a deep breath. "I'm going to get a lawyer," I answered, only telling a half-lie. If Mozzie's University of Phoenix degree was to be believed, then I _was_ getting a lawyer. "I'm pressing charges for wrongful harassment, and I'll see if there's anything else I can add on." Not right now, but that would be coming up, after the music box was secured and Alex wasn't in town and Katie was safe and I'd ensured her business wouldn't be professionally harmed by the FBI sending her kids home in the middle of the day. "Katie, just – just do as they say."

She nodded, too worried about me to object to remaining in their custody. Tactfully, she avoided pointing out that she didn't have much of a choice, what with being under arrest and all. Without evidence, it wouldn't stick, so that wasn't something I was too upset about. Overcoming that would be simple, albeit a little time-consuming – post bail, provide receipts from her banking history, and bam, she'd be exonerated of whatever stupid accusation Fowler wanted to hit her with.

"What about you?" She bit her lip.

I reached out for her. Katie walked hurriedly to me. Setting my hands on her face, I stroked my thumbs over her cheekbones. "Thanks to his screwing around, there isn't anything I _can_ do but get the lawyer." _Get Mozzie._ All I could do now was fight on Neal's and Mozzie's front, but that was okay. It meant less distractions. I pulled her face down and pressed my lips dryly to her forehead. "But I'd much rather you spend some time in the bureau than in the hospital."

I released her and sent the finger to the blond OPR agent.

"You want me off the bureau, Fowler?" I taunted, strolling backwards and loosening my tie. "Don't make the mistake of thinking that you've cut me down. You've just forced me off the reservation." He'd just made his own reasons to be afraid that much worse. I didn't have someone to answer to if I wasn't an agent.

He rolled his eyes, scoffing at the dramatics, and wiped his lip with his jacket sleeve, rubbing away some of the blood.

As I left, I let the door to the daycare close on its own and walked past my car. I ripped off my tie, whipping it off from around my neck, and shoved it in my pocket after sending a last look at the vehicle. I knew where I was, and I was in New York. My convenience wasn't as important as Hughes hearing the story from someone I trusted before another variation managed to find its way around.

 _So much for being two different people._ The FBI agent no longer had a role to play in the final round. Rubbing my hands together, the thought occurred to me that I had, in a way, gotten what I'd wanted. There was no more ethical obligation to report Neal for his stories, to report Mozzie for his illegal obtainment of things he shouldn't have. I wasn't hurting my integrity as an agent by manipulating the system if I wasn't an agent anymore.

If I couldn't have both lives, I'd just have to lead one of them and throw my whole heart into it. I had never thought I'd need to choose between being a cop or a criminal, but as Fowler made part of the choice for me, I learned that there was no way in hell I could let myself be benched. Cop, civilian, or criminal. I knew what course of action I'd be taking. Fowler was afraid of me as a cop, but I was useless to my loved ones as a civilian.

_Criminal it is, then._

* * *

When Mozzie picked up the phone, I knew that I had gotten the number copied right from my contacts. I put my cell phone away and leaned against the outside of the drugstore, an ancient prepaid phone I'd paid for with cash against my ear. There was a security camera facing the doors that I was just out of sight from.

"Hey, Haversham, I majorly need you right now. NYPD – Katie needs a lawyer." I hesitated, grimaced, and pinched the bridge of my nose painfully between my index and middle fingers. "I probably do, too," I groaned.

There was something in the background that I hadn't heard any other time I'd initiated contact with the street con. It sounded like water – water trickling down a small fountain, maybe? It was quiet, but not like at a park.

 _"_ _I'm on my way,"_ Mozzie said wearily after grumbling something inaudible and undoubtedly displeased. _"Would you care to elaborate a little bit on what I'm needed_ _ **for**_ _? And why aren't you calling from your phone?"_

"My phone's tapped," I hazarded a guess. It was entirely possible, and it only made sense to tap mine if he was also tapping into Derek's and Diana's. Buying a burner cell with the cash from my wallet seemed like the best course of action. "Fowler arrested Katie for some bogus embezzlement accusation. He moved to attack her, so I attacked him, and he put me on suspension for it."

Mozzie was quiet for a moment. I turned my free ear towards the red-brick wall of the pharmacy, crossing my legs and leaning heavily on the building. He had a soft spot for Katie, and not only was she now in federal custody, but Fowler had gone back on his word and taken another shot at me. If the FBI started closing in on Neal or realized that his tracker was tampered with, we wouldn't have any advance warning.

 _"_ _That's not good,"_ he murmured. The water in the background had gone as he moved away from it. I didn't bother asking where he was, because I knew there was a ninety-five percent chance he wouldn't tell me. _"What are you going to do?"_

I shrugged, rocking my head back and looking up. "Get Katie home safe." I figured that was the first step. "After that, there's only one thing to do: get this over with." I imagined swapping out _Men in Black_ -style sunglasses for a set of Neal's Ray Bans. "Anderson out, LaMontagne in."

 _"_ _Yeah, about that, why didn't you tell me you were rich?"_ The conman complained crankily. Since he was leaving wherever he was to help me and Kate, I decided not to gripe at him as much as I normally would've.

"It would've taken you longer to trust me," I pointed out, despite that not being the real reason. It had a part to play after I'd come clean to Neal about my biological family and my French roots, but from the beginning, Mozzie's trust had not been my motivation for keeping my secrets.

_"_ _That's probably true, but I miss when you were confused by me."_

"And I miss when you were too afraid of me to be as annoying as you normally are."

 _Well, so much for not bantering. Oops._ Well, at least it was friendly bickering. Mozzie and I could probably communicate through nothing but snide retorts and sarcasm.

_"_ _I am a mystery wrapped in an enigma, for your information!"_

"Yeah, yeah," I muttered, flipping the phone shut.

* * *

Katie slammed her purse down onto the kitchen counter with so much force that it slid off the marble island and fell to the floor on the other side. I padded after her, subdued and a little frightened to talk to her while she was so upset. Tears rolled down her cheeks, but her misery was punctuated with aimless anger that didn't have an outlet.

"Katie," I said her name hopefully. She didn't listen. My sister continued like she hadn't heard me, storming past the kitchen and towards the stairs at the end of the hall. "Please, please, Katie," my voice broke while I jogged to keep up. "Don't run away," I pleaded.

She turned on me suddenly. Her hair almost hit me in the face. "What else can I do?!" She cried, fisting her hands in her thick hair and tugging. "I mean, your crack lawyer posted _bail._ I'm on _bail_ because I was _arrested_ for trying to take my kids to a Broadway play, and _you_ are out of your job because you didn't want to let him hurt me!" The whine in her voice was close to a bawl, and I knew I had to walk carefully on the thin ice to prevent it from becoming exactly that.

Holding up a finger first, I corrected her. "Okay, let's get this clear: I am not fired. I am suspended. Huge difference. The suspension will be overturned," I told her soothingly, holding out my arms for a hug.

My arms were batted away. "I was _arrested!_ In front of all the kids in my daycare!" She wailed, humiliated and ashamed.

I wrapped my arms around myself loosely, sucking on the inside of my cheek. "Yes, I… I remember that part," I agreed softly, grimacing. It didn't look good for anyone; that was true.

She covered her face in her hands and sat down hard on one of the spiral stairs. She tucked her ankles underneath the lowest stair and balanced her elbows on her knees. I cautiously sank down next to her, half-expecting to be given a hardy shove right down onto the hallway floor.

Kate sniffled into her hands. "The parents had to come pick them all up because the FBI was calling them all and saying that their caretaker was in federal custody," she bemoaned, shoulders quaking. "I'm not even going to have clients in two weeks. No one is going to trust me with their kids after this!"

That was probably not actually true. Kate got rave reviews on her website and in person. The parents loved her almost as much as the kids did. Sure, they would be confused and a little guarded, but I would personally see to it that they knew Kate had been a victim in the situation, and her client base would be back to normal. She adored working in the daycare. Fowler wouldn't get to take that from her any more than he had the right to take away her excitement to have a baby of her own.

"I'm going to fix this!" I swore, holding one hand over my heart and the other up by my face in a scout's honor. "As soon as Fowler's gone, I'll be going to see the parents myself, alright? I'll explain how it was a ploy, or a misunderstanding, and how you are absolutely innocent and were wrongly accused."

But in the meantime, her kids' parents were still thinking whatever it was Fowler had wanted them to think. Kate didn't react angrily when I touched her shoulder, but she sobbed harder into her hands, a broken, choked cry escaping her mouth. It felt like a hard hit to the chest. She cared more about what people thought of her than I did. The general opinion of her personality had an impact on her livelihood and her relationships. It didn't matter to me if someone thought I was a bitch and complained about me online as long as I didn't break the rules and get into legal trouble. I wasn't hired to be a tactful babysitter; I was hired to investigate things. Kate's job relied on near-strangers trusting her to protect and supervise their _children._

"Come here," I cooed, holding out my arms again for a second time. 'Don't cry, sweetie, c'mere."

This time, Katie leaned into me and burrowed herself into my chest. I scooted up a step higher and spread my legs so that she could lean against my breasts without my knees getting into her side. After resting my chin on her hair, I stroked her arms and back lovingly and squeezed her tightly in a protective, loving embrace.

"Sh," I hushed her quiet crying and pet her hair, kissing the top of her head maternally. "I love you. I'll fix it, I'll work it out…"

* * *

Katie took a long, hot shower that left the bathroom humid and stifling. I sent Neal a text while she was washing up and then beckoned her out into her bedroom, where I handed her some pajamas hot from the drier and turned my back while she changed into them. Then I towel-dried her hair and brushed it out, tying it off in a French braid for her before she asked in a very small voice, embarrassed from her crying fit, if she could take a nap.

I said that of course she could and I tucked her in like she really was my baby sister before going downstairs to meet Neal.

We went through the house from the front and came out onto the back patio. Neal sat in one of the chairs at the mostly-decorative metal table and I pulled out another, sitting at an angle so I was facing Neal but was also able to see in through the sliding glass door in case Katie woke up and came downstairs. Neal sipped on a can of coke from the fridge and I played with the laced strings of my gloves.

Neal put down his aluminum can and pressed his thumbs into the front. He made the metalloid squeak protests as divots formed under his thumbs, the can bending inwards. "I never thought he'd come after Katie again. I thought it would just be the one-time thing." He murmured to me, his eyes not leaving the coke.

I turned my hands over. I was as clueless as he was, and angrier, to boot. "Why come after her at all?" I kicked the leg of the table and relished in the loud clanging. Neal picked up his soda before the shaking table made it fall and sent me a short-lived _look_ for my actions. "I know he wanted me suspended, but why? I was doing what he wanted."

"We all have our weaknesses. He has mine, he found yours." Neal said it like it made sense. When he talked with that tone, that melodic ring, it _did_ make sense. "He took the bureau away from you… I don't know, maybe so he can come after you after he has the box?"

_Isn't that a pleasant thought?_

I shook my head, hardly able to believe that any of this was even still on the table. "This is ridiculous. I thought I made it clear last time that Katie is off limits." Katie herself had even slapped him so hard I had expected his jaw to be broken, and threatened to take out a restraining order on him.

Neal reached out for me across a portion of the table, wiggling his fingers into my open palm and squeezing my hand. "It'll be okay," he told me helpfully. I smiled back at him, less certain, but closed my fingers around his hand. "We just have this one thing to do, and then we take him down. For good." Neal pushed his soda can away and looked down at our joined hands, stroking my smaller one consistently with his thumb. "Look at this," he said, giving my hand another, harder squeeze and kicking out his left leg from under the table.

I glanced down at his anklet. It still wasn't activated. "Yeah, the light's off. I know."

"But according to Di, the monitoring station says I'm at home."

"Of course." I smacked my forehead and shook my head. _Now that makes sense._ His means of going about it remained inexcusable, but at least now I understood his intentions. "That's it." Neal cocked his head, unclear. "Your handler no longer has the authority to supervise you, and you're put on house arrest until someone else figures out what to do with you in the meantime. No one will think twice about you being in the penthouse; it's where you live."

Neal nodded slowly as he understood, his eyes wide and his expression grudgingly appreciative. "He's brilliant." I sent him a glower. Neal put his hands up quickly. "He's awful and I can't wait to see him go down, but you have to admit, it's like he thought of everything."

I hummed. Fowler sure seemed to give that impression. He tampered with the tracker, he planted evidence, he used patsies, he made contingency plans, he had judges and cops living out of his pockets – he even had the foresight to use Henna because he predicted that my temper would snap and I'd try to scrub his fake soulmark off of his arm. Fowler had never come across as that manipulative, but appearances could be deceiving. A shiver ran down my back. The last person who had been able to anticipate my moves so well had been a complete, certified psychopath.

"Yeah," I agreed harshly. "It really seems like he has everything planned out." Which begged the question: was getting the music box _really_ the end of it? Additionally, were our steps against him actually just playing further into his hand? I put an elbow up on the table and rested my cheek on my fist. "Do you think this is really an honest exchange? You give him the music box, and he lets Kate go?" I asked candidly.

Neal blinked, didn't seem to know what to say, and blinked again. "You'd do the same for Katie," he pointed out a little defensively, assuming that I was going to talk him out of it.

I just bowed my head. "Yes, I would." I knew I would. There was very little I wouldn't do for her. That list was apparently much shorter than even I realized, going by the circumstances I found myself in. "I'm not saying you shouldn't try," I clarified. "I just want you to be realistic. I'm still not convinced Kate is being held against her will, but either way, the sooner Fowler has the music box, the sooner he stops stepping on our toes."

I frowned at the ground of the patio. Fowler was seriously crossing more lines than I had even known existed. If he was afraid of me enough to strike me down, then maybe that was for a reason. I wasn't above being vindictive. No matter what he wanted or what he went after Katie for, he had still gone after Katie. He deserved to pay for that.

Neal saw the hateful expression on my face and bumped my foot with one of his. "What are you going to do?"

"He's aiding us in illegal activity," I reminded slowly. "He's tampering with your tracker." I knew it, Neal knew it, and Fowler knew it. The Marshals didn't know it because Fowler had found a way around them. If I found that route, then I would find the evidence that it existed and had been utilized. "He thinks he can take my badge? Well, I'll take his." I worked damn hard for the right to call myself a special agent, and I wasn't going to lose that right to a corrupt, insensitive son of a bitch without one hell of a fight.

Neal raised his eyebrows but said nothing to deter me. I think he wanted to see Fowler be knocked down a peg, too, beyond just getting him out of our hair. Watching Katie make him look like a terrible person in front of the entire WCCD just wasn't quite cutting it anymore.

"He's going to be watching you and everyone you work with," my artist warned. "Derek, Diana, Hughes, the entire department. The blue-collar team you used to work with." That was the only objection he had to my declaration of revenge-seeking.

"I know. That's the problem." I rolled my shoulders back, still holding his hand. Having his warm hand in mine felt natural, _right._ I loved the feeling of his palms in mine, soft but a little calloused. "I need someone in the FBI whom he can't professionally link to my casework that also trusts us, and whom I trust."

"Have you got someone in mind?"

And that was where the real problem began. I met people in the bureau _through_ cases. The people I knew that I _hadn't_ worked a case with was surprisingly short when I called it to mind, and try as I might, I couldn't find any other names out of my memory to add to it. When cross-referenced with the list of people that I would trust to get involved with this already-risky mission, there were no matches.

The people I trusted the most already had their phones tapped. The others weren't local, and Fowler would likely have already assumed I'd ask them for help and gone to take the same precautions with their communications, too. I was in a tight corner.

I realized suddenly that it wasn't going to be the late past that had the answers. Fowler had come into my life after studying me and my files, talking to people that I knew, finding information that I had thought only myself and Køhler had. He used all of that as fodder against me. If I looked into my career's past, I wouldn't find any unlocked doors that I had forgotten. The key was going to be things that had happened _since_ Fowler made his debut as my number-one enemy, parts of my life and my relationships that had changed as a result of his influence.

While Neal waited patiently for me to think, I worked back through the last three times Fowler had visited New York. There had been the time with the dirty judge. The only new face I'd met then had been Detective Herrera. I liked the guy, sure, and we'd met for coffee since I got his job back for him, but I wasn't going to entrust him with a matter of this caliber. And, even if I had been so inclined to do so, he was employed by the NYPD, not the FBI.

The second time he'd come by uninvited, he hadn't even stopped in the FBI offices. He'd recruited some freshman college brat to help him spy on me and Neal. I hadn't seen him or talked to him once, but I was glad that had happened. Though stressful, that was the event that served as a catalyst for Neal coming clean about Project Mentor, and the reason I told Neal that I'd seen his sister.

The first time, I had met Adrian Tulane (who was now living in a medium-security prison) and… not many other people. I had run point on the investigation until it was taken over by OPR, and no one on OPR's team was worth even a second thought. Tulane had been our only suspect, because by the time we'd confirmed he had an alibi, Fowler had already changed course to attack Neal head-on and sent him to prison. My focus shifted to exoneration, and I had called in backup. Even my backup had focused his efforts on clearing Neal's name.

My backup, however, hadn't been an old friend.

"Oh, look at that," Neal admired my face sweetly. "That gorgeous smile."

"Peter _did_ say to call if I needed him," I ran it by Neal first, smiling hesitantly. Peter was the safest bet. Fowler and he had met, but Peter hadn't been on the case in any official capacity, and Fowler probably had no way of knowing that I had kept in touch with the Burkes. "I think this qualifies."

* * *

I met Peter discreetly in Central Park. At my advisement, he had come alone to give Fowler even less of a reason to try to use Elizabeth to get to him. Elizabeth said hello, but she was swamped at work anyway and didn't think she could have gotten the time off, so it worked out well.

Meeting Peter as a renegade rather than an agent felt weird, but when I had him on the phone, I hadn't had the bravery to tell him upfront that I no longer had the authority to arrest anyone. He was at a bench near one of the few children's playgrounds when I found him, and I took a seat to his right, crossing my arms and legs.

"I'm never going to be done thanking you, am I?" I asked rhetorically. I knew full well that I would never feel as though I repaid Peter for what he was risking with helping me, even if he chose to back out. My hope was that Peter would be an unseen attack on the legal front while I dedicated my attention and my time to Neal's heist on the Consulate, which I had to be ready to head into in less than twelve hours. Butterflies fluttered in my stomach and consumed my appetite.

Peter reached for my leg and patted my knee. "I told you to call if you needed anything." He stared at me intently until his eyes boring into my cheek convinced me to uncomfortably turn my head and look at him. His expression was oddly earnest. "After last time, I expected it any time since."

 _Well, that's great._ Had my slide into criminality been such a long time coming?

Guilt made me cough. I covered up well when I lied to strangers; it was lying to friends that always threw me off. I could do it, it was just harder, and I usually felt worse afterwards than I had before trying. Peter knew how dangerous it was to stand by me while Fowler was watching, yet he had come anyway, and I was repaying him by going behind his back to rob a foreign sovereignty.

"How's El?" I asked politely, also concerned. I had called them through a burner phone, which Peter had yet to ask about. My best guess was that Fowler wouldn't think to immobilize the Burkes, but Neal was right about one thing: he was good at this 'evil villain' thing, and taking something for granted would be a mistake.

"She's good." Peter nodded with slight relief. Before he even made the plans to drive up as soon as he woke in the morning, I had warned them both about what Fowler had done to my sister. Elizabeth was horrified, but she was also thankful for the forewarning, just in case. She was making a point of not asking many questions that she knew she wouldn't like the answers to. "Mostly worried," he admitted, "And concerned for Katie. We took your advice and postponed her meetings, just in case. She won't be seeing clients in person for at least the next couple of days; any correspondence will be done over the internet or through her phone."

I nodded my agreement and rubbed my upper arms. Fowler pulling another stunt on her like he'd done at the daycare would possibly be even more destructive to El's business than it could be to Kate's. As an event planner, there were a lot more financial responsibilities and money changed hands between clients, managers, and contracted businesses more frequently. Fowler would have an easier time framing her than he had my sister, and since El's clients tended to be a bit wealthier, losing their trust would make a huge dent in her revenue _and_ reputation.

"God, this is insane," I moaned into my hands, taking deep breaths and inhaling the faintly-lingering scent of my hand soap. "How's was traffic?"

"The drive here was a lot more direct than you're acting," Peter bluntly told me, still trying to get me to look at him.

I sighed and put my hands down, locking eyes with him like he wanted. I wanted him to trust me, even while I left some really big details out. _If that's what it takes…_ I reluctantly did what it took. The music box was paramount; not just to Neal and Moreau anymore, but also to my and my sister's continued freedom. If Fowler kept throwing tantrums like this, sooner or later we'd stop getting so lucky.

"Okay, message received." I curled my fingers into my shirt. I'd donned clothes I hadn't worn in a while, and being out and about during the day in civilian attire felt weird and strange. "Fowler suspended me," I said quickly, wincing, getting it over with.

Peter blinked and leaned back physically. "On what grounds?" He demanded angrily. He sounded much madder at OPR than he was with me. I prepared for that to change.

"… I may have… tried to… um…" I wriggled and rubbed the back of my neck, unable to look him in the face as I confessed. I didn't regret my actions, just felt embarrassed to be explaining them, as if I was letting him down. In a way, I wished I could feel remorse, because maybe then I'd feel better about my morals. "Claw his face off…?" I said it like a question.

Peter slapped his thigh and uncrossed his legs. He made a loud scoffing noise and looked away while his shoulders straightened and tightened. The set in his jaw made his temper pretty evident, but I appreciated that he was restraining it.

"It wasn't my fault," I asserted rapidly, trying to explain myself before things ended up even worse. I couldn't lose one of my only allies. "He was going to hit my sister. I just protected her."

When I mentioned the almost-abuse, Peter looked swiftly back to me. I was surprised his neck didn't hurt with how quickly he swung around. Just like that, the blame was directed back to Fowler. Had Fowler been preparing to hurt El, I doubted anything would've stopped Peter from taking matters into his own hands.

The older agent rubbed his fingers into his forehead. "Damn it," he groused. I was silent while he processed and waited for him to say something again. When he did, it was as he lowered his hands. "Leave any marks?"

"Uh…"

My not-quite-an-answer gave him all he needed to know. As if the rakes of my nails down his face hadn't been enough, Fowler's split lip and the agents he had authority over would nail me if it went to an administrative decision, especially since none of them would be brave enough to talk about how he had raised his hand to an innocent civilian.

Peter reacted like he'd expected as much. "That's going to be hard to get out of," he pondered, letting himself sink back against the back of the park bench. He mimicked my posture and crossed his arms again, glancing sideways towards me. "I don't suppose there's any physical proof that he was going to hit her?"

I shook my head, feeling chagrined. What should I have done? Was pouncing the right thing to do, or would things have been better if I'd just let him make contact so the proof would have been on Katie's skin? Immediately after wondering the latter, I cringed and felt horrible. How could I _seriously_ consider that I should've let someone assault the woman I called family?

After a moment, Peter uncrossed his arms, clapped his hands together, and rubbed friction into his palms. "What do you need me to do?" He asked me resolutely, a steely gleam in his eye.

This was where my counterattack came into plan. Instead of merely complying under duress, I wanted to launch an offense while Fowler was distracted. The problem was that doing so was jeopardizing another good, hardworking agent – and a better one than I was, at that. It wasn't hard to be a better agent than I had been in the last year. All anyone would've had to do is not sleep with their consultant, or report when laws were broken, or – even better – not plan to participate in a major international felony.

"I need you to look into Fowler," I said, taking the route that drew the least attention to Neal and I. If Peter was focused solely on OPR, then he wouldn't be led to Neal's and my activity later on. We needed to be left alone to work tonight. Any interruptions, any distractions, could throw the entire heist off. "He's using his position to manipulate the information being fed from Neal's anklet. I don't know how, but if we can prove it, then he's defrocked and done for. … Thing is," I followed up with grudgingly. Much as I desperately wanted the aid, I couldn't ask for it without putting everything pertaining to Peter on the table. "Investigating him is almost career suicide."

Indicatively, I pointed at myself. If Fowler got his way, then no matter what I'd told Katie, I _would_ be out of a job. Neal would probably be sent back to a prison – Riker's, if someone in an admin position felt particularly vicious – and with a charge like assault on my record, it would be pretty hard to be employed again, especially by the government.

I brushed that train of thought aside. I could worry about my career after my loved ones' safeties were ensured.

From the moment Peter looked at me with the flinty frown and clenched fists, I knew what he was going to say. As advantageous as it was to me, I couldn't help but wish he would have refused. Then if it went wrong, I would have one less thing to feel responsible for.

"I vowed to _protect,_ not to cower away from a dirty agent." Peter said firmly. "A guy like Fowler has no business being in _our_ bureau. I'll be glad to do whatever I can to knock him down."

* * *

Hours later, after Peter had managed to get into the bureau and do some quiet inside reconnaissance, he brought everything back to the Anderson household. I hated being left out. I felt useless and pathetic when I couldn't help, so having him return was sadly looking to be the highlight of the day. Anything to catch Fowler was more exciting than dwelling on why, exactly, I'd been pushing through my wardrobe when Peter arrived.

He overturned a cardboard box he'd probably taken without permission. There wasn't a clear label on it, so it wasn't stolen from the archives, but it would likely be missed by some trainee or probie who was assigned to sort paperwork. The things that came out were disappointingly limited; most were thin sheets of paper clipped together, or printed-out records that happened to have his name somewhere on them.

"This is everything I can find through normal means on Garrett Fowler," Peter announced, pushing the cardboard off of the kitchen table and letting it fall to the linoleum flooring. "There's not much there, unfortunately. Turns out that a lot of it is sealed."

I picked up a photocopy of a lab result request that Fowler had signed off on. It wasn't to do with the _Le Joyau_ heist or the mortgage fraud foreclosures, so I had no context for it. I still put it aside to look up the case number (assuming I could still even log in to the database. If I couldn't, Peter could).

"Sealed? What on earth _for?"_ I asked, guessing Peter wouldn't know. Sealed records weren't generally good news. Fowler was very obviously an FBI agent, so that left him as a protected witness or someone with skeletons in his closet that had been dismissed by higher powers. I wanted to know what those skeletons would be.

Peter gave me a long look over the table like I'd asked a really dumb question. "Well, if I knew that, then they wouldn't be sealed," he pointed out.

I stuck my tongue out at him childishly.

"We don't need much of anything from his past," I told him, rooting through to the next best thing: his open profile. It wasn't very detailed. All we could get without raising alarms to OPR was pretty much the level of information one could get off of a professor's curriculum vitae, but the exposed leads there could be used to dig around independently on the computer. It seemed like a job well-suited to Mozzie, if it came to that. "We just need the key to how he's altering the anklet data."

I reached across the table to pull open a folder and see what was inside, jumping onto several different collections of paper all at once in my eagerness. My wrist was stopped by a larger hand closing around it. Sighing, I raised my eyes to Peter, awkwardly bent halfway over the kitchen table and stretching for more evidence.

"I've got to ask one more time," Peter said hesitantly, clearly uncomfortable with looking up another agent's personal life. I could appreciate the graciousness, but really didn't have time for it. Peter had morals that I had been pushed into discarding months ago. "You're sure it's him pulling the strings?"

At once, I recalled everything he'd done to force my hands. It wasn't _just_ the actions themselves – it was the attitudes, the responses. The way he patronized me when he tried to get me fired with the blanked videotape in Hughes' office, the way he grinned at me with blood dripping down his chin. Fowler was acting of his own will, and sometimes he even appeared to enjoy it.

I knew that no one could manipulate other people like psychopaths could, and yet Fowler didn't give me that feeling. That didn't seem important. He could fake being normal, or he could have some background in psychology, or he could have someone else helping him behind the scenes. It didn't matter. It was too foreboding and too irrelevant to think about. If there _was_ some deeper conspiracy, it could wait until I had my job back and my mate safe in my arms instead of planning to break into Italian Consulates.

"I have no doubts that he is responsible for his actions," I told Peter levelly, standing up bravely and squaring my shoulders. I felt like I was making an assessment as an expert witness, one that would sway the jury, because I could see in his stance that he would believe whichever way I swung him. "And even if he's not the biggest fish," I paused, just to show him that I had indeed considered that he wasn't acting alone, "He's still made his decisions."

The husband nodded slowly, taking it in and setting himself on that path. For just a second, I worried that I was misleading him before I told myself I was just being paranoid and anxious. I had known for the last six months that Fowler was corrupt. Getting him fired was the best thing for everyone he had pull over.

"Okay. Well, the Marshals are the ones who monitor the tracking anklets, and the DOJ supersedes their authority. Fowler could override them and get access, or he's altering the data remotely." Peter shrugged his shoulders as he offered the second option, and seemed to place more merit in it.

I agreed. "Going over the DOJ would draw attention, and I think it would take more time to prepare than he had." _Unless he has more pocket pets…_ "He couldn't remotely go in and alter information from just wherever he gets Wi-Fi, could he?" I didn't think so, but I wasn't a technician.

"No." Peter confirmed definitively. "He needs a secure line."

 _Okay, a secure line that he would have easy and quick, non-suspect access to at any given time._ He couldn't get that from a home computer or a personal laptop. It would have to be connected to a mainframe server for the maximum amount of personal security, and that meant it was in a government-run office connected to the bureau and/or the US Marshals. It couldn't be done from the average computer in any agent's office; it would have to be special.

Peter and I looked at each other at the same time.

"The OPR offices," I realized excitedly, him echoing just a second behind me.

I took out my phone to look up the address (the addresses of federal buildings weren't confidential). Peter drummed his knuckles on the table thoughtfully. "There's one of those here in New York. That's where you need me to go." If Fowler was hiding his own dirt, then the carpet to lift would be in the office he used when he was in New York City – a computer that he regularly used and had used in the past to tamper with Neal's anklet.

It wasn't ideal, of course. If things were perfect, then it would be his assigned office back in DC, where he came from. I was willing to bet that there would still be some form of electronic proof that he was messing around with the Marshals' tech on the computer in his borrowed office space when he traveled here for whatever excuse he manufactured. Someone like Fowler, with so many loaded guns aimed at his feet for his troubles, would be paranoid and careful enough to keep an eye on his secrets… which meant he kept the key to them wherever he was. If he was as smart as I was, then he would have some way of transferring those digital skeletons between locations. Maybe a flash drive; maybe he sent himself an encoded email that he downloaded to whatever server he needed to use.

I found the place on my phone, copied the address, and texted it to Peter's cellular. "No one's getting in there without clearance and an appointment." I frowned and leaned down over the table, bracing my hands flat on the surface. "And God knows they wouldn't even let _me_ on the front steps, much less into Fowler's office."

Although I knew he would _never_ admit it, Peter puffed out his chest a little bit. He came alarmingly close to preening the way that Neal did when he was proud of something he claimed not to have done (even when everyone knew he'd done it). "They'd let me," he declared smugly. "Model agent, and I caught Caffrey to begin with. They'd probably like me on paper."

OPR wouldn't like him so much once he tried to break into an agent's computer and steal information he wasn't supposed to have.

My eyes softened as I listened to him laugh. He thought it was funny. He had to realize what was all at stake, didn't he? Maybe it just didn't sink in? I'd been living with looking over my shoulder and half-expecting a random attack out of the shadows for far longer than I had known Fowler's name. Køhler had taught me that I was never actually as safe as I felt, especially not as an agent of law enforcement. Wilkes, using Neal, had taught me that the same applied as a criminal. With my feet in both worlds, who knew how safe I ever actually was?

"Thank you for doing this," I said honestly again, feeling emotionally raw and exposed with every sincere word that crossed my lips.

I remembered the stories and the appraisals of warning signs that someone might be about to take their own life. I knew that one of those signs was uncharacteristic sentimentality – giving away their possessions for sentimental reasons, being more touchy-feely or emotional than usual, or being atypically heartfelt. It was like a stealthy way of saying goodbye and finishing their business, making sure their friends and family knew that they loved them before they killed themselves.

I felt like that was what I was doing. I was making those preparations to cut ties. The queasy feeling in my stomach doubled when it occurred to me that I was displaying those same signs. I'd told Katie that I love her, touched her more than I usually did in a week just in the last couple of days. I was being honest and sincere without guards to Peter, and I had been so relieved that I'd gotten to talk to El before the heist that I'd almost teared up.

It was because a part of me was dying with each step closer that the heist became. The woman I'd promised myself I'd be was being put to rest in favor of someone that eighteen-year-old me never would have approved of. Not only was it an emotional thing, but it was because I was _scared._ I was _scared,_ and I felt _lonely,_ because although I knew Neal and Mozzie would probably listen, that didn't change that I was still in the situation that warranted the fear. Neal and Mozzie… the conmen felt these things differently than I did. They lived with different ethics. They prioritized full freedoms over security in liberty, while I was all too willing to agree to live by certain laws in exchange for the rights I was guaranteed as a citizen.

I could too easily lose everything I had and what I had worked to become. So long as this paid off, I could live with myself and find a new way to define my identity, but… was I really McKenna Anderson anymore? I invented her to be a specific persona. I hadn't wanted to be Zarra, I'd wanted to be someone I had wished I could've looked up to as a child. The idea of any child looking up to me now was laughable after everything illegal I had done for Katie and for Neal.

Peter touched my shoulder kindly. "Stop thanking me," he scolded patiently. "I've already told you, I'm not doing it for you." Here, normally, I'd have sarcastically quipped a _thank you_. Instead I just felt a little less burdened. If I wasn't his sole motivation, then it would be less of a disappointment when – _if_ – he ever discovered what I was doing on the side. "It's also for me, my wife, my country, and my own friends." He exhaled heavily and looked at the open file on the table, Fowler's profile picture looking blankly up. His resting face was vaguely annoyed in the photo. Peter's shoulders fell. "This whole hassle still begs the question of what it's all _for._ "

I almost giggled. Peter had just asked the question Neal, Mozzie, and I had had on our minds for the last year. Why did Neal's sister leave? Why did Mei Lin tell Neal that the bad guy was in the FBI? Why did Fowler try to turn Neal against me, and what would've happened if he had succeeded? Why was Moreau still guiding Neal around by a leash in the dark, not telling him how she really felt, letting him believe she loved him even as she toyed with him? Why was I being victimized for no reason other than associating with Neal, and then why was I worth being victimized a second time? If Neal didn't have the music box, why was it so crucial that he and his handler be tormented? And – finally, but not necessarily most importantly – what the actual _fuck_ was so important about this music box that made it worth all of this drama and risk, and why did Fowler want it so badly that he would put everything _but_ his life on the line for it?

We'd theorized about it a couple of times, around a table, sipping on wine and getting just buzzed enough to loosen up. I had been the one to point out that music boxes could hold things. There was a general agreement that the music box was hiding something. It wasn't purely for the aesthetic, or the monetary worth, or the catchy tune that it might play. There were more secrets wrapped up in the box, in its history.

For as much trouble as it caused, I would've been stupid _not_ to be curious. I wanted to know, but I could've forgotten about it and let it go if that was the price of letting the dust settle and moving on. That just wasn't presented as an option, and I wasn't too sure Neal would've been willing to spring for that even if it had been in the cards.

"If I knew," I murmured, looking soberly down to the table and stroking my thumb over the edge of the smooth wood. "I'd probably know the rest of the story that goes along with it."

* * *

**The most important part of anything isn't what's on the outside. Nothing is as it seems. And no, I don't mean that in a creepy, Apocalyptic plague sort of way. It's just that things are more complicated than they first look. Everything can be opened up. Everything tells a story.**

**Nine times out of ten, I do not have the patience to discover or listen to those stories, but they're there whether or not I care about them.**

**People are my favorite and my least favorite simultaneously. There are many sides to the same person. I'm curious how many sides you need to be compatible with in order to be compatible with the overall person.**

**I'm curious what my soulmate thinks of all of this. What are their sides like?**

**This is the last time I'm going to write, McKenna, because starting tomorrow, I'm no longer Zarra. I'll be you. I'm sorting things out, getting records, getting my final money transfers – everything I'll need to get out of this stupid (actually rather nice) hotel and take the next plane to anywhere but here.**

**Here's the point: I know that if you're dredging up all of these letters, then it's because something's happened to make you think you need to remember me. I have no idea what that might be… that's a lie: maybe it's the special one, the one with the wing on their body, too. Maybe you're not happy with yourself and you're struggling with a hard time. Or maybe even it's something about the family and they're trying desperately to drag you back and you have to cling on and remember why you left.**

**If you're reading this one in particular, then you need to be reminded that you have sides, too, and it's okay if they're not all what you expected them to be. People have** **_so many_ ** **. At times, you're going to learn about parts of yourself that neither of us knew existed.**

**Here's to hoping that those parts are ones we can be proud of, in the end.**

**Zarra LaMontagne**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoo! Final stretch, guys! The final chapter to this story goes up next week!
> 
> Love it? Hate it? Let me know! I'm dying to hear your thoughts!


	30. How to Lie a Little Better

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the search for the music box and evidence against Fowler comes to a climactic head, McKenna has to rush to recognize and correct a mistake that could cost her dearly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Lucy Hale's "Lie a Little Better."

**_Chapter Thirty – How to Lie a Little Better_ **

With my backpack over one shoulder, I stopped right outside the penthouse loft and took a long, deep breath. The two-piece dress in my bag, along with the makeup kit and the high-heeled sandals inside, marked something a lot bigger than just a night out. I hadn't dressed myself up the way I planned to since I changed my name and moved to America.

 _I have come way too far to back out now._ I thought of Mozzie and Neal preparing themselves to risk everything for the stupid box. They'd made their plan on the basis that they would have two other partners. I _couldn't_ back out now, not without making their plan even more fallible than it already was, and I couldn't do that to them. I had already given up on being an FBI agent; already chosen between my priorities and given up my career. If I didn't stay with my friends, then I had nothing.

 _If I don't stay with my friends,_ I thought sternly to myself, holding a fist up to knock on the door. I touched my knuckles to the wood a few times before just opening the door and letting myself in. _Then I don't_ _ **deserve**_ _anything._

Both of the men I was there to see were at the dining table, Mozzie with his back to me and a bottle of wine in his hand. I looked to Neal's cocky smirk as he pushed a champagne glass towards Moz in cue to fill it and felt a little of the uneasiness in my stomach settle. The conman looked up to me to say hello and his expression softened, his smile becoming more sincere, his eyes bright and tender. The radiance, excitement, youthfulness, and fondness in his look soothed some of my nerves.

Mozzie refilled Neal's glass and added some to a formerly-empty one, completing the triad of drinks on the table. "How'd it go?" He asked while I dumped by backpack onto the couch and walked over to the table, running my hands through my long, untied hair.

I sent a stray glance at Mozzie, relieved that he was there and seemed to be fine with what we had planned. Their calmness was going to go a long way in helping me maintain my own. As I reached the table, I held my arms out and walked right up to Neal. He moved his hands over my back and rubbed his cheek against my temple.

"Burke's on our side and El is taking precautions to make sure that Fowler doesn't get them the same way he got me," I reported, curling my fingers into the back of Neal's shirt and leaning back. He was wearing jeans and a teal blue polo. It was an uncharacteristic look for him, but I decided that I liked it. Something about the rough jeans on soft skin and the casual, approachable outfit made me wish he wore clothes like that more often.

Neal slipped his right hand up my back and brought his palm against my cheek. He brushed his thumb over my cheekbone and leaned down. I stood up on my toes and kissed him softly, pulling him close to me. Neal's lips tasted like the muscadine he was drinking, and the sweet flavor rubbed off onto mine. We pressed our mouths together once, twice, and then he kissed my cheek. I grinned, face turned aside for him, and looked at the table – along with the wine and the glasses, there was a pair of kitchen scissors.

My smile faltered and the laughter died in my throat before so much as a sound crossed my lips. I fisted my hands tighter into his clothing as if I was stronger than anyone who might take him away from me – as if the US Marshals wouldn't be able to take him away as long as I kept my arms around him.

"Did the Consulate visit go alright?" I checked, worrying about everything that could still go wrong.

Neal nodded and reached for my arm. I dropped them from his back and he took one of my hands in his, comfortingly rubbing his thumbs firmly into the muscles between bones. "I spoke to Mr. Tamasse, the Consulate manager. Fancelli's study is now safe in the inner sanctum."

"Well," Mozzie interrupted, tilting his head and his hand slightly to the side. The wine looked perilously close to spilling. "He says safe…" I waved my free hand at him not to bother. I understood what they meant – it was only safe until we got in, because, as Neal had explained to me the night prior, the statue was both an in and a hollow cubbyhole for safecracking tools. Mozzie picked up the third champagne glass and handed it to me, the dark purple liquid shining underneath the overhead light. "What's the security situation?"

Neal wrapped an arm around me and cuddled me into his side. I tucked myself right up against his chest without argument, taking comfort in the familiarity of his scent and hug. "Like we expected," he answered while I sipped on my wine. I knew my tolerance; I knew how much I could have to take the edge off without compromising my thought process. "The outer door opens with a keycard."

"And what about the inner door? Can we get through?"

"I'll figure out a way," Neal promised with a sly, cunning smirk. _He's enjoying the challenge._ Though I wished he was taking it more seriously than it felt like he was, at least one of us was having fun and keeping confident.

Abruptly, I intervened, looking up to his face. "He invited you to go to the party, didn't he?"

"He did," the blue-eyed man confirmed, lowering his face to nuzzle his nose against mine.

I giggled a little. The affection was so sweet and unexpected, but by no means was it unwanted. Mozzie made an irritated sigh when I captured Neal's mouth again in a kiss, interrupted by his own low chuckle, rumbling through his chest contently.

"Alex?" Mozzie asked, not saying anything about our cute exchanges. We knew what he thought, and he knew that we knew it, so after doing something to indicate his feelings once, he just put up with it. I think he liked seeing Neal be happy with someone who wouldn't push him to do dumb things. I think any positivity he might have gleaned from our relationship was pushed away by the soulmark he knew was hidden from Neal.

Neal licked his lips. "She's been entertaining the duke," he informed, reminding me of two nights ago, when he had entertained Alex and I both. "You?"

Mozzie proudly held his arms out. "You're looking at the new assistant server trainee." The title didn't seem very impressive. I arched an eyebrow at him. Mozzie pointed at me with a crooked smile. "If I play my cards right, I get dental in three months." _Wow,_ I mouthed sarcastically. The bespectacled man frowned, but instead of jeering at me, he said with concern, "You doing alright? You're looking kind of pale there."

I self-consciously touched my face. I didn't feel too great. Even Neal's soft and warm lips couldn't help me shake the feeling that something was off, I was missing a clue, that just one thing was going to go wrong at the last minute, when we were too far in to stomp the brakes. I was terrified that I'd just sent Peter into a mission that was going to cost him more than he had invested and scared that I was going to come out of this unemployed, no matter what else went right. What if Katie's clients spread the word before I could fix the problem, and when people looked up her facility, the top Google result was about how she funneled money?

Pausing, I started to summarize the entire plan. "We're gonna break into the Italian Consulate tonight while my only safe connection to the bureau tries to sneak into OPR offices and illegally obtain file information, _hope_ that no more charges are pressed on my sister, and _pray_ that nothing goes wrong with the heist." I sent Mozzie a look. "Yeah, I'd say I'm a little nervous."

Neal leaned over to the table and put his glass down. Freeing both hands, he rubbed them up and down my arms. "It's totally natural to be nervous," he promised me. "Just remember why we're doing it and you should be fine. You've been in worse situations than this." Although I had certainly been in more physically-endangering spots, I wasn't so sure that this wasn't the worst corner I'd ever been backed into. I tried to believe him – I _really_ did – but I just couldn't help but feel like I was risking a lot more than just my heartbeat. He started to grin, hands stilling and cupping my elbows. "Ready to base your new career on an embellishment?" My lover asked, trying and failing to hide his excitement.

On one hand, I knew that he wasn't _really_ trying, because if he had been, then I wouldn't have failed. On the other, it disturbed me that he was so eager to charge headfirst into whatever the near future held. I wouldn't have minded taking us all to the couch, sitting down, and just preserving a semblance of the normalcy for just a little while longer.

A quick dart of my eyes to the wall clock showed that we didn't have time. We were out of time for normalcy, for phone calls, for – for 'pulling the rip cord,' as Mozzie would phrase it. Alex was going to be putting her entry in motion at any moment, Peter was going to be staking out Fowler to find an opening to get into his office without raising suspicion, and Katie was at home, probably locking herself in her room and feeling like her world was crumbling, too afraid to pick up her phone in case it was furious parents, too skittish to answer the door in case it was police there to arrest her again.

I recalled the time when I had told him that acting, playing up a role, was just a part of my job; a nice tool, but not the root of it. I knew that was what Neal had wanted me to remember, or he wouldn't have chosen to bring up that specific word.

_"_ _I know how to_ _**act,** _ _" I emphatically amended for him. "Believe it or not, playing up a role goes a long way in the bureau. The difference is that your entire career is based off of it. For me, it's just an embellishment."_

_"_ _Getting some pretty strong vibes of disapproval here," he said, sounding like he was trying to be honest and share his feelings._

I wished he had let that lay in the past. Bringing it back to the forefront of my memory didn't help me. It just fully emphasized what I was doing, the part of me that I was giving up to stay loyal to him. It underscored the cost of being a devoted soulmate to Neal Caffrey. The rewards outweighed the negatives, but the negatives still hurt sometimes. – A lot of the time, but I tried not to think about it.

He either was so wrapped up in his fantasy of being Moreau's hero that he didn't see the way I just stood there like I'd been struck or he felt bad and chose to ignore it. I figured it was the former, because when Neal thinks he's done something wrong, he usually tries to fix it. Mozzie, however, definitely noticed. He gave me a questioning face and when I just shrugged it off, a little jerkily, the conman looked unconvinced.

He took my cue and didn't say anything.

"We're almost ready," Neal said, looking at the clock as well. He reached to the table again and picked up the black handles of the scissors. "Let's cut it off." He didn't need to specify what he wanted to cut. Neal twisted back to me and held out the blades. "Want to do the honors, sweetheart?"

I had known this was coming, but it still made me forget how to breathe. The full significance came and hit me like a ton of cold water. I was cutting his anklet. He wasn't going to be supervised by a team of agents, and the Marshals would have no idea that he wasn't exactly where the anklet said he was. If he so chose, he could run. He could flee, he could get thousands of miles away before anyone could have half a chance at stopping him. When Neal wanted to run, he ran, and I feared that the only way to stop him from doing so was if he thought he gained more than he lost. Was this life he'd built himself in New York (me included) worth remaining shackled for another three years?

I couldn't see how it _wouldn't_ be, when the alternative was to never be truly free again, but I was the one that thought ahead. Neal lived in the moment and he loved to feel the wind in his hair and the sun on his face and the liberty of not answering to anyone else's call.

I took the scissors, not saying anything. _Think of it another way,_ I urged myself before I got sick. _You're showing you're on his side. You're giving him some freedom, letting him out of his cage. And he's promised you that he'll behave, and he'll come back home after the job's done._ If I couldn't take his word for it when he knew how much it would hurt me, professionally _and_ personally, if he ran for good, then was dating him really the best choice for me, anyway?

My first response was for my heart to skip a beat and for my throat to tighten. Neal was always worth it. The pain was always worth the rewards of hearing his laugh and feeling his hand guiding me on my back. When he hurt me, I kept thinking of repairing the damage so that I could get back to that state of love, and when he made me happy, I just wanted to stay that way forever.

My head said that it wasn't worth it, that I deserved better – but then I had to second-guess if I really did, because I was just as much of a criminal as he was at this point, and maybe I _didn't_ actually deserve better. Maybe the trials I was under were just stripping back my costume and revealing my true character to be a perfect match for Neal's immoral, more condemnable choices.

Either way, I wanted to repair the damage so that I could enjoy being in love, and I wanted to finish what I had started so that even if I felt like I deserved heartbreak, I could still be proud that I wasn't a coward.

Neal pulled out the nearest chair and picked up his leg, putting his foot down on the seat and yanking the leg of his jeans up past his ankle. The anklet's light was still off, so against his bare leg, it just looked like a Halloween accessory or something. Without the transmitting light, it was significantly less severe-looking.

"I feel like I should make a toast or something," Mozzie remarked, crossing his arms. I sighed, as was typical of me, and waited for him to say something philosophical. He didn't disappoint. "Ah… ' _we feel free when we escape, even if it be but from the frying pan into the fire._ ' Eric Hoffer."

I agreed with Hoffer. I was definitely about to jump feet-first into a ton of fire and hope I'd chosen the right potion to make me invincible. Unfortunately, I couldn't rely on having Hermione Granger's luck or clarity of mind. Every decision I made for the last year had been influenced by Neal. I hadn't been objective in a long time.

It wasn't my intention to stroke his calf, but I ended up doing so to procrastinate. Neal didn't seem to realize why I had just rubbed his leg, but he picked up his free hand and buried his fingers in my hair, massaging my scalp. I pulled the strap as far from his skin as I was able, slipped one of the scissor blades in between thick fabric and breakable flesh, and, before I psyched myself out of it, I sliced the scissors through the anklet, which fell on the chair with a clatter.

We all just stood there, frozen in place, waiting for the unthinkable to happen. Would a SWAT helicopter shine a spotlight through from outside? Would a battering ram slam down June's front door? Would I get a frantic call from Derek that Neal had cut his anklet, or a composed and mildly-interested communication from the US Marshals' office? Mozzie didn't even drink his alcohol. Neal's fingers were deep in my black-dyed tresses, his fist bunched up in my hair and his fingernails against my scalp.

I started to get a cramp in my hand from my hold on the scissors. Even after the anklet was cut, I had still gripped the blades closed like I had yet to cut through it. I started to stand up straight, hyperaware of my phone in my pocket, failing to feel any vibrations.

"No sirens," Mozzie optimistically noted.

I checked my phone screen after I laid down the scissors, just to be safe. Neal reached down and rubbed his hands over his ankle, seeming to relish just in having it off. "I'm not getting any alerts," I hesitantly said aloud. The thought of jinxes did come to mind.

Neal grinned, letting his jeans fall back down as he took up his wine glass again. "Into the fire." He proclaimed, as solemn as he could manage to be while tasting the most freedom he would have for years to come.

He and Mozzie toasted enthusiastically. I smiled thinly and rubbed my hands off on my pants, let Neal toast against my own glass, and downed all that was left at once.

* * *

The Italian Consulate was a beautiful place, and under different circumstances, I might have been pleased to be there. With my scarlet-red lips and light purple eyeshadow complimenting my blue eyes and pale white skin, I looked like any number of models that could've been found at the party we had thrown to try to catch Ghovat. My dress felt slimming, but it also felt exposing. The glass beads resting over my chest shimmered under lighting. More of my arms, breasts, legs, and back were showing than anyone but Neal had seen in quite a while.

We all had to arrive separately so we wouldn't be connected. Mozzie arrived before guests were let in, playing the role of a staff member prepared to cater to the partygoers. Alex, cast as a mistress, would be entering beside the duke – likely a little 'fashionably' late. Neal went in almost early, just to see if he could have a word with Tamasse and confirm that the statue was where it needed to be for him to have access to his safecracking equipment, and I went up to the doors after seeing many other guests already arrive. Those that came first and last would be the best remembered by security, so I waited until I could be easily forgotten between other arrivals.

At the security gate, a full-body metal detector awaited me. Before I went through, a couple went underneath separately. I saw that the man had a phone with him. He passed the cellular to the security guard to his left, went underneath the metal detector, and then collected his phone when no alarms went off. His lady took his arm and they went up the slowly-rounding staircase immediately to the right of the entry.

Alex and I were both carrying our own equipment. I didn't know how Alex intended to sneak hers in, but I had an old trick that I'd been using since I was Zarra to sneak things past watchful eyes.

Smiling silkily at security, I took my light grey wristlet off and unzipped the pouch. I took out just my phone, holding it carefully so it wasn't obvious that there was much else inside. I followed it up by dropping the phone back in and pulling out lipstick, eyeliner, and a tube of what seemed like mascara on the outside before dropping them back in, zipping it up, and handing it to the guard by the strap.

It worked like a charm. He assumed that I had showed him everything my wristlet represented, and instead of holding it by the bag and feeling the thicker body of a camera or the longer form of a collapsible camera mount, he took it for granted that the weight was just from my phone and some cosmetics.

The other guard waved me through, dressed in a white security uniform with a badge on the left side of his chest. I held my arms out away from my sides while I walked underneath the metal scanner. The light remained green. I turned around, held my hand out for my belongings, and had my wristlet deposited in my hand politely.

I took my things and turned my back to them, making sure not to act like I had slipped anything by their screening, then proceeded to start climbing the stairs, the heels of my shoes pressing up against my feet and my ruffled, loose skirt airily brushing against the backs of my thighs with each step.

Wristlets and small purses were useful for smuggling small things past formal people. When I was a teenager, I had learned that, whether it was security guards or parents, hardly any man ever wanted to go through a woman's bag, and as long as I was careful how I presented it, the condoms or the cigarettes would go unnoticed.

Or, in this case, the smoke bombs.

* * *

This was quite possibly the lamest party Zarra LaMontagne's name had ever entered. Oh, sure, there was a bar, and there were chandeliers and short dresses, but the people had too much decorum to make out or hook up in a closet. The music was merely instrumental, and it was soft, barely audible underneath the voices. It was hardly a 'party' the way I thought of them and more like a mixer for the privileged.

I was, however, grateful for the years that I had spent being immersed in Italian. The staff of the Consulate spoke Italian amongst themselves, transitioning to faintly-accented English only when they had to address their guests, most of whom were English-speaking Americans. I loitered near a wall, keeping track of at least one of my comrades subtly at any given time, while entertaining whoever wanted to talk to me. A pretty woman dressed provocatively on her own – well, I would've been more surprised if my skirt _wasn't_ being chased, especially since not only was there alcohol present, but I had seen Alex – who was clearly the plus-one of another man – be chatted up several times by various people, one of which was female.

Whenever they were particularly persistent, getting to the point where I couldn't concentrate on the heist, I would seek out Alex or Mozzie with my eyes. Neal Caffrey's face was too well-known to anyone looking for him, so the two of us avoided being seen together. The other two, though, were free to casually mingle with me, and when Alex or I had too much attention on us, we would go up to each other and talk like we were sisters. Between the two of us, we could chase anyone away except for one particularly stubborn fellow. At that point, Mozzie had 'accidentally' bumped into him and spilled several glasses' worth of wine on his jacket.

There was something to be said for teamwork with people who weren't against property damage.

I was reluctant to be rude to anyone, but the guy talking to me was really getting on my nerves. He looked handsome and well-off and if I weren't plotting a felony and in love with someone else, I might've seriously considered taking him up on his offers of leaving together after the party. As it was, he was just annoying me because he couldn't take a hint.

"Perhaps I should go and get us some refreshments, eh?" He asked flirtatiously, winking at me and leaning forwards into my personal space.

I took a step to the side, glancing over my shoulder to make sure I wasn't about to walk into anyone. I clutched my wristlet tighter in my hand, envisioning it as a brick that I could slam into the guy's head. "No, thanks. For the fourth time, I don't drink anything I can't prepare." Staging it as a fear of date-rape drugs seemed slightly more polite than outright telling him _I don't want to go anywhere with you_. "It's my fiancé's idea," I added as an afterthought, looking towards the threshold of the ballroom and finding Alex's tightly-fit black dress.

I absolutely hated using my relationship status as a way to get people to back off. It was disgusting that some men respected women as property of other men more than they respected their right to be independently making the choice not to do something, so I chose not to cater to it. If I didn't want to do something, I didn't do it. As far as I was concerned, whether or not I was otherwise involved was completely irrelevant. Desperate times called for desperate measures and all that, so I relented on my stance just one time.

He looked at my hands. I wasn't engaged, nor was I a big fan of rings, so I had no stereotypical band. "I don't see any fiancé," the dirty blond-haired man dubiously answered, starting to sound suspicious.

My patience ran out and I smiled sweetly. "And I don't see why you can't take a fucking hint. Go bother someone else. The only reason hands are getting up _my_ dress are because I say so, and I don't need _your_ help to get off, so you're of no use to me."

Incredibly insulted, he finally understood the position I was coming from (more or less) and departed with some rude words about my manners and how I should take compliments. _Fucking pig,_ I seethed, before I saw Alex shooting me a look, asking silently if I needed help. I clenched my hands, shook my head, and took a deep breath. _You had one job, Anderson,_ I groaned internally. _Be inconspicuous. God, I can't wait for this to be over._

Alex nodded slightly and shifted her focus before anyone noticed that we had a moment. She was otherwise engaged with a friend of the duke's as he introduced the two animatedly. Alex turned up the charm with her eyelashes and a giggle and I might as well have been forgotten.

It was just as well. Women had to stick together sometimes, but the only reason I tolerated Alex (and vice versa) was because we both wanted the same thing. Sort of.

I leaned back against the wall and sighed. The violas in the orchestral piece were vibrato-ing while the violins crescendoed and the cellos did the opposite, the piece coming to an active yet refined climax.

I scanned my eyes over the crowd, holding my hands down in front of me. I didn't want to look unapproachable or defensive. I couldn't see Mozzie right away, and people had moved in between Alex and me, cutting off my view of the fence. Sliding my gaze around to the left side of the room, I looked towards the bar longingly. A drink was just what I needed… except it was also the last.

My eyes brightened when I caught sight of Neal, sitting before the barkeep with his legs sideways over a stool. His lips were moving as he made conversation, but he was looking over the sophisticated festivities, casing the place like I was. He met my eyes and his lips quirked in the beginning of a smile. After less than a second, he turned his head around to the bartender, presumably to order something.

His other arm dropped lower than the counter and into his lap. Neal slid his palm over his knee innocuously as if just rubbing at an itch before he patted his fingers three times against his leg.

I departed from the wall, seeking out the caterer traveling on foot without making it obvious that I was looking for someone. I figured a safe route was towards Alex – we had already convinced one person that we were related, so we had enough of a reason to speak to each other. While approaching the fence, I kept looking for a short man in a tux serving out wine glasses, and sure enough, I saw him offering refills to a couple of male guests who were talking business with each other.

Quickly, I looked over my shoulder and giggled while I approached so that the men would think I had been talking with someone else. " _Pardonnez-moi,"_ I said, inflecting my voice with a higher pitch and forcing a pink blush to rise in my face. _"_ _Peux-je avoir de vin pour moi et mon cher?"_ I asked with a giggle.

Although Mozzie's grasp on other languages wasn't as fluent as Neal's or mine, he still had a knack for memorization. If he had been a stranger, only his accent would've given away that he wasn't well-versed. _"Bien sûr, Mademoiselle."_ The business partners – who didn't speak French – pointed me out to each other with their voices low. Mozzie held out his circular serving tray with the glasses separated by type of drink. _"Rouge ou blanc?"_

 _"_ _Nous aimons des choses different,"_ I answered with a sheepish giggle, taking one of each kind from his tray. As I did, I tapped three of my fingers on my right hand against the glass. Mozzie raised his head slightly as he saw.

 _"_ _Dis lui boire rapidement."_ Mozzie advised. There was something underlying that – _hurry. Be ready._ I nodded.

_"_ _Je vais."_

Mozzie moved on, leaving me with two glasses of alcohol and the attention of two men in their mid- to late-twenties. I tried very hard not to look at either of them as I turned my back to them and headed to the bar, where I set both drinks down without looking at Neal. It wasn't the first time so far that I had praised myself for the decision to wear gloves that covered my fingerprints.

Mozzie went towards Alex, the duke, the duke's friends, and the staff stationed nearby. The staff were friendly and conversed with their guests openly. One of the ones that I had heard speaking Italian was close enough for both Mozzie and Alex to reach quickly. Alex saw Mozzie – I assume she saw him give the signal – and laid her hand on the duke's arm, excusing herself with some no-doubt half-flirty and very feminine excuse, like to powder her nose or whatever the hell that was even supposed to mean.

When she was free of her company, she started to walk to the middle-aged Italian. Mozzie came up behind him before Alex could make contact and fumbled right into his side. Glasses were knocked over and wine spilled on the tray, but very little of it actually got on the host. Instead of just yelling at Mozzie, as some rich people would do, he started to grab hold of Moz's shoulders and help the latter regain his balance. His left hand quickly slipped under the tray to keep it upright.

Mozzie furtively apologized while the dark-haired man caught them both and reasserted that they did, in fact, know how to stay bipedal. Alex reached them, but instead of adding to the distraction, she slipped just behind the Italian. Her dominant hand slipped into the man's right front pocket, keeping her thumb out and away from touching his side. When she took her fingers out of his pants, she was pinching a security card between them. Equally as smoothly, she tucked it into her palm and up her sleeve.

I just kept watching as if it was in slow-motion. Alex came to the end of the ballroom, innocently prepared to ask for a drink. I was several feet away at the same counter, but could hear her ask if they served martinis. The bartender turned his back to create one for her, and Alex turned her back to me so that she could face Neal.

I tried not to watch, but I stole a glance despite my resolve. Neal pressed his lips to the back of her hand while looking up at her through his eyelashes. Alex smiled. Just as quickly, I looked away and reminded myself not to read into it. They were just playing Pass the Stolen Card… I could've lived with it if they hadn't included the eye contact, though. The eye contact seemed more intimate than strangers needed to be.

Alex turned to face the counter just as the bartender gave Neal a half-full glass of something alcoholic. Neal picked his up by the neck of the glass, slipped off of his seat, and disappeared as quickly as a fox. Alex and I both stayed at the counter, yet neither of us took seats. Eyes on the side of my face made me shortly look over to her. The brunette pursed her lips and lowered her eyes. Following what she was looking at, I saw her tap two crossed fingers on the edge of the table.

It was the second signal. We made as much of the plan as obvious as we could so that it was harder to miss the signs of when to act, but some of them couldn't be helped. The con to steal the card was enacted by Neal, but had to be carried out by Mozzie and Alex. Any of the staff could've recognized Neal from his previous recon visit, and it had been unanimously agreed that, of the two of us, Alex was probably the better pickpocket. I was decent at petty crime, but this was too important to let my ego influence our decisions. Alex made her career out of crime; therefore, she got to be the one committing it.

The second part was to create a diversion larger than just knocking into someone. We needed to get into the inner sanctum, but the only way to do that was to let Neal work out a plan. Since he had started everything in gear, it was safe to say that he had formed one. In the meantime, while the heist went on, we would need to buy time, which meant occupying staff and patrons alike.

It was my idea to start mass panic. The building plans confirmed that there were smoke detectors installed in every room, and my inner fourteen-year-old came out.

Alex and I, as females, were the least inconspicuous when we were quiet and quick. I unzipped my wristlet and took out a tube of my cherry lipstick and put on a thin, unnecessary layer. While I popped my lips and put the lipstick away, I also fingered a couple of the tubes that the guards had thought were makeup containers, flipped them into my palm, and closed my hand around them. Alex wasn't carrying a bag, but she was likely wearing a bra, and the smoke bombs really weren't too hard to hide. I would've stuffed mine under my breasts if I hadn't also needed to carry a camera and selfie stick.

"Excuse me! _Scusi!_ Pardon!" The very familiar voice that I loved was unexpectedly loud. I turned on impulse and looked up to find Neal standing in the center of the room, raising his glass over his head and begging for attention.

 _This was not part of the plan..._ I looked over at Alex quickly. She shrugged at me. The only tell that she was alarmed was the tightening of her lips.

Neal projected his voice across the entire ballroom. Soon enough, the hush that had replaced the mingling was expectant and anticipatory. Neal smiled handsomely, in his element. "I'd like to make a toast," he announced, looking around, presenting. "To our gracious host, and to all of you!" He lowered his glass to about level with his chest. "Because this is a very special night… well. It's special to me, anyway."

There were way too many movies where the villain screwed themselves over by stopping to explain their evil plot. I wasn't sure where Neal was going with this, but it sounded like he was close to doing the same thing. Alex crossed her arms while she watched, externally an attentive guest, but internally ready to whack him upside the head.

He drank from his liquor while he still held the attention of the group. It was a little bit rude and a lot relaxed, more casual than he had any reasonable right to be. He hummed slightly and nodded in approval.

"You probably have no idea who I am, so I'm going to tell you." Neal's signature cocky (sexy) smirk adorned his face, gifting him with the appeal and the charisma of someone who knew exactly what they shouldn't be doing, intended to do just that, and knew how to entice everyone else to go along with it. That expression was dangerous. "I'm an internationally-renowned art thief."

Neal seemed a bit too proud of his title for my tastes. Literally being internationally-renowned hadn't made him any more tolerable. _At least he's talented at something,_ I optimistically offered.

The modest laughter rippled out from its origin somewhere near the corner of the room, furthest from Neal. The guests thought it was just a joke to make light or break the ice. Conversely, I saw the security guards – both the ones standing around the perimeter watchfully and the ones hosting, the one Alex had pickpocketed included – tense and look around, identifying each other and preparing to move.

"And tonight," he paused for dramatic effect before breaking into a grin. "I'm here to rob you." He lifted his glass at the laughter. "Cheers!"

As soon as he released the audience from their hold, Neal was encroached upon by three staff members from different directions. The few patrons that actually noticed what was happening looked very uncomfortable, but luckily, no one made a scene. Not even Neal, who was taken roughly by the arms and pulled by two men being instructed by the guy we'd stolen from.

The dark-haired, young Italian stopped and laughed loudly. " _Signori e signoria,"_ he called loudly to anyone who would listen, an inappropriately displeased smile on his face as he smoothed over any issues from someone watching Neal be led away by guards. "It seems one of our guests has had a touch too much to drink. Please do continue to enjoy your evening."

It took me a moment of standing stock-still in fear and apprehension before I realized where they were taking him: their security rooms in the inner sanctum, where they'd handle the possible threat without inciting gossip or media attention. They wouldn't want the tabloids to get their greedy paws on something like this, and the last thing they wanted was for things to seem like the Italian Consulate couldn't screen their own guests, so they'd keep it as private as they could.

_Well, that's one way to get inside._

I sighed, still feeling like I'd been petrified. Alex had already recovered from her shock and she sidestepped the few feet in my direction until we stood side-by-side, our backs to the bar.

"He made that look easy," the gorgeous brunette commented, clearly appreciating Neal's cleverness and his showmanship.

I couldn't deny that Neal had a knack for getting things done. "Relatively speaking, I think that _was_ the easy part," I responded honestly. Now that security was on alert, Alex's and my job would be a bit harder to do without being spotted. Hopefully they would be too worried about Neal to care about a couple of lone, harmless women who hadn't been seen with their supposed art thief.

"Ready?" Alex asked me with a mischievous smile lighting up her face. It was devious and eager and in another life, maybe it could've been the most endearing and attractive thing I had ever seen.

I licked my lips and forcibly swallowed. "I always wanted to see what would happen when I pulled the fire alarms as a kid."

Thanks to Mozzie's connections, the two of us didn't have a terribly complex challenge before us. The smoke bombs we had hidden were small, compact, and triggered easily, but not so easily that they could be set off on accident. There were plenty of hiding places around the Consulate, but the ones I was favoring were the potted plants. Foliage was flammable, so it would be more buyable that there was a fire. Alcohol would've been my first preference, as an alcohol fire could be very dangerous and people would evacuate with more urgency, but the odds of the bartender noticing were too high.

Mozzie was out of sight. I trusted that he was doing what he had to do to take care of his responsibilities while Alex and I parted ways from the bar, slinking to the walls and remaining casual and calm.

As I came to a tall potted fern, I looked around with my tongue out against my lip nervously. I took one of the smoke bombs from my hand and twisted the end, then tucked it halfway into the soil underneath the wide leaves. I made sure that there was a gap between the fern leaves for smoke to rise, but that it wouldn't be visible to someone who wasn't looking for it. The smoke didn't wait, but the clock was ticking from the moment I'd twisted the end. That was the trigger. We had about two minutes before it would start.

I held off on planting (pun intended) my second one. I found a place near the wall and stood up on my toes, looking around with a bitten lip for Alex's dress, or her hair. I found her further along the opposite wall through a gap in people. She was keeping an eye out as a sentry for herself while she held her hands closely together at her front.

This part of the plan had been developed by me, and I hadn't shared it with anyone.

There was a reason for that. I took my phone out of my wristlet quickly, opened it past the lock screen and straight into the camera app, and held it up in front of my face. I pinched my fingers on the screen and spread them, zooming in on Alex across the room, and started to rapidly tap on the shutter button on the lower part of the screen. The phone clicked quietly while it took several photographs. It created an effect like watching someone move through strobe lights as Alex's movements were documented planting something carefully behind luscious ferns.

I lowered my cell before she saw or anyone else noticed what I was taking pictures of. I hoped Mozzie hadn't seen. I was well aware that my choices could make me look incredibly suspect as a fed being undercover, but that wasn't my intention. The reason I wasn't worried about Mozzie or Neal was because I trusted them. I didn't trust Alex, so I wanted a little more insurance.

I saved the photos and put my phone away, removing a third smoke bomb from my little purse and carrying on to plant them hurriedly, avoiding contact with any people and trying not to make it obvious that I'd gotten distracted doing something else. Once the six bombs were evenly distributed in the room, I wandered to the doors, loitering pleasantly with a smile on my face like a contented guest with a nice buzz.

Alex was already out of sight. I imagined she had already disappeared into the designated hiding spot. The trick now was to stay present, and to do that, we had to avoid the throngs of people trying to get out. I left the ballroom when I reached a count of forty in my head, estimating that the first smoke bomb was going to go off in seconds, and I slipped along the far wall and to the bathrooms. The open doorway let the noise still filter through, but after the door in the restrooms shut behind me, most of what I could hear was the orchestral strains.

And then the smoke alarms started to blare.

"Alex?" I asked, leaning against the wall next to the door. There was no answer. I cocked my head and tried again, a little louder. "Alex!"

There was still no response. I stalked past the stalls, pushing them open as I went. They were all empty. Alex hadn't come to the place we'd agreed on; she'd found another route somehow. _This is why I wanted to be able to blackmail you,_ I thought at her with increasing irritation. If she deviated from one part, she was likely to deviate from the rest.

At the very least, I was alone in the bathrooms and didn't have to fend off anyone who would try to drag me out of the building at the promise of a fire. I went back to the thick wooden door and leaned against the wall right next to it, listening in. The alarms drowned out the string music, but didn't cover the louder volume when the PA system was turned onto another frequency.

 _"_ _Scusi, escusami, tutti!"_ A tinny voice quality came through the sound system in the ceiling from the control room. _"Everyone leave the room, please, in a calm and organized fashion. The fire department is being notified currently."_

The man speaking repeated the general idea in Italian, then a third time in Spanish. The Spanish was a little choppy, so I guessed he had to read that language off of a paper or a computer, but it was understandable. Soon enough, as predicted, the panic and anxiety that had swept over the patrons left them hurrying loudly, some shouting for their partners and companions while others were just pushing to get out. No one took a bathroom break to powder their nose before leaving, so I was undiscovered. I waited, mouthing the numbers as I counted up, going to a hundred at a fairly quick pace. The party was pretty exclusive, so there weren't actually a ton of people to evacuate, and it seemed like it would give Mozzie enough time to get in place and Neal the opportunity to escape the distracted security guards.

The noise level had dropped by the time I reached seventy, and at a hundred, everything sounded like it was coming from a distance of at least the first floor. Even the PA system had been shut off now that there was an emergency situation. Warily, I pushed the bathroom door open a crack to look through. No one was left in the hallway. With a thrill of success and concern giving me an energy boost, I darted out, closed the bathroom door as quietly as I could, and then ran in the opposite direction from the stairs towards the center of the building.

The inner sanctum vaults were located on the third floor. I came to an emergency staircase and went ahead and pushed it open. No one would be taking these stairs when the grand set had been so much closer to the ballroom. I sprinted up the next flight as rapidly as I could, relieved that I wasn't wearing a long dress to hold out of the way.

I was curious if this feeling of being half-invincible and half-terrified was how Neal felt when his heists worked according to plan.

Exiting the stairwell, I took a right to head back into the building and came up with a set of large locked doors made of thick, bulletproof glass. The doors extended all the way to the ceiling and were as wide as eight feet or more, and the hallway inside was barred off on the other end by a gridded metal gate with a keycard lock. Inside the hall, there were two doors on the left and three on the right. The one closer on the left looked like it was part of a smaller room, because the second door was very close to it and had the entire rest of the hall to fill. I guessed that was the one with the vaults containing the music box.

_Way to go, Neal!_

Mozzie was standing at the left side of the glass doors, his back to the wall. I looked up to the corner over his head and saw a stationary white camera mounted on our side of the glass, looking down the hallway as we had predicted there would be.

Mozzie tilted his head back and looked through the glass. "Neal!" He hissed as loudly as he dared.

I questioned the logistics of the doors and their soundproofing, but apparently they let sound pass through just as easily as air. The next thing I heard was Neal's impatient, _"Where are you?"_ demand coming from inside the inner sanctum.

Hearing that he was present and ready, I unwound the strap of my wristlet from my arm and unzipped it hurriedly. Without the smoke bombs taking up space, it was easier to quickly grab and take out the camera, which I handed to Mozzie, followed by the selfie stick, which I held the end of and flicked down towards the floor. The second half of the stick slid out of the wider base and snapped into place.

"The other side of the glass," the conman next to me answered, his voice a little less harried now that we knew Neal was in position. "Be ready."

I took up a position behind Mozzie like a guard. I wasn't armed – Fowler had taken away my credentials and bureau-issued carrying license, and I couldn't sneak a gun into the Consulate anyway – but I knew some martial arts and I was prepared to do some serious ass-kicking. I would just have to bank on my experience. My agility and smaller size should be enough to balance out the odds if I was confronted with someone much larger.

Of course, this counted on the security guards of the Consulate not being armed themselves. If they had tasers, I was probably not going to be able to fight them off. Guns, I might stand a chance of disarming one at a time, but only an idiot would investigate a robbery on their own.

Moz mounted the camera on the end of the stick and lifted it up in front of the white-encased camera. We had to do this quickly. Aside from the safecracking, it was the riskiest part. There was no promise that the person watching the feeds would look away at the exact moment we were getting the camera into position. We could hope they had evacuated when the alarms started going off, but we had no such promise.

The shutters clicked. It was almost inaudible under the wailing alarm. Afterwards, the frozen frame of the empty hallway came up on the automatic recall setting. Mozzie leaned heavily on the wall, standing as tall as he could to stretch his arm up high enough to hold the camera's screenshot in front of the lens. He pressed his forearm hard into the wall to stop his grip from moving the picture. I had offered to do this part, what with being taller, but he and Neal had both agreed that unless Moz actually _couldn't_ reach, I was best utilized as a protective detail.

"Go!" Mozzie called through the doors.

Neal came sliding out of the open door to the control room like there was a fire on his heels. His loafers skidded on the light tile flooring. My mate still had the card Alex stole on his person, probably hidden from security in his waistband or shoe, and held it to the door to the vault. The card reader scanned it too slowly for my liking, but when the loud click announced the disengagement of the locks, Neal twisted the handle and bolted inside, leaving the door open.

It was kind of awkward to just stand there and wait, but without our own access card, there wasn't anything else I could do. We listened for Neal to get the job done. I bit my tongue on how Alex had disappeared, knowing that Mozzie didn't need to be startled and Neal didn't need to have his attention or confidence compromised.

_But that reminds me…_

Since there was nothing else I should've been doing, I took out my phone. I had a missed call from Katie.

My finger hovered over the 'call back' button for a second before I dismissed the notification. _I'm sorry,_ I vowed, _I'm doing this for you. Just stay safe. I'll get back to you when I'm not bringing furious Italians to our doorstep._ It would've been a bad idea to send an electronic signal of any kind from my personal phone from within the walls of the Consulate. It would act as a GPS timestamp.

Something smashed inside the vault. I grimaced, sympathetic. It would not have felt good for Neal to have to demolish something he'd created, but oh, well. Win some, lose some. He destroyed part of the sculpture he had forged to get to the safecracking equipment he'd stowed away inside.

Drilling started to come from the vault. It wasn't the loud, uncontrolled vibrations of a tool from Home Depot, but rather a lighter, higher pitch of fast and forceful machinery. I swallowed, knowing that we were almost done. _So close._ Just a little bit longer; I only had to hold out for a little bit longer.

After that, it was quiet. I knew better than to say anything, although with every second that we just _waited_ , I was left with more and more concern. Neal wasn't saying anything. What if someone else had been in there? What if there were security cameras we weren't aware of? What if Alex had tipped off the police, and that was why she'd scrammed so fast? I tapped my foot rapidly but didn't try to call out for my boyfriend. He'd need to be able to hear the individual pins to break in.

I opened up a new text in the meantime and addressed it to the contact in my phone listed solely as "A." In it, I attached three photographs of Alex planting a smoke bomb into the ferns. I stared down at it for a long moment, trying to decide what to write, before I decided that it wasn't necessary. The pictures would be threat enough.

 _Do I really want to do this?_ I asked myself at the last moment, realizing the full extent of what I was doing. _Blackmail? Extortion?_ This wasn't like when Neal had pretended to extort a manipulative and foul doctor. The only people that would be hurt if I didn't do this were us, and to be fair, we were trying to get something we didn't actually have a claim to. Right now, I was no better than some of the other people I had already put away with Neal's help. Did I really want to add to my own rap sheet? I would never let these things stop haunting me. Was it worth it to make it worse?

Mozzie shifted. I heard his shoe squeak and looked up swiftly to the hallway, eyes locking down the corridor and expecting a horde of armed guards to come bursting forth at any time. "Neal, hurry up!" Mozzie warned loudly, gritting his teeth. "My arm's killing me from holding that drink tray!"

 _Yes, it is._ I couldn't let all of this be for nothing. Just in case, I saved the text draft to my library and pushed my phone away.

I was right on time, too. Neal left the door to the vault wide open when he came out. There was scarcely any point in trying to hide that there had been a robbery after all of the damage that had been done inside. He carried a thick, heavy-duty black duffel, the kind that stored hunting or camping equipment, with the strap slung over his shoulder. Neal glanced at the gate – our exit strategy – and then to Mozzie and I through the glass.

"Take your time, why don't you?" Mozzie complained. "You're losing your touch!"

"Well, it's been a while," I argued defensively. "I mean, I _think_ it's been a while." I sent Neal a long, questioning look. If he'd been breaking into similarly-guarded vaults since I let him out of prison, there was probably going to be a very loud, very unhappy conversation coming in our near future.

Neal cringed and shook his head. "No, it's been a while. I admit, I'm a little rusty." At another time, I'd have laughed at his eagerness to say such a thing.

Light footsteps echoed in the hall as their owner ran. I tensed, rolling my shoulders back and holding my hands halfway up in a fighting position. Then the echoing changed tone and became easier to locate. We all looked towards the black gates on the other side of the sanctum apprehensively.

Instead of police, it was just Alex. She pushed her fingers through the grids and leaned against the gate. "Let me in," she called, looking over her shoulder and biting her lip.

Neal saw that she was acting like she was being chased and went to her quickly. If we had to, we could break out the way we'd come, but especially with a suspicious black bag, it was going to be significantly harder. I narrowed my eyes at Alex while Neal put down the duffel and opened the gate from the inside to permit her entry. She was acting paranoid and nervous, yes, but she couldn't have been running far; she wasn't even out of breath. Her hair was barely out of place.

"Is everything okay?" He asked while she stepped inside hurriedly.

Instead of answering, Alex saw the bag, clearly stuffed with more than it had had at the beginning of the heist, and grinned widely, showing off white teeth and sparkling eyes. "We did it, Neal!" She squealed excitedly, jumping to him and throwing her arms around his waist.

Neal impulsively reacted, hugging her around her upper back. "We're not out of here yet," he cautioned her, giving her a gentle push away from him.

 _"_ _Is somebody down there?"_ A deep masculine voice shouted down the corridor. My breath picked up as my head snapped around. That was an Italian accent.

Mozzie sharply interrupted the reunion of thief and ex. "That's very touching, guys," he said, abruptly bringing the camera down from in front of the security frame. "But they're coming!" Well, there was no point in trying to pretend there wasn't a heist taking place when they were about to discover us.

A soft clanking and slam made us all turn back around. The gate was shut with Alex, once again, on the other side. She had the duffel with the music box pulling down over her shoulder and waited until the door buzzed and the locks clicked to stop holding it shut with her hands.

"Alex!" Neal growled, advancing quickly to the gate.

I sighed disappointedly, locking eyes with her. She shrugged at me apologetically but didn't really seem to mean it.

_Extortion actually seems pretty appealing right now._

Alex stuffed an access card through the crack between two pieces of metal where the gate folded in half as it was rolled to the side when it opened. It took me only a couple of seconds to realize that it was the same one she had stolen to begin with, lifted from Neal before he had pushed her away. I bit my tongue on saying something _incredibly_ rude that probably would've offended Neal's delicate sensibilities more than it would've offended Alex.

 _"_ _Le scala!"_ Someone yelled, having heard the gate close. _"Ho sentito qualcuno!"_

Footsteps got louder and heavier as more people began to push themselves to hurry. Neal bent down and swiped the card off of the floor, doubling back to the glass doors to let Mozzie and me in before we were caught and apprehended. Alex watched his back wistfully before she heard another Italian phrase, which incited her to hurry back into the hall she'd come from and bolt for her own secret exit strategy.

I felt like I'd just been backstabbed. Even though I'd kind of seen it coming, I was still very offended.

Neal pressed the card to the scanner. I simultaneously took out my cellular and used my fingerprint to unlock it. My messages were still open. I selected the draft I'd created and looked over my shoulder.

"Hurry up, they're coming!" Mozzie urged, as if the level of hastiness could make the scanner somehow work faster.

 _I'm sorry to do this, but not sorry enough to stop._ I sent the message, incriminating photographs and all. I would have to hope that no one suspected me of being involved in the heist. I doubted Fowler thought I would try anything like it, assuming I'd leave it up to Neal, but just in case… one way or another, one of us wasn't going to be an agent in the next few days. Either Fowler was nailed and he didn't have the resources to look at my phone history or I was arrested for whatever he could scrounge up against me. I wasn't naïve enough to think he would stop at the assault charge. The odds of Alex ridding herself of it as soon as she could were high, and we couldn't afford to have to track it down again.

The glass parted with a rush of air. It was cooler in the sanctum than it was in the rest of the building; maybe they had things (like sculptures) that did best when in slightly lower temperatures. Mozzie ran through and snatched the card from Neal's offering hand, pressing it to the scanner at the gate.

The door to the stairwell opened. The dark-haired man that had addressed the crowd and had gotten his card stolen was leading a group of security guards up the same route I had taken myself, and his swift walk turned into a sprint when he let out an angry yell and saw us.

Neal reached for my shoulder. "Come on, Kenna," he mumbled, pulling me in by my upper arm while I stumbled in my heels. I caught my balance, throwing my hand against the wall on the inside, as the doors slid shut on a timed mechanism.

The fists of the host landed on the glass less than a foot in front of my face. I blinked, starting to feel oddly impersonal, and then felt Neal's hand on my back, pushing to hurry me up as Mozzie got the gate to open. I came back to reason and flipped off the Italians while turning around and running, grabbing onto Neal's hand.

 _"_ _Andare in giro!"_ He shouted at the men at his side. _"Andare in giro l'altro modo!"_ I spun around against the gates and as soon as Neal was through, I shoved them roughly to the side, slamming them shut. I almost expected them to break, but they held steady. On the other side of the sanctum, the boss held up a walkie-talkie. Four guards started to go back the way they had come. The black-haired Italian groaned and yelled, incensed, "No, the _other_ other way, you fool!"

I giggled. He heard it and his head snapped around to me again, looking like he could literally breathe fire on me. I ducked my head and reached for Neal's hand a second time, wrapping my fingers around his wrist and giving him a pull as we ran away. We just had to be faster than the guards. Our exit was closer to us than it was to them, so it shouldn't be _hard_ , we just had to be careful and speedy.

With Mozzie ahead of us and Neal and I hand-in-hand, I had never felt so alive.

Well, that wasn't quite true. I hadn't felt this alive since Matthew Keller had shoved his gun up against my lower back and threatened to pull the trigger. It scared and excited me in equal measure that I had finally found a substitute for the life-risking thrill I got from my former position, and that, of all things, that acceptable substitute was to become an international art thief.

* * *

My soulmate was unusually quiet, even after we'd parted ways with Mozzie and arrived back at his home. I made us each a cup of coffee while Neal sat on the couch listlessly, his eyes and expression frighteningly blank. I bit my lip and realized that there was no way I could hold out on telling him what I'd done to ensure Alex's cooperation. The defeat was weighing so heavily on him that it was a physical hurt.

When I approached to join him, two hot mugs in hand, Neal looked up at me tiredly, running a hand over his face. It was one of the first times I had ever seen him with that haunted sort of expression. I saw it on myself often enough, but Neal… Neal was supposed to be sweet and happy and determined. He was supposed to pick up his pom-poms or paintbrushes or whatever and just start over again. He wasn't supposed to sit down dejectedly, shoulders slumped, his face looking like he felt twenty years older than he actually was.

I moved both mugs to the coffee table and sat down next to him. The skirt of my dress ruffled up because I didn't bother wasting time pushing and smoothing it down. Had there been someone standing across from the couch, they probably would've been able to see up to my stockings. Slowly, I pressed my hand to Neal's knee and stroked up his thigh. When he didn't respond but to cover his eyes and look away so I couldn't see his face, I did it again, and again, until I thought I had a decent guess at what I could say.

I started trying to speak carefully. The last thing I needed to do was say the wrong thing. I remembered with crystal clarity what had happened between us the last time I'd compromised Alex, and it hadn't been nice. It was our first big fight. I wasn't eager to repeat it. Obviously, this time it was founded, and he needed to hear it to pull himself out of this mindset, but I wasn't particularly looking forward to admitting to him that I had exploited Alex's already-limited trust.

"Hey, beautiful," I murmured softly to him, leaning against him and dropping my head onto his shoulder. "The Consulate has already sent out a complaint about the suspects they saw fleeing the scene."

Neal sighed, world-weary and exhausted. His left arm tried to move behind my back, so I leaned forward. He stretched out along the back of the couch, so I cuddled up against his side immediately. He lowered his arm, his elbow about at my shoulder. His forearm was bent up along my head, his fingers loosely catching in my hair.

"I promise, we're fine," he told me. Other than the gentle pull of his hand in my hair, he acted as though he was too upset or ashamed to interact with me. It bugged me. If he was upset… well, his friend had just betrayed him. He had a right to be upset. But I was the person who had continually had his back. If there were two people in the entire world he should feel safe being upset around, it would be me and Mozzie, and yet he was just shutting us out, closing down. "They're not going to prosecute the theft of an item they weren't supposed to have in the first place."

"I know, sweetheart."

Suddenly, he took his arm off of my shoulders and leaned forward, doubling over on the sofa. I caught myself with a hand on the cushion before I toppled over and looked at his back longingly and sadly.

He covered his face with his hands. "I should've seen it coming," he muttered.

"Neal." I tried his name, serious and a little bit stern. "Angel, look at me." The endearment just kind of slipped out, surprising me. Neal didn't seem to have heard.

"She didn't stick to the plan," he was saying, working himself up into more and more distress as he rubbed his face and grew more agitated. "She got out a different way."

"Neal, come on, I have a pep talk," I announced, voice tempered with concern as I scooted to the edge of the couch. I practically plastered myself on him, draping my right arm around him and nuzzling my face against his shoulder.

He miserably shook his head. "If Alex wants to disappear, then she does."

Finally, I ran out of patience and rolled my eyes. There were many things I was willing to put up with when they came from Neal, but self-pity and wallowing was not one of them. He was better than that and we both knew it. If he wanted to feel bad, fine – he should take a hot shower and cuddle and eat some ice cream and let me play with his hair to help him relax. This series of self-blame and second-guessing would only make him bitter and sour.

Although still sensitive, I pushed his wrists down out of the way and pressed my open palm to his cheek. "Neal," I said clearly, turning his head to me. "Listen." Then I stopped. Neal lifted his breathtaking blue eyes to mine and blinked at me slowly. At least I knew he was listening. I started to caress the side of his face repetitively while I talked, soothing and comforting. "Alex found where the music box was. You and Mozzie took care of making sure we had an entry and a fast exit, all of the equipment, means of diverting security, means of staying off-camera… this was a really big heist that was planned to the last detail, and it was based entirely on the premise that we were all working together." I smiled sadly. "Unfortunately, Alex missed that memo."

I wouldn't go as far as to say that I was as upset as Neal was that Alex had abused that trust and cooperation, but I was disappointed. With her, mostly. Even I understood that criminals in circles like theirs were safest when they stuck together, and no matter how happy I was to see that Neal's loyalty to her was going to be much weaker, I was still sad that he would have one less person to go to if he needed help.

I touched our foreheads together. Neal's eyes fluttered shut, his eyelashes softly brushing his cheeks. My hand cupped his face and trailed down to his jaw, rubbing the underside of his throat tenderly as I pressed an equally-loving kiss, chaste and fragile, to his dry lips. Neal responded gradually, carefully, like it was going to be taken way. The press of his lips was almost ghostly faint, and the touch of his hand on the back of my neck took me by a pleasant surprise.

Giving him an extra peck, I broke off the kissing once I felt him begin to unwind. It still surprised me how tactile Neal could be. He responded well to a variety of approaches, but the fastest way to calm him was through touch. Whether that was a gentle kiss or a hand resting in his hair, Neal secretly loved being touched.

"Luckily for you," I promised him, finding his free hand with mine and pushing my fingers into his palm. He loosely squeezed. "I wasn't so busy being a criminal mastermind that I forgot that trust has to be earned before it is granted."

With confusion and a little bit of trepidation, Neal opened his eyes and met my gaze. His pink tongue wet his lips unsurely. "What are you talking about?" He asked, rolling his shoulders back and holding me close.

I released the wary bite of teeth in my tongue. "I took pictures of Alex while she was planting smoke bombs," I reluctantly confessed. I didn't expect him to be thrilled with me, but I hoped he wouldn't be mad. I squeezed his hand, running the pads of my fingers over the strong, soft skin of his hands. "I've sent them to her. She knows that if she runs with the box, I send them to the Consulate, the FBI, the NYPD, and the Investigative Committee of Russia. She'll have three _countries_ after her. I don't think she wants that."

Neal's wide eyes made me feel like I had done something wrong for a long moment. It felt like a condensed eternity. He shook his head, his short hair bouncing. I shifted more of my weight to one side, prepared to stand up and give him space. I knew I had to tell him before he sank too deep into despair, it would've killed me to watch that happen knowing I could help, but…

He giggled softly. It was a hushed chime like the wind teasing pipes. Hesitantly, I chanced a smile. Neal replied with a bigger one of his own, a bit more heart-eyes and fond than my nervous 'sorry I doubted your friend' expression. His fingers pushed deeper into the locks of hair at my neck and Neal leaned across the short space, molding his lips to mine with more enthusiasm, more passion.

His lip-lock was long and slow and passionate. I felt my eyes slide shut as I gave my all to his searing mouth. He moved his lips slowly, intentionally, snaking his tongue into my mouth with leisure and slowness. I made a quiet, startled moan that he swallowed up and I suckled on his lip, loving how soft his skin felt on mine, how slick our mouths were together, the fading taste of champagne he'd had at the Consulate. Just as I thought I could've stayed there forever, Neal moved, dropping his hand from my hair and around my waist. In a fluid motion, he dragged me to him. I was forced to straddle his lap on the edge of the furniture just to keep close to him, and I promptly pushed him backwards, cushioning his head with a hand, laying him against the back of the couch slowly, leaning forward to hold my chest against his.

The beads on my dress were pressed deeper into my skin by the pressure of having his chest to mine. The tiny, translucent blues rounded pale spheres into my flesh, pushing cool glass into heated skin like a promise. After my lungs expressed their need to breathe, I pulled my lips away from Neal's, instantly missing the sensations.

He breathed heavily, his chest rising and falling underneath me. I could feel the rapid beating of his heart through his clothes when I pressed my hand to his shirt. I laughed softly, a sound of pure joy, and snuggled on him, nosing my face into his neck and simultaneously hugging him. Neal pushed a kiss into my forehead, his hands threaded deeply into my hair, cradling me to his upper body.

 _I love you_. I wished I could've said it out loud. It seemed like a good time. It always seemed like a good time to tell him he was loved, but especially while he was under me, looking relieved and alive and infatuated, lips swollen and red. _I love you._

I held him tighter. _He knows_ , I reasoned. _He has to know._ No one just did the things I did for their boyfriend or girlfriend. I did them for Neal because I was head-over-heels, stupid in love with him. He surveyed people, manipulated them, studied them – he did it for a living. He couldn't take a look at me and not see how I felt about him.

And yet I still didn't say it.

After we just laid there, holding each other on the couch, still in our formalwear from the party, Neal tightened his hands, unintentionally pulling on my scalp a little. I grimaced slightly and he apologized. "What are you going to do when it ends?" He questioned in a whisper, his head tilted back, looking up to the ceiling. "I… I want to know what to expect."

I inhaled his cologne like it was catnip. _You're my catnip; my precious Neal._ I shifted slightly, just to take a little unnecessary weight off of his chest, putting more of it on my knees instead. I still stayed pressed up into him, cuddling into his warmth and stability.

"I'll probably get my job back," I answered in a small voice.

The truth was, I hadn't made many plans for the future. They could be rendered useless depending on how the next twenty-four hours went. The heist was over, but we weren't out of the woods. There was still the question of Fowler, the charges pressed on my sister and I, and what we were going to actually do with the music box once Alex returned it to us.

"I'll make sure Katie's alright," I added thoughtfully. "Job aside, you and Katie… you two are my priorities." I sat up to look down on him, smiling affectionately at my beautiful partner and stroking a curl of dark brown hair away from his eyes. "And that's why I'm taking care of you now. You can't look after everyone all of the time. Things are bound to fall through the cracks. That's what I'm here for."

I leaned to his forehead and touched my lips to his skin in a blessing. Neal mumbled a contented sigh of my nickname, breathing it into the room like a prayer.

"Now," I continued, supportive and bolstering, but also quiet and just a tiny bit reserved. "In the morning, I'm going to have to help Peter." I still couldn't let him go do this on his own. I was partially responsible for pissing off Fowler so much. Dancing my fingers over Neal's face, I touched and petted while I talked, watching him close his eyes and even out his breaths to the time of my touch. For every lift of fingers from his body, he inhaled; with every sensual drag, he breathed out. "I'm not sure how well taking down Fowler is going to go, so right now, I want to forget about that bastard and spend the rest of the night with _you_."

Honestly, I didn't care what we did. It was up to him. I would've been as happy watching history documentaries with my head in his lap as I would've been just curling up in bed early and talking for an hour. I just wanted to be with my mate. We'd pulled off one of the biggest challenges in my entire life, and I wanted to reap the rewards of the emotional high before undergoing another task.

Piercing blue eyes looked through mine, looking between the flecks of grey-blue that littered my darker irises. Neal tightened his arms around me to prevent me from leaving, as if I had had any plans on getting up.

When he spoke, it was with his voice in a low whisper. "What would you do if I said I wanted to make love to you?" He asked me, his eyes half-lidded and his face flushed, the most gorgeous picture I had ever seen.

An anticipatory thrill raced through my body and ended with me shuddering delightedly in his lap. We'd never called it that before. It had occurred to me what some of our nights played out as after the fact, but neither of us called each other on it – on the loving touches, or on the whispered nothings that promised the world. I realized as I felt the blood racing in my body, warming my chest, warming my face, that I wanted to genuinely make love to my artist, possibly more than I had ever wanted anything in my life.

I licked my lips and met his eyes once more, feeling his intensity burn right through me and melt me on the spot. I responded not with a challenge, but with a plea. "I'd ask what was stopping you."

* * *

Nothing, in fact, stopped him.

Neal picked me up and carried me to the bed, gathered up in his strong arms with his hands on the backs of my thighs and the skirt of my dress riding up around my hips and his forearms. I'd had my legs wrapped tightly around his waist before either of us thought, and I clung to him like a koala while I was taken to the alcove we had made ours dozens of times before.

I hadn't thought it was possible for sex to have so much more love than lust, but I felt absolutely cherished. Each touch, each action was slow and deliberate and attentive. There was no hurry, Neal made sure of that. He slowly stripped me down, tugging down on my skirt and panties and then unhooking the back of my top, helping me sit up to drag it over my head. He kissed me like a starving man while I delicately peeled his suit off of his torso, dragging my hands over his well-defined muscles and hot, flushed skin. His hands kneaded my breasts while he pushed me down, crawling over me possessively and layering kiss after kiss on my mouth.

Neal had always had an addictive kiss, but this was something else entirely. It was like he was just as addicted to me as I was to him; with every part of our lips, he reclaimed the next one with a fire and a wild, untamed desperation, like each embrace was going to be the last we shared. His hands trembled when he cupped my face and several times he would bend his head into my throat, breathe deeply, and attack my neck with wet kisses and slow drags of his tongue and teasing nips of his teeth.

My lover's fever burnt bright and contagious. My gloves remained on, but for the first time in his bed, I was fighting myself to _keep_ them on. I saw and touched our soulmark on his lower back several times and caressed it tenderly. That winged tattoo was my favorite part of my body. Hiding it made it feel sacred and protected. I only ever wanted to share it with its match. For each touch I made of him, intent to memorize the way that he felt, his hands were on me, refusing to let a single moment be wasted.

It would've been a great time to say _I love you_ when he knelt between my legs, hiked my left leg up around him, and leaned onto his forearm, pausing for heavy breaths with his face inches from mine. I didn't. Instead, I touched his cheeks reverently and kissed him for all I was worth.

It also would've been great to say it while tears of pleasure and an overwhelming affection started to prick at my eyes and I threw my head back, arching up into his body. Instead, I moaned, loudly, gasping out his name and how I wanted more and how he was perfect, believing that my shaky and labored voice would tell him everything he could possibly need to know.

The entire _point_ of making love was to share oneself with someone they loved. I had thought that calling it lovemaking would be enough to tell him. He knew I was skittish of commitment and he knew I was insecure, so surely he'd have realized what I wasn't saying.

I was wrong.

It wasn't enough.

Neal needed to hear the words as badly as I wanted to say them, and I hadn't stopped to consider that maybe he was holding back on saying them because of the same fears: of not being requited. Of not being enough.

There, in his arms in the afterglow, wrapped up in him and snuggled as tightly to him as I could hope to ever get, I listened to his heartbeat and his tired humming while his caring, gentle hand played with my hair and drifted down my back. _Heaven_ was in my ears, adapted to my lover's melodic voice, and I was surrounded in bliss given to me by and shared with my soulmate.

I had no idea then that his heart was breaking for things that he needed to hear, that I needed to say, for things that he hadn't heard, that I hadn't said.

* * *

Neal woke me up only a few hours after we had finally descended into sleep. In spite of being physically exhausted, I felt as though I'd recovered enough to face the next day. Neal had already made himself coffee, so I stole a few drinks from his mug and kissed his cheek on my way to the bathroom.

I came back to the suite with blow-dried hair and a pantsuit from my duffel. After the airiness of the short dress, the slacks were a welcome texture on my thighs. There was an ease in my shoulders that I hadn't felt in weeks from the heist finally being over and being us, accompanied by a slight soreness at my hips that I relished while pretending not to feel.

I tousled my own hair as I made a fresh pot of coffee, saying a cheerful 'good morning' to my lover. Neal returned it on autopilot, his tone distant and his mind elsewhere. I frowned slightly, but then remembered that he was still nervous and beating himself up about Alex's whereabouts. Then I shrugged. I had done what I could to calm him down. Sometimes a person just had to see the proof before they could settle.

 _Speaking of proof…_ I checked my watch to make sure I wasn't running late. I had a little while, but I hoped Alex would show up before long. I wanted to see that Neal was reassured before I had to leave him alone. Somehow I doubted that Mozzie would show up right away after the Consulate reported that a certain number of people had robbed them.

Once my coffee was brewed, I poured myself a pot, mixed in sugar and creamer, and carried it to the coffee table. I sat down on the sofa and alternated between tiredly cuddling into the cushions and watching Neal pace through half-lidded eyes. The brunet stalked from one side of the room to the other, the bliss and the liberty and the grace from last night gone as if it had never existed.

I tried talking to him, but it was useless. A concerned _are you okay, Bright Eyes?_ was rebuffed with a nod and a wave. A flippant note about how he was going to wear himself out before he'd even showered was dismissed with a remark about how that was what coffee was for, and if anyone was going to know that, then it should be me. A tactfully-phrased request that he come sit with me wasn't even considered. He just said "maybe" and kept walking from one side of the penthouse to the other, occasionally pausing to sip at his coffee.

My mug was almost gone before anything happened. I was drowsy and relatively comfortable, and might have drifted off if it wasn't for the knocking on the door. It was already unlocked, and June must've heard Neal's footsteps, because she eased it open slowly, peeking inside. Neal stopped and turned, and the quiet, modest knocking made me open my eyes and peer over the back of the couch.

"Morning," I mumbled through a yawn, seriously rethinking my previous early-morning optimism.

"Good morning, dear," June replied sweetly. She didn't bat an eye at the fact that I had very obviously stayed the night. I guess when she said in the very beginning that I was free to spend time with Neal unprofessionally in her house, she had actually meant it. "You're going to burn a hole right through my floor if you keep that up," she scolded Neal gently. "Whatever's bothering you, believe me, it's going to work out."

It wasn't the first time that I'd thought June had a very maternal presence in Neal's life, and I was sure it wouldn't be the last. Neal probably didn't even see it. I didn't think June did, either, but she always surprised me with how perceptive she was, so maybe she just knew that it wasn't something that needed to be discussed, least of all with a man who liked to pretend that he didn't exist until he was past the age of majority.

Neal wandered from the kitchenette and towards the door and his landowner. "How do you know that?" He asked, world-weary, his hands in the deep pockets of his pajama sweatpants.

June raised an eyebrow in a manner that told us it was best if she didn't confirm or deny anything, then she stepped further into the suite while leaving the door open. From behind her came a meek little brunette, hair the shiny color of dark honey, toting a black camping bag in her arms before her.

Neal's shoulders slumped with visible disbelief as tension drained, the coils loosening. "I told you I took care of it," I reminded him softly, stretching my legs out before standing up and reaching my arms over my head.

Brilliant blue eyes flashed to Alex. For just a second, it was like he'd forgotten that she'd betrayed him, and he seemed ready to fall to his knees in front of her. Then it was gone before it could even really show, and his gaze turned cooler, dismissing Alex. The fence stayed inside and looked down at the partially unzipped bag regretfully. I could see the glint of something coppery through the flap, and I was ashamed by how eager I was to take it from her and look. I'd spent much longer than was reasonable being obsessed with finding one specific music box; sue me for wanting to finally see what it looked like.

Neal went to June and extended his hands from his pockets. He took up her softer, smaller hands in his and tilted his head down to look at her face. "June, thank you," he said, heartfelt. "For everything."

June's expression turned melancholic and she took her fingers out of Neal's, holding out her arms. He pulled her to his chest in a tight hug, his arms wrapped around her back and his chin resting over her short raven hair, squeezing his eyes shut. June patted his back with one hand and kept the other firmly around his waist, just as loathe to let go as he seemed, clinging to her like he would never get the opportunity to do so again.

I smiled at them. I liked seeing that Neal was touched by the people around him, and it was high time June started seeing more gestures of appreciation.

Although the lady swallowed thickly, she pushed Neal way by the chest. "You know I don't believe in goodbyes," she told him sternly. June had always possessed an air of decorum and elegance. Somehow she managed to maintain it, even as she rubbed at the corner of her eye to stop from tearing up. I chuckled quietly in fondness. They were being a little melodramatic, but that was them – they were drama queens. "Neal, you are _truly_ one in a million, and don't you forget it."

Neal noncommittally nodded his head. I got the feeling that he was going along with it for her sake more than out of any sort of definitive agreement on his part. June patted his arm and took a moment to compose herself and readily pull away, departing swiftly, before she changed her mind. I watched with a little less levity.

 _Why is she so upset?_ I wondered, crossing my arms in front of my stomach. _This is a good thing. It's almost over. Things are close to being normal again._

The widow shut the door quietly behind her, leaving the three of us criminals with solitude and each other's company. I shot Alex a look that was somewhere between irritation and smugness. It was nice to finally have one up on her, but it was also exasperating and angering that she had been so willing to turn her backs on us when we had needed her. What right did she have to be pissed at Neal for the scar on her arm when she was the kind of partner who would turn into a traitor when it served her purposes?

Neal put his hands back in his pockets and leaned his waist up against the marble kitchen island. "I wasn't sure if I was ever going to see you again," he told Alex levelly, his voice guarded and accusatory.

She wryly looked down, tugging on her lower lip with her teeth as if admitting that she deserved that. "I'll give you credit," she decided, appropriately subdued. "You may have brought in a newbie, but she's no rookie." I smirked proudly, feigning flattery. Alex sighed and held out her arms further from her body, presenting the bag with the music box. "Here, take this, before I change my mind."

Neal's sharp eyes locked on the prize as he moved forward like he was thieving from a cheetah. He used the utmost care while placing his hands underneath the heaviest weight in the back and brought it back to himself, cradling it against his chest while he turned to set it down on the countertop. His fingers hesitated on the zipper before he gave it a tug and let the duffel open around the box inside.

It just looked like a music box. _Well, that was anticlimactic._

I canted my head discontentedly. "Wow. That's it?" The coveted music box was larger than most, but not by much. The golds and yellows were varying colors and shades, pieces of amber welded together to form a shining product. It looked ancient and old and beautiful, but it also looked like it could have been picked up from any antique shop uptown. "I mean, it's pretty, but… it doesn't seem worth all this hassle."

I tried to look at it from a historical viewpoint. Before me was a piece of history. It had been crafted a century ago, been owned by Russian royalty, and been in the hands of greedy Nazi looters as of the nineteen forties. It had been traveling between illicit wealth and well-guarded securities for decades, only to finally find a new, temporary home with us. What made it so special? I wanted to reach out and run my finger along the amber, but something stopped me.

Neal looked like I'd called Da Vinci an amateur painter. I made a note to myself to be a little less candid about my thoughts on art. Clearly, I wasn't up to his sophisticated standard.

"You don't know what this means to me," he told Alex after struggling to find words. He couldn't be happy with her, but he couldn't be rude, either. After all, she'd brought him the one way we knew of to bring his sister back home and end the torment he'd been in for a year.

Alex skeptically nodded. "I think I do," she disagreed humbly. "I just…" she took a second to breathe and lower her shoulders. "I just hope that Kate is still the same girl you think she is." She phrased it as bluntly as she dared.

Neal's eyes flicked to me briefly. "I've been hearing that a lot lately," he murmured.

We all stood in silence, not knowing what to say. Alex was parting with the treasure she'd been hunting for years, Neal now had the burden of guarding it until we could find a way to pass it to Fowler in a fair trade-off, and I had already vocalized my suspicions about Moreau several times. It was time to lay off. Any damage from the extents we'd gone to to rescue his sister had already been done. Now all I could do was hope I was wrong and prove that I was still Neal's biggest supporter.

 _And that reminds me._ I looked at my watch, surprised by how much time had passed just since getting my coffee. I cleared my throat for their attention and straightened my clothes, realigning my necktie down the front of my blouse.

"Now that I've seen this through, I still have an FBI agent to discredit." I talked mainly to Neal, determinedly rolling my shoulders back and holding myself tall. "It's not over just yet." Fowler was going to pay for what he'd done, even if I had to come clean about a few things to make him.

There were lines I couldn't cross, not even to stop Fowler. Nothing that jeopardized Neal or Mozzie could come to light. I could admit to poking around for sealed files, or for punching him in the face, or for abusing my authority to look at traffic cams in Rochester. The stills from the Rochester photographs would prove he was fooling Katie with a fake soulmark, and if someone's willing to do that, imagining them committing assault isn't much of a stretch. I could build a pretty good case if I had a decent enough lawyer.

Neal's demure satisfaction faded. "What do you mean?"

"Peter and I still have something going on." I was intentionally vague to give him plausible deniability. I didn't know for sure that it would work, and the less he knew, the better. "It's almost done, but I need to be there. Just in case, you know?" It was like when Neal had stolen the tape from Clark's office and swiped it with a magnet. I hadn't been able to play a part in the con for fear of being recognized, but I'd needed to be present when it happened. My eyes slipped to Alex; this was hopefully the last time I'd see her, since our working relationship was obviously not meant to last. "I'd say it was nice seeing you, Alex…"

She broke into a smile, shaking her head, her loose tendrils of hair bouncing and framing her face. Sighing, she said, "I may have been blackmailed, but at least it was by someone clever." If it hadn't been for her backstabbing, I might not have been so quick to close the door on future business, but I couldn't trust her to have my back, much less my partner's. "I can be a gracious loser." She claimed.

I nodded, unsure that it would last for very long. I lifted a hand in a brief wave – _goodbye for a long, long time_ – and then focused my attention back to my blue-eyed artist. "See you later," I promised him, fully intending to do something special to celebrate our victory. Maybe I'd collect him and Katie and take them both out to eat.

"I'll see you," he promised, agreeing, his hand ghosting over the edge of the amber box, transfixed.

I looked carefully at the music box. _You're really not worth the trouble everyone's causing for you,_ I thought pointedly at it before nodding stiffly at the fence on my way past her. Time to make like June and get gone. I had seen to it that Neal was going to be okay, but another friend was still potentially in danger. I owed it to Peter and Elizabeth that I make sure he wasn't hurt for trying to help me.

"Kenna?" Neal called out for me before I could reach the door. I swung around to ask what it was when I couldn't speak.

Neal snuck up on me from behind, and when I turned, he was right there. His left hand came up to my hip and his right came to my cheek. I tilted my face into his knuckles on a trusting impulse and met his eyes curiously. Instead of saying something, he just looked at me, his mouth tight and eyes deeply intent.

I felt like a bug under his scrutiny. Simultaneously, I felt like the luckiest girl in the entire world to have him look at me like that – like I was everything he needed to know. He scraped his teeth over his lip thoughtfully, brushing his fingers against my face with a feathery lightness. Neal's expression made the breath catch in my throat with awe and adoration.

Finally, a small eternity had passed, I had located an entire galaxy within his eyes, and Neal bent down slightly, just enough to press his lips to mine in a tender kiss that felt an awful lot like the three precious words I was so keen on one day hearing fall from his lips. Bringing a hand up to his throat, I stroked the hard line of his jaw and worked my lips over his, promising with the slide of our mouths and the mingling of our breaths that I would be back.

Neal had stolen the breath right out of my lungs, and after only a few seconds of the most loving kiss I had ever experienced, he brushed my hair out of my face with his long fingers. I felt like I was tingling with electricity, still feeling phantom sensations of his soft and pliable lips. "Be safe," he asked me, sounding like a plea, his voice soft as if he feared treachery.

I gave him a reassuringly bright smile, holding his face in my hands. He didn't need to worry. We were so close to what we wanted, what we deserved. It was just a matter of time now for him – I just needed my love to be patient so that I could ensure his safety, and then we'd chase out Fowler far enough to get Moreau back, for Neal's sake, and then I would take great pleasure in playing a role in Fowler's court trials – preferably the role of the star witness.

I licked my lips and giggled, exhilarated. _Life is good._ "Where's the fun in that?" I asked teasingly, entirely serious.

Our roles were reversed as I found myself amused while Neal appeared to be worried. I was usually the one who was warning him what not to do and how best to stay safe and as free as possible. If I lived safely, then I never would have befriended and fallen for the love of my life. I didn't know about him, but I would take the blood and the pain over and over again for Neal Caffrey.

* * *

After I left the penthouse, it was like I had come out of a hazy daydream. It was hard to explain, but everything seemed so much realer once I was out of that calm, cozy little suite. Maybe it was because of the familiar fabric of my suit, or maybe it was because it was hard to stay relaxed and at ease with the harsh sunlight on my face.

I was apprehensive about leaving Alex and Neal alone, but I knew that my leverage over her would hold so long as I kept the photographs. I made sure she hadn't nicked my phone, so she knew better than to double-cross _again._ In the meantime, I had to believe that Neal could take care of himself while I ventured into the bright city of Manhattan.

The OPR offices weren't within the main FBI building. I didn't know the logistics behind it, but I suspected it had something to do with privacy and clearance levels. OPR was focused on the FBI itself, not on the crimes that the FBI dealt with. Although it made it harder to justify getting either of us inside, it was useful in that no one would happen to recognize Peter as a former visiting agent.

I parked up the road. There was a parking garage specifically for the OPR port, but since I wasn't officially a government employee any longer, and since Fowler was on high alert for me, Peter had told me that the risk of having my license plates catalogued was too high. I hadn't though there was anything to it – freedom of information and all that – but I agreed with him in the end. It made it a longer hike and would be more time-consuming, but this way, if he didn't actually need backup, there would be no reason for anyone to suspect I'd been there.

We were on the phone with each other while I got out of my car, locking the vehicle with my keys. Things on Peter's end were quiet and dull as he waited by the lobby for an opening to get in. There were cameras recording the lobby, but not the parking garage; the plan was that I would go up through the garage to get to Peter's car and depart swiftly if there was trouble. Peter believed he could do this on his own. I knew that Fowler wasn't opposed to taking drastic measures, and I put my foot down on him being without any backup.

Coins clinked down into the parking meter. I paid for more than an hour, just in case. The last thing I needed to add to my troubles was a parking ticket. The sun glared on the read-out, so I pushed in a few more coins to be safe.

 _"_ _I just saw Fowler leaving for his coffee break outside the building."_ Peter's quiet murmur was accompanied by a collection of rustling paper materials while he closed a newspaper and cast it aside. _"I'm going in and heading for his office."_

"Laptop," I reminded him a second time, glancing around where I was out of paranoia that I was being watched. Logically, I knew that now that I didn't have any legal hold over Neal, I wasn't much of a threat to Fowler, and no one but a select few in New York knew that Zarra LaMontagne had another name and identity. Whether it was OPR or the Italian Consulate, I wasn't in too much jeopardy for the time being. "Get the laptop, that's what the important things will be on." I whirled my keys around my index finger and then shoved them into my pocket. "He moves between New York and other cities quickly, so he'll make sure all the important files are portable. For God's sake, be careful."

The noise of an elevator beeping faintly passed through the connection. I tipped my head back to look up the high side of the OPR building several blocks away, on the other side of a dark stone parking garage, not unlike the one Neal and I cased out only a handful of days ago. Peter was inside that building, and Fowler had only just left it. The window of opportunity was small.

 _"_ _I'll be out and back in the garage in a flash."_ Peter promised, stepping into the elevator and assigning it to go up to whichever floor Fowler's office was on. He settled back to wait for the ride and added wittily, _"… Drive."_

 _Flash drive. Ha, ha._ Peter's joke sounded like he picked it up from a table of grandfathers at Cracker Barrel.

I grumbled. "For the sake of the universe, _don't_ go into comedy."

* * *

I walked right past the barricade that forced cars to take tickets and snuck past the teller booth before anyone inside turned and saw me. The garage was more intimidating when I was alone, and it was sparse at the early hour. Very few people had even bothered to show up before eight. It meant less eyes watching. It also meant it was eerier and quieter.

The stairwell was set up in the front left side of the structure. Heavy metal doors kept it from the open, and one of those doors was locked fast. I pushed open the other one and let it clang shut with an echo that made me cringe. The elevators for the garage were just inside, facing the stairs, but two strips of cautionary yellow tape across the frames suggested I not use them.

I cussed under my breath and went for the steps. Peter was parked on the fourth floor so that he was as far from other bystanders as he could get. It would've saved time to use the elevators.

 _Speak of the devil._ My phone started to buzz in my pocket. I took it out and glanced at the caller ID while I started to glide my hand on the rail as I took the steps up to the first landing. My calves were going to be protesting by the time I got there, but I was willing to bet that it would be better than rappelling down the side of a building. Which, officially, had never actually happened, but suffice to say I had gotten some practice recently.

"Yeah?" I whispered as I opened it. I was expecting Peter's voice, but I was still nervous to talk on the phone when I couldn't see the other person. That and the stone surrounding me made even whispering seem like I was being too noisy.

It was Peter, to my relief. _"I'm almost back to my car,"_ he told me to start off with, assuring me that he'd slipped in and out of Fowler's office without being caught. _"I have everything downloaded on the drive you gave me. There's this thing he's working on called Mentor – you're never going to believe what it is."_

In truth, I had mostly forgotten about Project Mentor since the heist had come onto the books. We'd known so little about it that it could literally be summarized with "it exists," and without knowing where to start, it had kind of taken a backseat to the more immediate things. Being reminded of it, along with the promise that I would get to read about it myself very soon, lit a spark that made my feet climb faster, heedless of how little I liked stairs.

"I've heard of it," I grimly said, not expecting it to be anything good. "Neal's involved, though, isn't he?" I doubted Neal knew what it was, but if he wasn't a large part of it, then Fowler wouldn't have assumed that that was why the conman had crashed into his hotel six months ago.

Peter exhaled. _"Very much so,"_ he confirmed with a disappointed note to his tone that made me frown uneasily. If it was bad… if it was bad _for_ Neal, he would've been worried, but not upset like that. Before I could ask, he added something I hadn't expected. _"There's another big file with it, but it's encrypted."_

"I have people for that," I promised, climbing past the second floor. Even if Mozzie didn't know how to interpret the file, I had legal contacts that could, and not all of them worked for the government. "I'll be there in just a minute."

Peter hung up first, trying to get to his car undetected. I slipped my phone into my back pocket and started to move faster, pounding my feet up the concrete steps as quickly as I could go without tripping and hurting myself. What if Mentor was more serious than I had thought? Maybe _that_ was what I should've been scared of.

And what did Neal have to do with it? Why was Peter frustrated with Neal, of all people, unless my boyfriend knew something that we didn't? Had Fowler contacted him – or vice versa – sometime when I wasn't there? Was Mentor to do with his anklet data, or was it about some of the crimes he hadn't been convicted for?

I reminded myself that I trusted Neal. Mentor wasn't good news, but Neal would've told me if I needed to know about it. He had only ever lied to me when he needed to do something for Kate and thought I would try to stop him. After I committed an international art crime with him, he would've realized that I was just as set on this as he was, if not more so. I had more to lose – Neal had his anklet hindering his liberties, but I had an entire life that I would have taken away if I was arrested for something like the night before.

 _That's the one thing I wasn't counting on,_ I realized, stopping suddenly just one flight away from the landing of the fourth floor. _Mentor. I wasn't accounting for it because I didn't know how._ Those concerns, those sinking feelings, those butterflies and far-off nagging – the instinctual moments where I could've sworn I was forgetting something. I had forgotten to account for the unknown.

How much could Mentor hurt us, even after the heist had been successfully pulled off and the drives downloaded? I didn't want to take anything for granted, but…

I sped up, swallowing and telling myself to go faster. The sooner this was over with, the better. What could it hurt to meet up with Peter just a few seconds earlier than I might have otherwise? Once I knew what Mentor was, then I could address it. I could file it neatly with the other things that had already been taken care of, like the month's electricity bill.

At the top of the last flight of stairs, there was a huge number four spray painted in white on the inside of a dark blue block, marking the floor of the garage. After being surrounded by stone, I was excited to get back into the relatively open air of the open floors of the garage and feel some circulation on my face. I went to go open the metal door – which was harder to open on this hinge than the one that was on the ground level – but stopped, pausing just before I pushed past the shutting mechanism.

I could hear voices on the other side. Turning my head to the side, I stilled like a statue and waited, straining to hear through the thick door.

 _"_ _Agent Burke, Boston office."_ Peter's calm and controlled voice only set me on edge because he was supposed to be alone. _"I have a warrant for my investigations on Mentor."_

The bad feeling in my stomach settled deeper. The only reason he would be revealing that he knew about Project Mentor was if he had been caught red-handed by someone who already knew about the assignment. Still, I remained where I was. Maybe he could talk his way out of it. Lying about having a warrant _could_ work, if we were extraordinarily lucky.

The cocksure and hostile response came from a voice I had come to know too well since taking Neal's custody. _"Why's Boston looking into my operation?"_ Fowler asked. I could match his voice to the arrogant, challenging cock of his head.

 _Fuck!_ Peter had been caught by literally _the worst_ person for him to have been caught by. I bit back an audible snarl and tensed, preparing to fight. They were alone in a parking garage. Fowler had already proven he was heartless. If things got violent, I needed to be able to-

… But what could I do? Fowler had taken away my firearm. He still had his concealed weapon. If he chose to make a fight, then I would be unarmed. I'd have to rely on my mouth – and while my mouth could run a hundred miles a minute when need be, it had been a long time since I'd used it to distract a wound-up suspect. Could I still do it, even after almost two years?

_It's been a long time._

Neal and the excitement he brought made time fly. I tried to think through every task I'd done with him, desperately hoping I had talked someone down, but I couldn't think of any time. Every physical confrontation had either ended with fighting or fleeing, not with conversing or profiling.

I thought of my former job with a mixture of fondness and bitterness, but never before had I so desperately wished I'd never been demoted. I was far less confident in my skills of reading people, reading a situation, and defusing it. This was different from feeling slighted or neglected or cast aside. This was _important._ My friend was being threatened.

Peter held his ground. I bit my lip and held my breath and wished more than ever that I could've seen through the doors to know what was happening. I didn't want to join unless I had to; unbalancing a precarious situation could just make things worse, and unless I was needed, I didn't want to aggravate Fowler any further. A parking garage like this was about as secluded a place for a murder as one could get in Manhattan, and I wouldn't put anything past Fowler.

 _"_ _Offices of Professional Responsibility, appropriating resources for Neal Caffrey, an international art thief?"_ Resources? _What resources?_ My fingers curled and itched with a desperation to know, but, more importantly, I prayed that Peter knew what he was doing and didn't push too far. _"It kind of raises a few eyebrows."_

 _"_ _It's all legitimate."_ Fowler's short temper came through within his tempered words. His fuse was ticking.

 _"_ _I saw that,"_ Peter agreed evenly. He didn't give the corrupt agent the satisfaction of seeing any surprise or nervousness, and honestly, I wasn't sure I had that ability anymore. Maybe if I was where he was, I could've… but against Fowler? The man had invaded my _home._ _ **Twice.**_

The dirty agent snorted quietly and snidely interrogated, _"What else did you find in your snooping?"_

There was a short pause. Peter seemed unsure whether he was really willing to tell the extent of what he knew, but something in Fowler's expression or the serious situation he was in convinced him to spill. I couldn't really blame him. Fowler wouldn't have believed that he had found Mentor and then left it at that.

 _"_ _Another file."_ Peter admitted. His voice took on a new quality, something like a warning; daring Fowler not to test him, maybe? _"Encrypted."_

It seemed as though that was the tipping point. Fowler had always spoken with a jeer and condescension in his demeanor, like he thought that everyone was beneath him, and he enjoyed lording his position over people. He got off on getting to play God, knowing that no one would try to touch him for fear of being torn down by OPR. This was the first time I had ever heard him using a steely, toneless voice.

 _"_ _I'd like it back,"_ he said bluntly.

_Whatever's on that encrypted file, he's scared of what will happen if we see it. He's more scared of it than he is of Mentor. Which means I_ _**need** _ _to know what's on it._

A click followed Peter's silent refusal. I recognized that kind of click. It echoed in the parking garage and was accompanied by a louder, similar noise right after it, sort of layered on each other, as a bullet was loaded into the chamber and the safety was turned off of a firearm.

I shoved at the doors, thinking of Peter and El and how they didn't deserve to be in this position. Peter chose white-collar work, not blue-collar, so by no means should he have any reason to expect to deal with having a gun in his face; El had never done anything to warrant being called by a New York hospital to tell her that her husband, who was five hours away, had been shot in the line of duty.

I don't know if Fowler ever really intended to use his gun on Peter. It was a chance I wasn't willing to take. If he had been, though, I frightened him off from doing so when I appeared, turning in from the stairwell in the corner of the garage. Peter's Taurus was parked to the right of me, the hood of the car facing the front of the parking garage, and it seemed like he had been ambushed right before he could reach it by Fowler, who was training a Glock on Peter's chest. A second car was behind Peter's, one that I didn't recognize. It was probably a rental that Fowler picked up for his stay.

For just a split second, Fowler moved as if he was going to put his gun away. Then he realized who I was and he fixed his grip, maintaining his leverage on the situation. "Anderson," he snarled, giving me a look full of loathing and… trepidation. Fear?

_Good._

"Lower your weapon," I commanded, ignoring the pounding thrum of my heartbeat against my ribs. It felt like a bass drum vibrating up my spine, like the bottom was about to drop from my stomach as the roller coaster plunged. "Now. You're aiming for a high-ranking federal agent there, genius. Think it through." Holding my hands up to show I wasn't armed, I slowly put one foot in front of the other, heading for them and staying slightly behind Peter. Advancing would only convince a scared man to pull the trigger. "Questions are asked, bullets are matched – security cameras saw him inside, you can't just pretend he wasn't here."

Although his resolve didn't falter, the blond had to change the way he held the gun to account for his nerves. He cupped his left hand underneath the bottom of the grip in his right as a secondary support, but he wasn't paying enough attention – if he fired while his fingers were holding it that way, I was ninety percent sure he'd injure himself when the rehash snapped.

Peter kept his arms up, hands behind his head, eyes locked on Fowler as he took measured, deliberate breaths. He showed no sign of panicking, but the tension riddling his body was evident to see for anyone who knew what to look for. I admired his composure, and the steadfast way that his fist was stubbornly around a flash drive, even as his life was threatened for it.

He didn't listen to my instructions or my warnings. Sweating, Fowler held his gun firmly on Peter. It was either because he knew I would be less willing to risk someone else's life or because he knew for a fact that Peter was armed and I wasn't. "Of course, you _would_ be involved in this," he hissed, flinty eyes darting back and forth. Despite holding the gun, he seemed to be the one cornered. "Breaking into my office, downloading my hard drives – I should've known it was you."

Any other time and I might have gloated, but not with a loaded gun in the mix. "Put the gun down," I commanded, reaching ahead of myself very slowly and lowering my hands, palms open and facing the floor.

"You have no idea what you're going up against!" Fowler spat, taking a shaky step back.

"Gun down!" I raised my voice authoritatively and acted like I wasn't envisioning a dozen ways this could all go wrong.

I made another step forward. Fowler jerked his gun at me, finally breaking the showdown with Peter, and I relaxed slightly. Bullets were more painful than breaking bones were, in my experience, but I could live with being hurt as long as neither of the Burkes were paying for my crimes. Besides, this way, if I couldn't manage to talk him down, then I was the only one getting hurt and the only one to hold myself accountable to.

Peter, sensing the rising tension, lifted his arms higher overhead. His jacket started gathering at the shoulders and stretching over the elbows, pulling up higher from his waist. I didn't want to break eye contact with Fowler, but something shiny was pressed against the back of my partner's shirt, partially hidden under his blazer.

 _Clever_.

Now I just had to figure out how to get Fowler's gun off of me for long enough to lunge for Peter. It looked like he was carrying another pistol, maybe a little smaller than the standard issue, but a familiar model. I was a remarkable marksman and if I could just get the firearm off of him, then I could have it on Fowler in seconds.

"You just stay where you are!" Fowler barked.

There was still no real reason for me to listen, other than fear. I wasn't into the thing where I backed down and let killers go. Fowler hadn't crossed that line yet, but I didn't want to give him the chance to make that decision. Another part of me – a smaller part, but one that was present nonetheless – didn't want to see him make that leap. There was a big difference between a dirty cop that extorted and a dirty cop that killed. Every time the bureau lost an agent, there was something to grieve. Fowler hadn't been truly serving the bureau for quite a while, but there was no redeeming himself if he committed murder.

"I don't understand why you keep thinking you have to do this." I stated matter-of-factly, but raised my voice to get him on edge. _If I can overwhelm him_ … Getting a suspect to put their gun down compliantly was difficult. I had more luck distracting and provoking them into doing something dumb that took their focus off of their hostage, permitting law enforcement to get the upper hand.

The saddest part was that I really didn't know why he would do this to himself or to us. I wanted to believe that there was a part of him that didn't want to do what he was doing. There had to be a reason. Maybe not a moral one, but it couldn't just be because he wanted to watch us burn. I'd long since resigned myself to not understanding serial killers, but Fowler… well, he was – or used to be – one of the good guys. _If he was ever really in it for the bureau at all._

"I said to stop moving!" A vein in his forehead pulsed and his jugular and Adam's apple stood out harshly on his throat. Fowler's gun shook. Most of the time, that would mean that he was losing concentration. This time, with him being so afraid of us finding what was on the encrypted file, I was worried that he would cut his losses and just start firing.

But I still had to get to Peter. I had a few more steps between me and the best weapon I could possibly ask to get my hands on. I waved my hands around my sides. "Since when am I good at following directions?" I asked rhetorically. I had never been good at playing follow the leader.

The blond agent swallowed and tightened his grip on the gun in his hands. "You're so far out of your league that you're drowning," he accused, his knees locked straight. "You have no idea what you're getting involved in!"

_Why does he sound desperate?_

The littlest things that hadn't added up before had, I thought, been because of everything on that flash drive. Now I wasn't so sure. Fowler's reactions weren't quite right. He didn't sound contemptuous – he sounded like he wanted to plead with me to back off, but was too petrified and proud to do it. I shook the thought away. There were a lot of things about Fowler that weren't quite right.

"I think I have a pretty good idea," I disagreed mildly. I'd robbed an Italian Consulate, for God's sake. The world of white-collar crime wasn't going to get much more intense than that unless the agent really did pull the trigger.

Peter piped up, his low tenor soothing and sound. "Lower your sidearm, Agent Fowler." When Peter talked, it wasn't antagonistic. He was coaxing and rational where I was trying to be inflammatory. "You don't want to shoot an agent."

The OPR agent looked conflicted, his lips drawing back in a defensive snarl as he flipped the gun back to Peter, fuming. I seized the opportunity the second it presented itself and ducked down to half of my height, throwing myself forward and to the right. I grabbed the grip of the pistol from the small of Peter's back, landed on my shoulder, and rolled, popping back up smoothly with some hair in my face and the gun cocked and ready to fire, held directly at Fowler's chest.

" _Now_ will you put your gun down?" I asked, exasperated.

He wasn't so cool when he was the one looking at the front of a barrel. "Drop your weapon!" He shouted, throwing all pretenses of stealth and covertness out the window. As soon as anyone heard that, they would come running, possibly calling the police on their way.

He was not going to bully me into submission. When I demanded that he stand down, it was with a little bit of smugness and relief. "Lower yours." I steadily countered.

"Drop the weapon!" Fowler yelled.

I replied in kind. "Drop it or I drop you!"

Peter surprised us both when he abruptly dropped onto one knee. I could take a guess at what he was going for, but his timing left something to be desired. Fowler was so startled by the motion that he turned to Peter and pointed the gun at where the man's chest had been – while the brunet was kneeling, a shot at chest-level would've been a certainly fatal headshot. Rather than let Fowler pull the trigger, I squeezed my index finger once, dispelling a cartridge from my chamber.

The recoil made my right wrist sting. Peter looked back up, holding his gun to Fowler and shooting just as I had done. When you hear gunshots, you _react._ You don't have time to stop and ask questions. He thought his life was in jeopardy, so he defended himself – and, with two bullet holes in the front of his suit, both within inches of his heart, Fowler stumbled backwards, letting out a wheezy croak as he dropped his gun.

He stumbled right into the side of Peter's car, collapsing against the back door. Instead of smearing blood, he tossed his left elbow up on the roof and let his knees practically buckle, a hand flying to his chest.

_For someone who just received two fatal gunshots, he's taking it very well._

I held out two fingers to Peter, making an indication for him to cover me. I stuffed the gun with the safety back on into the waistband of my slacks and rushed to Fowler. I didn't want him to _die,_ I just didn't want anyone else to be hurt. The music box had done enough damage. It wasn't worth this.

He very nearly fell down onto the concrete. Before he had the opportunity, I grabbed the collar of his shirt and yanked as hard as I could. Several buttons from his top popped, seams ripping, to show a heavy dark blue layer underneath his suit, tightly pressed and molded to his torso. Both Peter's and my bullet were buried in the Kevlar. The looseness of his suit jacket was what made it unnoticeable from the distance we'd been at.

I swore and grabbed the back of his neck, turning him against the car and pushing his head down towards the Taurus. "Breathe," I growled, holding onto his throat a little harder than I probably had to. His eyes were screwed up and shut tightly in pain. Being shot through a bulletproof vest saved the trouble of surgery, but it still _hurt_. "Breathe."

My companion picked up the fallen gun and moved it to replace the one I'd taken from his person. He looked over Fowler, seemed pleased that there wasn't blood on his car window, and sighed, wiping his palms off on the thighs of his pants.

"You got the wind knocked out of you, but you're not hurt. You're lucky," he told the dirty agent with emphasis on his 'fortune.' He didn't seem too repentant about having tried to shoot him in the chest. I couldn't say I blamed him, what with everything Fowler had put everyone around him through. Peter looked at me and raised a hand to my shoulder while I kept Fowler's head down with my other arm. The brunet touched my upper arm with a solid, rough pat, like he was ascertaining that I wasn't shot myself in the brief exchange.

"How'd you know he was wearing a vest?" He asked me, glancing at the deep, royal blue peeking out from underneath Fowler's skewed collar.

I shrugged. Once upon a time, I'd have felt bad. Now I just wanted to get my answers and pass on Fowler to the next person who cared. "I didn't," I answered honestly. I had expected Fowler to be dead as soon as I heard the gunshots ringing in my ears, smelled the explosion of gunpowder. After everything he'd done to me – not even including his threats and actions in the last five minutes – I didn't even feel guilty.

It was entirely possible that stress was making me hear things, but I could've sworn I heard a siren in the distance. Even though the odds of a dispatch team already on their way to investigate the gunshots were pretty low, it reminded me where I was and how little time I actually had. We needed to get _out._ It didn't matter who would testify at my trial if I didn't have anything to prove that Fowler was corrupt – shooting him was a lot worse than hitting him in the face.

"Okay, recovery time's over." I relaxed the force against the OPR agent's throat, only to grab his shoulder with bruising force and turn him around, sending him flush back against the Taurus, this time facing us. "What the fuck is Mentor?" I interrogated, itching to bring my gun back out if it would just make him talk.

The blond breathed heavily, ragged and pained. "Mentor's legit," he told me forcefully, baring his teeth in a snarl. At least this time they weren't bloodstained. Peter remained at the side, looking around the garage and making sure we were still alone. He let me handle Fowler. It may have been a mistake, because Fowler started to chuckle sardonically. "Kiss your puppy goodbye, because Caffrey works for _us_ now. He and Kate are deep undercover for OPR."

For a second, my grip loosened, and I was sure that a look of complete betrayal must've been on my face.

 _Neal…? Working for OPR, this whole time?_ Why would he do that? Sure, he'd be free, but at the cost of – of what, turning me into a criminal in his stead? I swallowed hard. If that was his angle, then props to him. He had succeeded, and he had enough evidence to destroy everything I had built up from the ground for myself. He'd broken my heart in the process.

Peter, however, was having none of it, and he didn't have such a weakness for the forger that Fowler's manipulative games could take root. "OPR doesn't _have_ deep cover agents," he growled, advancing threateningly on the blond's other side. "You are helping them to _disappear!"_

My knees felt weak. _Disappear?_ I had already almost fallen for it, almost let Fowler convince me Neal was backstabbing me – it was the same thing he had done to Neal in the past. Was this another pull? Or was it for real?

"He wants to go!" Fowler shouted back at Peter, reaching up, shoving my arms off of him, and then swinging at Peter when the latter tried to keep him where he was.

I didn't put up much of a fight. I hadn't thought that Neal would leave. We were supposed to stop Fowler, get the box, save Moreau, and then iron out the kinks and move on with our lives with each other. He would finish his sentence and I would protect him for its duration and then we could stop sneaking around, he could get a job where he wasn't always in trouble, we could maybe take a vacation to the Cote d'Azur to celebrate. Neal had spent so long running already. Wasn't he ready to make someplace into a home? Or, at the very least, find a way to run that would permit him to return?

 _But then… the goodbyes._ June had said goodbye to him. _She knew._ I had thought they were being dramatic; my heart clenched. If _anyone_ was going to know when someone was planning to run, it would be June, who had stayed loyal to a husband who ran from the law for decades. Neal's behavior made so much more sense. The way he made love to me the night before, touching and kissing me like he would never have another chance, became suddenly understandable. _He really thought he never would._

 _He was going to leave. He_ _ **is**_ _going to leave._ The nightmare I'd been fighting for an entire year came back. A year ago, I had been afraid Neal would run away. I had overestimated how much he valued the things I prioritized. Really, nothing had changed between now and then. When I remembered to stop substituting my values for his, I remembered the three things he held highest: his soulmate, Kate Moreau, and freedom. He would give everything we had up for his soulmate, who he didn't even know he had; for Kate Moreau, who had a hand in his suffering; and for his freedom, which, ironically, he was gaining by a method of giving up on ever having _real_ freedom ever again. If he ran, that was it. Once he was caught, it would be for good.

The one thing that didn't make any sense was why he would risk saying goodbye. When someone wants to leave without a trace, they have to do it fast, without clues or hints. If he just couldn't stop himself from closure, then he should've waited until he knew it was the last time he'd see me. It was an amateur mistake, and Neal was no amateur.

_He's really not an amateur. He knew that was the last time he'd see me._

For the first time, I noticed the lack of coffee in Fowler's hands and the speed with which he'd gone on a break. "You met with him," I realized in horror, raising my hands up to my head and burying my fingers into my thick hair. "You weren't going for coffee; you were going to see him."

I ran to Fowler's rental, parked behind Peter's van, the keys still in the ignition and the driver's door still ajar. The backseat was open, and in the foot well behind the passenger's seat, there was a thick, heavy-duty duffel bag, opened to nothing but a music box of pure amber.

I covered my mouth as a sob left my mouth, and, furious, I spun back around, stalking to the men. Acting as if I didn't even see Peter, I channeled by heartbreak and betrayal into violence. Peter had been looking to the car, curious what it was that instantly told me Neal was gone. My fingers pinched into Fowler's shoulders as tightly as I could curl them and slammed him forcefully against the car yet again. Before he could move, I shoved my hand to his throat, actively _choking_ him. The strangled sound escaping Fowler attracted Peter back to the situation before he could get close enough to look in the window.

"I need to know where he is," I shouted at the corrupt cop, leaning into him and pushing harder on his neck. My voice started to sound panicked. "Tell me where he is!"

"Hey! No, no!" Peter raised his voice and came up behind me. He wrapped his arms around my waist and pulled me back. Much like when Derek had torn me off of Fowler, Peter had to drag me backwards to get me to give up on my assault. He kept his arms locked around me and bent forward to set his head on my shoulder. "If you can't handle this, you can't help anyone," he reminded me firmly.

I took deep breaths and shuddered violently. Peter tightened his arms to be a comfort, but it didn't _mean_ anything. No one could replace Neal. I didn't need a consolatory _hug_ to calm down; I needed my _soulmate._

Fowler rubbed his throat. Some part of me shivered, disgusted and revolted. If Keller had brought out the best in me, then Fowler brought out the worst; however much it felt like I couldn't breathe knowing that I might never see him again, I was glad that Neal wasn't there to witness me like… like _that._

"Why do you care?" Fowler rasped, glowering at me and doubled over.

"Because he's mine, that's why!" I responded in a flash, breaking out of Peter's grip and stopping just short of assaulting the other man for a third (or was it a fourth?) time. I reached up and pulled on my hair instead until I thought of a suitable alternative. It only took a few seconds. Fowler struck my Achilles' heel – Neal Caffrey – so I would strike his: himself. "Peter." I said his name stonily. "Flash drive."

I held my left hand out behind me. Peter pressed the USB drive into my palm. He didn't even know half of what was going on, but he was still on my side, and that was relieving. It was nice to feel like I wasn't alone, even though I had the sinking feeling that it wasn't going to be that way for long. If Neal had gone, then not even Katie would be able to make me feel better.

 _If he would do this for his soulmate… would knowing she's right here have been enough to convince him to stay?_ Had I just lost the man I loved because I was scared of what would happen if I committed? It was tragically ironic that my fear of commitment had kept him from committing, ultimately causing me to lose the very thing I'd wanted.

I held the flash drive up close to Fowler's face so he could see. I bent down to look him in the face hatefully. "Mentor may be legit, but OPR is the only branch that knows about it. What's on the second file?" Moving the flash drive closer to me and out of his reach, I set my jaw like steel. "What happens to you if I upload every last piece of content to every major office?" I asked rhetorically.

When he realized that he was being blackmailed, there was anger and seething irritation in his eyes. I knew before he had even broken eye contact that he was ultimately going to relent. Beneath that front of rage, Fowler looked defeated and depressed. His shoulders had slumped long before I finished speaking. He had always had the upper hand before, but this time it didn't matter what he did or said. I still had _evidence._ _Finally._ But it wasn't worth the cost.

In truth, if he had told me I could have the information if I gave him back the USB drive, I might have actually made the trade.

Fowler lifted his eyes slowly from the concrete ground, looking up to my face reluctantly, gritting his teeth against the sores and the bruises. "Airstrip by the Hudson River," he groaned, tearing his eyes away and turning his surly expression elsewhere. "Hangar four."

"That wasn't so hard, was it?" I whispered, fighting the urge to just punch his lights out anyway. I knew the airstrip in question. It wasn't very far, but it was also out of the way. The roads weren't direct. It was small, though, so I wouldn't have to fight through pedestrians or a populated terminal to get to my lover. _If I even get there on time._ I stuffed the flash drive into my bra, shoving it underneath my breasts so that I would feel if it was displaced. I didn't trust it in my pockets, and although I did have trust in Peter, this was too personal now that my best friend was making a huge mistake. "Stay with him!" I told Peter, backing up quickly and pointing at Fowler.

Peter nodded determinedly, reaching for his phone. I didn't know what he was going to do, but I trusted he wouldn't let Fowler get away with everything he had done. I would worry about it later. I could clean up this mess later, even though it would be much harder than just sweeping details out of mind.

First, I had to fix my relationship with Neal before he permanently shattered it.

* * *

_The Hudson River._

My car raced well over the speed limit, the police sirens wailing where they were mounted on top of the vehicle. The colored lights flashed their reflections onto the hood and the windshield. I pushed through traffic, urging myself to move faster. The sunlight glistened off of what I could see of the Hudson, glinting and shining majestically.

Every beat of silence felt like the knife was twisting further. I was alone. I felt more alone than I had in the last year. I had risked everything, and now, even if I had the evidence I needed to keep my job, I was still so close to losing the very person I'd been willing to give it for.

A year's worth of memories begged attention. Neal, sitting in the passenger seat, dominated them all: rain splattering softly on the windshield, sitting at a traffic light while we talked about soulmates and love; my hand on his knee as we compromised on Moreau and he kept me company as I faced Katie after a fight; the beautiful brunet perching an origami crane on top of my head and giggling. He belonged at my side, not in an airplane, leaving me forever.

A tear leaked from my left eye and streaked down my face. I lifted a hand from the wheel to rub at my cheeks, wetly sniffing, yet still pushing my car to go faster.

I wasn't worth staying for. Even after everything we had been through and all that I had thought we had, I wasn't worth staying with. My heart broke and part of me thought I should let him go. I wanted him to be happy more than I wanted to be loved. But I also knew that running away was a mistake. We had what we needed for Moreau to return, and Fowler had gotten the music box. Whether she was in on it or not, she had what she'd wanted and could be free. Now, if both of them would just stay in New York for three years, Neal could finally be a free man. They could live with clean slates, do what they wanted, be who they were, without running, without lying.

I was so scared.

Neal knew how to stay gone. If I didn't stop him, I would never see him again. He would never be able to come home.

_Who am I to decide where his home is?_

_The same person that decided to hide my soulmark from him, who fought him for months and months on whether or not we could be more than friends, who never told him how important he is._

I knew I would never be able to force Neal to do anything. If not because he was so crafty, then because I simply would not ever have the mental fortitude to antagonize him… but I still had to make the attempt to bring him back. He deserved to know who he had spent his life longing for. He deserved to leave with his feelings straightened out on real facts. If he was going to leave, he might as well leave hating me for keeping our soulmate bond a secret from him. Or maybe it would be enough for him to stay, just until he could leave without the warrant out for his arrest.

My phone was connected to the Bluetooth of my car automatically when I got inside. Katie's number showed up on the display screen. I checked the traffic on my right, saw that the cars were staying out of the way of the speeding police car, and moved into the turn lane. _Just wait another few minutes, love,_ I prayed. _If this is how it has to end, then let me let you go without lies._ I would never forgive myself if he left because of my omissions.

Pressing on the corner of the screen, I accepted the call. "Now's not a good time!" I warned Katie, the blaring of my sirens muffled by the closed windows and doors.

She paused, definitely hearing them in the background. _"It's about Neal,"_ she announced with certainty. She knew I would have time for Neal. When _didn't_ I have time for Neal?

My heart skipped. "Is he there?!" I blurted hopefully before thinking to stop myself or censor my tone. If he was with Katie, maybe he'd never meant to leave. Maybe he wasn't leaving. I could turn around and go home and hide my face in his neck and kiss him for all I was worth because hell, I'm not an agent anymore, there's nothing stopping me from fraternizing with the man whose custody I no longer have.

 _"_ _No, he's not, but… oh, McKenna."_ Katie made a long sigh over the phone, nervous and apprehensive. I tightened my hands on the wheel, tensing up for something I knew I wasn't going to like. My sister inhaled shakily. _"What did you_ _ **say**_ _to him?"_

I swallowed as another tear pricked at my eye. _Not nearly enough, apparently,_ I allowed myself to think miserably. "What do you mean?" I asked her instead, worrying over what she did and didn't know.

Something quiet moved and a door closed. _"Well, he left you some flowers and me a card."_ My first response was a weak smile. That was Neal; such a romantic. He _would_ buy me flowers as he left, saying goodbye one final time. _"It's a lawyer,"_ she expanded, sounding amazed and dubious at the same time. _"I called him – it's not your weird friend – he's a legit lawyer, and the fees have already been paid for by some bakery in Manhattan."_

I knew without a doubt in my mind that the bakery was The Greatest Cake. Absently, I wondered who Neal planned to have look after his business holding once he was out of the country. Mozzie, probably.

"Sounds like Neal's trying to help you out," I told her relaxingly, my lips quirking in a frightened smile. It also sounded like Neal's version of an apology and a goodbye wrapped into one well-meaning gesture.

There was a moment where neither of us spoke on the phone. I didn't know what to say. I was busy enough holding myself back from railing against everything working against me, focusing hard on following the GPS map's instructions on which road to take to get to the hangar. The asphalt rushed under the tires and the engine purred, vibrating through my arms and legs while I pushed the pedal a little closer to the floor.

She swallowed, finally, after an eternity of waiting and worrying and a turn I probably shouldn't have taken at these speeds. _"I looked up the flowers on the internet,"_ she informed me clinically, an odd, detached tone inflecting how she talked. _"Your flowers, I mean. … You need to find him."_

Right, because obviously that wasn't the very first priority on my list already. "That's what I'm trying to do!" I raised my voice to the Bluetooth and, to my dismay, heard it crack. "I'm on my way to find him now," I vowed to her frantically. I was leaving the traffic and the clutter of Manhattan behind, departing into somewhere dreamier, more spacious – more lonesome. "I just hope he's not doing something stupid. Just put the roses in some water, okay?"

Her voice caught and she laughed derisively. It was so unlike her that I tore my eyes from the roads ahead and looked at her caller ID in guarded surprise. _"They're not roses,"_ she said dryly.

"What do you mean?" I asked, curious despite myself. Those flowers… they were the last things Neal ever intended for me to have from him. They were the last message he ever wanted to send me. Why wouldn't he give me the custom bouquet he'd been presenting me with for months? "He always gives me rose arrangements," I insisted stubbornly. "Red, orange, purple, pinks."

 _"_ _Not this time,"_ Katie denied flatly. _"They're…_ " Even she had to stop. Her breath rattled with congestion in her chest. She blew her nose into a tissue. _"They're forget-me-nots, pink carnations, and purple hyacinths, and cyclamen."_

None of those really meant anything to me. I knew what forget-me-nots looked like, but couldn't visualize any of the others, much less understand why they evoked that reaction. I hoped they at least looked nice. I hoped I could ask Neal what they looked like myself.

"Katie." Very slowly, I said her name, feeling it ring in my ears like a bomb. "What do those specific flowers mean?"

 _"_ _True love and memory… I'll never forget you… sorrow, plea for forgiveness… resignation and goodbye."_ She let out a quiet, heart-wrenching sob. She couldn't hold a candle to how desperate I felt. It was like I couldn't breathe, like I'd been punched hard in the gut. Katie's voice cried as she let her tears fall, scared and sure that she was losing a good friend. _"He's saying goodbye."_

I had no choice but to wipe at my eyes again as my shoulders quaked, fingers trembling. I could sort of make out a big shape standing up from the ground several miles ahead of me. The airstrip was private; it must've taken big names or big money to get a jet the room and right to take off from it, but it overlooked the Hudson and as it took off, it would show off an incredible last view of New York.

Her voice shuddered and caught, audibly crying hard through the phone. I listened to her bawling and tried to make out her words through it and reminded myself why I couldn't break down – why I had to last just a little bit longer, just for Neal.

 _"_ _You said he's been giving you roses?"_ She sniffed and whimpered and relayed information that she had found from her computer or her phone or wherever. It didn't really matter to me where she had found it; at that moment, all that mattered was learning what Neal had been trying to tell me for months. Whatever it had been, I had been an idiot and missed it.

_Maybe if I had caught on, this wouldn't be happening._

_"_ _Those colors mean gratitude, desire, gentleness, admiration, romance, and falling – and falling in love."_

Stricken, I wet my lips. He had been telling me, in his own way, all along. He'd been telling me for _months_ and I hadn't even suspected. I didn't tell him what I needed to say, largely because I didn't think he could make that commitment, and now I learned that he had been making it longer than I had even been feeling it, and maybe if I had just opened my damn mouth and said _I love you_ then this could've been avoided.

"I…" It was overwhelming to learn that it was my fault, that I could've stopped it, that he wanted to leave peacefully even while thinking I didn't love him. Trading in declarations of love for resignation? _Gods, Neal, you're such a stupid idiot. I love you, too._ "I thought he was just being cute," I whispered in a small, shocked voice.

The one thing I had tried so hard to tell him the night before had never made it across. Not even making love had showed him how much I really did love him. How could he think there wasn't enough to make staying worth his time when I had sacrificed everything I was and had wanted to be for him?

 _It was for Katie, too._ I remembered all of the times I added Katie into the equation. It had been to make myself feel better that I would always remind him and Mozzie and Alex that I was fighting for my _sister._ And I had been fighting for her, absolutely. But I should've told Neal, at least once, that I would've fought anyway, because he's worth the pain and the danger, just for the small tastes of the love and the gentleness that he wanted so badly to share. I felt it, too. I wanted to give it to him.

 _"_ _Hurry,"_ Katie begged, echoing my own sentiments as I drew closer, closer, closer to the private jet. I couldn't seem to get close enough. Every second that passed increased the probability of the next second being the one in which the jet started to move and took the love of my life with it. _"If you don't stop him, he'll leave. He doesn't think there's enough here to stay_ _ **for.**_ _"_

* * *

I grew up a rich white girl with distant parents. I grew up wild and reckless and adventurous, wanting to explore – I wanted to see things I'd never seen, feel things I'd never felt, do things I'd never done. The fact was, I had been on more airplanes before I turned eighteen than most people were on in their entire lives, and I knew how airports worked, even the small ones.

When I reached the facility, I saw how it was designed. The runway was small, but that was okay; the jet was smaller, too, and didn't need as much space to take off. It was guarded by a fence, and the fence only broke where there was a small building shaped more like a warehouse. I knew there was no way that there wouldn't be some form of security or technical assistance. I went in knowing that I had a fight ahead of me.

And fight I did. I did everything short of physical assault struggling to get through, including feigning docility long enough to see that, of the two security guards, neither one carried a gun or a taser. Then I bolted, leaping over a low security barricade and sprinting out into the grounds on the inside of the fence. If I wasn't arrested because of Fowler, then I would probably be facing some sort of disciplinary action for disregarding the shouting commands of security in an airport, of all places.

It was worth it. I got out on the runway before the jet had even started. A hatch in the side was wide open and a set of mobile docking stairs were locked in place beside it. The jet's engine had already started, loud and low and vibrating the asphalt ground so that I felt it through my boots. I looked around, overwhelmed and staggering back, for just a second. Then – because I was lucky, or maybe because the world felt bad for all the hell it had pushed me through – I found Neal, leaving a storage facility about the size of a garage, pulling on a suitcase and closing the door.

All words and powers of speech disappeared. I was winded and raised a hand to my chest, feeling my heartbeat rapidly flutter. He was still _here._ I still had time. _Not much, but some._

I watched him starting to leave the overhanging shelter, raising an arm over his head and waving excitedly. My eyes traveled to the jet again. Kate Moreau – _because who else could it have ever been_ – stood in the doorway, a hand on the inside of the door frame and her other arm raised, beckoning and waving, a big smile on her face and a cozy-looking dark pink scarf around her neck.

I shouted, calling out his name right before desperation choked me up and took away my voice. _"Neal!"_

My love turned around swiftly. Seeing his face again almost made me cry with relief, but he wasn't happy to see me. By no means did the conman look surprised, but rather, he appeared slightly upset. His mouth tightened and his shoulders fell. Nevertheless, he stood his grey felt suitcase upright next to his legs and took his hand off of it.

I walked to him quickly, body moving before I could stop and consider anything about what I was doing. Wind slapped my face and carried my hair carelessly, sending it flying back over my shoulders and behind me. The same breezes slipped through Neal's, ruffling his hair and creating a perfect picture as it also lifted the tails of his long coat and buffeted them against the backs of his thighs.

"What?" He asked when I was just a few feet away, so close that I could reach out and touch him. His tone, guarded and pained, was the only reason why I resisted. He looked down at me, his right hand itching to take his suitcase again. I stopped short where I was and tilted my head, trying to understand. _I thought you wanted me to want you._ Why would he be upset that I did the grand gesture of chasing him down to the airstrip? Didn't he want a dramatic romance? "Are you here to arrest me now?"

My heart thudded painfully. Even when I'd had cause to arrest him for breaking laws, I never had. Why was he being hostile?

I held out my arms uselessly. "I'm a civilian now," I reminded him, my delighted smile fading fast and replacing itself with a frown of confusion and sadness. _Fowler took my job away._ I'd traded in my badge and taken up criminality in its place.

Neal nodded slightly, looking down and wetting his lips with the tip of his tongue. He hadn't forgotten, either. Maybe the reminder was a good thing. It made him remember all I'd done for him. I didn't want him to think about it in the sense that he owed me, but rather in the light that I had been willing to endure and fight so much for him. Actions were supposed to speak louder than words.

After he didn't say anything, just left us quiet underneath the angry rumbling of the jet, I took a deep breath and crossed my arms before my stomach, holding onto my wrists. "I got to Fowler, Peter got to his computer." I explained, sniffing again. It took a lot of willpower not to rub my face. "I get what Mentor is now." I looked up at him with a sad, melancholic smile. Him leaving was the last thing I wanted, but he was here, so clearly it was what he thought was best.

I didn't know what Mentor was. Not really. The information on it was all on a drive stuffed into my bra, but I didn't know the details or the purpose or how it was phrased and tied up to make it look legally admissible… but I could guess. Peter said OPR was allocating funds and resources for Caffrey and Moreau, and Fowler had said they were agents. It was an escape plan.

This time, I couldn't _not_ wipe at my eyes. I looked down and brought my hands to my face, being as gracious as I could. I didn't want him to see me cry. I didn't want to guilt-trip him into staying. I wanted him to stay, but I wanted it to be because he wanted to be with me.

"You can leave the country and it's completely legal and sanctioned," I summarized, face in my hands, rubbing at salty water from my eyes. My voice must've sounded slightly muffled. For each second that passed as I cried before him, I expected for him to eliminate the space between us. I kept waiting for his gentle hands to take mine away from my face and wipe the tears off of my cheeks, or for his arms to pull me to his chest. With every second that no such thing happened, I felt pieces of my hope shatter and fall away. "Everything's all where it has to be…"

He cleared his throat. I chose to believe it was because he was having a hard time remaining as stoic as he was. "Then what are you doing here?" He asked me, sliding his left hand into the pocket of his slacks.

I looked up at him, biting my lip. _You have to ask?_ It felt like he had hit me. I finally took the time to look over him. His slacks were nice, paired with a black turtleneck sweater ( _the same one he wore when we caught Hagen_ ) and a thick grey overcoat, pulled shut over his abdomen and nicely complimenting the cut of his waist. He wasn't just making a getaway. He was trying to leave on good terms and claim a new identity with his ideal sensibilities. He had really thought this through.

He cut it down into a neat picture for himself when he asked me that. Why would I care if he left? Why would I be here if I wasn't trying to arrest him? He deliberately negated any other reasons I would want him to stay, especially including the most important.

"I…" I swallowed and pressed a hand covertly into my stomach, settling the queasiness. "I thought that would be pretty obvious." _I love you!_

Neal bit his tongue and looked over his shoulder at the jet. Moreau had left the doorway, probably spooked by seeing me, but I was sure she was watching from one of the half-tinted windows. I braced myself up to say something else, something persuasive, but came up short. What was there to say? I could throw my feelings at him and be a general disorganized mess, but what kind of message was that supposed to give, other than that I wanted him to stay for me? That wasn't a reason he didn't already know.

He turned back to me, his arm raised to point at the little airplane his sister had already boarded. "You understand, I'm getting on that plane," he announced stubbornly.

I listened to him well. I liked to think I always had. I heard the waver in his voice that he tried to shut down. I saw how he was trying so hard to convince himself not to think twice about his decision. I could've made a difference if I kept chipping away, at least enough to make him talk to me, but instead of that, I just saw the man I loved telling me what I knew and what I didn't, and how one of the things I supposedly knew was that I was losing him for good, no matter what I said.

It made me angry.

It was because of him that I had fought the system. It was because of him that I had not only pushed back when I'd been shoved, but that I had broken the laws to do it. It wasn't solely _for_ him – my motives weren't entirely altruistic – but for God's sake, had we been here a year ago, I would've balked at the idea of robbing from the Italians or forging signatures or tampering with evidence. He'd taught me how to do these things and convinced me that they were methods worth using.

Neal was the reason I was so different from who I had wanted to be, and I had been alright with that. The changes I made to myself were out of necessity. If I had clung to the person I fashioned myself into to start with, then I wouldn't have been able to persevere when Fowler started to try to bring us down. I could've gotten rid of half of my troubles just by forsaking him and how hard it was to keep him out of trouble.

And, yes, part of those changes had been forced onto me by an unwillingness to betray him or hurt him, or let him be hurt by anyone else. I had broken laws I'd sworn to uphold and aided in his crimes by not reporting it when he stole paintings or lied about Interpol agents.

Then, even when I forgot the job and brought it down to just us, I couldn't control that I was _furious_ with him. Who did he think he was, to treat me suddenly like I was merely the agent keeping tabs on him? He had stripped me down emotionally more than once and let me see parts of himself that I doubted many people had ever gotten to view. How could he then put up walls and try to leave it like that? How could he just abandon what we had like it was never really there?

And what about my sister, who was at home, sobbing her eyes out because she thought she'd just lost one of her closest friends? He was leaving Katie without so much as a hug or a 'be well.' I knew what his gestures meant when he gave her a lawyer and gave me flowers, but normal people – Katie included – didn't operate like that. A lawyer wasn't a _goodbye._ It was an apology, but it would never be enough to say goodbye or sorry. She would need closure, closure which Neal was denying her.

He had afforded June a goodbye. He had made a gesture for Katie and me, but hadn't said goodbye to me, not really. He had just maybe given me a reason why he was leaving, but it wasn't worth anything when he would act like it wasn't real while I stood right in front of him. I couldn't imagine him leaving and not telling Mozzie. What about Derek? What about Diana? They were friends. How could I tell them that their friend was never going to talk to them again?

Neal had so many people who cared about him, who would cry over his absence, and he was just ditching us all here as if we were just a pit stop on the way to someplace better. _How dare he treat us like that?_ We were friends. We were some sort of family. And he was leaving without even telling them why, not even having the decency to let me know when he was saying 'goodbye.' Or 'I love you.' Because who the fuck spoke flora? Who would go to a computer and look up the individual meanings of flowers someone gave them? – Katie excluded, apparently, but she's a romantic idealist, and Neal _knows_ that's not who I am.

My tears dried in lieu of my fury. The joy from seeing him alive and present was slowly meshing with a draining sense of parched anger that curled my fingernails into my palms and made my throat feel like scratchy cotton.

"You're a real bastard sometimes, you know?!" I spat, glaring at him. Neal leaned back, his eyes widening. Of all the reactions he could've gotten, that one was not what he'd planned for. I dug my nails into my thighs, trying not to reach out and slug his arm. "I'm not entitled to _you_ , but I think I _am_ entitled to at least an actual goodbye."

We stared at each other, me with feigned hatred in my eyes because it was easier to pretend to hate him than it was to admit that I loved him and had screwed up. Neal's expression broke down, mask falling, and although I really _did_ hate seeing the vulnerability in his eyes, I was glad that our last interaction wouldn't be completely full of lies.

My voice broke. "An explanation, at least, before you flee the country and change your name and never talk to me again." I could move on. I could deal with not having him. My life did not hinge solely on Neal, no matter how my heart screamed differently. I just needed to know _why_ , so that I could regret what I did wrong, grieve for what I could never have, and then get on with living. "You said you never lied to me," I reminded him, eyes welling up again helplessly. "Did you only mean verbally? Because I learned a hell of a lot through things you _didn't_ say, and now I have to wonder if none of it actually meant anything." _Maybe Fowler was right all along. Maybe he'd been using me._ "I thought you cared about me." _Maybe I was just a toy._ "Was I wrong?"

"No," he answered immediately, his face flushing. Neal reached for me with his arms and in an instant, I was in his embrace again.

It felt incredible, like coming home, or like bringing my home back to me. The wind tried to whip my hair around my face, but Neal brought his hand up over the back of my neck and held it down. I wrapped my arms around his waist and held on, clinging desperately, the purring of the jet drowning out even the sound of his heartbeat. I breathed in his smell – he'd forgone the cologne – and fisted my hands in the back of his jacket.

I felt his lips on the crown of my head. "It was all real," he vowed. It would've been cute, but he had to raise his voice enough for me to hear over the plane. His arms held me tight, tighter than I probably deserved. Neal pressed his cheek to my hair. "None of it was fake, Kenna, I swear to you; I meant everything I said and did. Whatever you felt, I felt it, too."

 _If you feel everything, then why am I the one crying to you as you run away?_ It did beg the question of why he was putting us through this if I was as important to him as he was to me. The simple answer was that he was wrong, and he didn't feel the same.

Though it killed me to break apart from him for what could be the last time, I pushed gently against his chest and leaned my head back. Neal held his hand to my face, stroked my cheek, and smiled wanly as he moved hair out of the way.

"You said goodbye to everyone. But not to me." I blinked at him, swallowing thickly. His conflicted smile became sad. "If I'm important, why didn't you say goodbye to me?"

His lips parted slightly, but no sound came out. My hands, warm against his chest, couldn't feel any vibrations, not even those from shy speech drowned out by the airplane. He looked down between us, at where my hips were still flush against his, and shook his head a little.

"I don't know," he said, looking back up to me. His eyes were sorrowful and begged me not to push.

I had to. "Yes, you do," I scolded him. "You know." I stepped away. He was lying to me. He wasn't doing a very good job, but he was trying. I felt cold without his arms around me, and terribly scared and alone now that I was the one forcing the distance. "You _always_ know," I stubbornly insisted. Neal always had an idea, a plan, a secret. "You _always_ have a reason, so tell me why."

He scoffed, hurt. "You know why," he accused.

"Do I?" I retorted hotly.

Our problem was that neither of us knew when something needed to be said. I was done screwing around – what wasn't said was evidently just as important as what was, and if there was ever going to be any chance of us lasting, even if he did choose to bring Moreau off the plane and remain here, then we had to learn to say what we needed to say. That meant he had to learn to talk to me, to communicate, not to just assume I understood what he was thinking.

Neal's eyes softened as he looked at me. He scraped his teeth over his bottom lip and let out a long sigh. When his mouth moved, his words came out hardly audible. They hit my ears anyway, and when I heard, I raised my fist to my mouth, biting down on my thumb so I didn't wail and cry.

_"_ _You're the only one who could change my mind."_

Maybe I was worth staying for. Maybe he didn't say goodbye to me because he knew I could convince him to stay. Maybe this meant that I wouldn't have to watch him go and spend the rest of my life regretting holding my tongue.

Once I had left indents on my thumb and the pain was forcing back the tears, I lowered my hand from my face. "And have I?" I asked bravely, desperate to hear that I had.

He hesitated. "Not yet," Neal shook his head. His expression was bittersweet. My boyfriend very intentionally said _yet_ , but that still wasn't a guarantee of anything. Me driving here in a panic and all but getting on my knees hadn't said enough?

For an entire year, I had been holding myself back from talking about Moreau or letting Neal know how jealous I was. She had him eating out of her hand and would yank his chain whenever she wanted him to do something for her. I compared myself to her more times than I cared to count, wondering what traits she could have that made her more trustworthy than I was, curious what kind of memories and bond they had to share for Neal to be willing to repeatedly throw ours under the nearest oncoming vehicle.

Something about it actually being asked was a long time coming, but I still skirted around it, asking something else instead. "I thought once you had Kate back, you'd be _happy."_ I sounded broken, like a lost child. "What's making you leave?" _I bet it's her._ If I were braver, I would've bluntly demanded to know if it was Moreau's idea to take off from New York and never return.

Neal looked at me guiltily. He sent a long look over his shoulder at the airplane, yet his hand stayed off of his suitcase. I stood there expectantly, awaiting an answer I knew I wasn't going to like. While he was trying to see his sister through the windows, I raised a hand and surreptitiously rubbed my nose against the back of my wrist.

He looked back to me, his bright blue eyes weary and honest. God, he was honest, for once. "I can stay here and be shackled to you, or I can go and be a free man, in every sense of the word." Neal started to gesture to his left leg, where the anklet usually resided. I shook my head slowly. _No. You're not entirely free unless you serve your sentence and are released._ "No more Fowler, no more fear of corrupt FBI agents…"

Neal had been looking over my shoulder with exasperation, and he raised his arms incredulously as he expressed that right now he actually had to fear dirty cops. I could see how it was a lot, but what did it matter anymore? We had what we needed to take down Fowler. We had Moreau back! What had happened to me and him against the world?

He lowered his voice slightly and held his arms close to his body. The air rushing up from the river made the airstrip cool. His beautiful eyes sought out mine again and locked in eye contact, a little red. "You're the only person who can make me stay because you're the only person who made being shackled seem like a good thing."

I sniffed and looked up to the bright, clear sky. So it _was_ my fault. If I had said or done something differently, I wouldn't be standing here, crying like a pathetic mess.

"Because you want me," I finished for him, filling in the blanks. I sounded a touch incredulous as insecurity trickled through. How could anyone want me now? I was a disgrace as an agent and apparently I couldn't even succeed at showing my soulmate that I love him.

He smiled at me gently, his lips pulling up into an affectionate yet reserved expression of love and kindness. "Because I want you," he agreed. In spite of his claim, he remained at arm's length. The jet and the wind made everything surreal. If I hadn't seen his mouth form the words, I might've convinced myself I'd heard wrong.

I breathed deeply, gasping for air, and looked up to the sky again. There were hardly any clouds. It was a great day to get on an airplane and run far, far away. I crossed my right arm over my stomach and pressed against the old wounds, trying to calm down and ground myself. I couldn't afford to lose my cool any more than I already had. Loose tendrils of hair were caught by the breeze and whipped up towards my face, some catching on my lips.

He stared at me regretfully while I tried to process. What did I do next? Was he going to stay? I wanted him, I want him, I _will want_ him, but was that enough? What would I have to promise or sacrifice for him to see that it was best for everyone if he stayed? It wasn't just me being selfish. Even if we hated each other, I would still be morally obligated to recommend he remain and finish his sentence for his own sake.

"You know I'm a romantic," he urged me to understand. "You tease me about it enough. But Kenna – I want my soulmate still. I want to know who they are, even if not in the same way that I know you." Some bubble popped in my chest. I felt like my lungs had collapsed. The hand on my stomach moved up to my chest, and phantom fire tingled underneath my glove. "I want love," he professed truthfully, baring his soul. "I want that belonging, and I want someone who I can love without fear of being pushed away.

"You're amazing, Kenna." Neal laughed softly and wistfully as he said my name, as if accepting that it might be one of the last times he could ever say it. "You're absolutely incredible." _Then stay_ , I whimpered incoherently. "But you're also hot and cold and it's impossible to tell when it's okay to get close and when you're going to panic and run away to go make Katie buy some sort of furniture."

Even with everything else going on, I still managed to blush. The lie from when I had run out on him after our first time had never been believed. It begged the question of why he let me think that he'd bought it for so long, but that wasn't important. Obviously, he didn't know the _real_ reason. He could keep his conclusions for the moment so long as I corrected his idea that he couldn't have me.

I covered my mouth with my hand and shook my head, hoping it would clear away some of the uncertainties. It didn't. He was running because he wanted things of me that I was scared to give. He was also running because he wanted someone who had something he thought I lacked. I could resolve both of those problems at once. I'd been hell-bent on doing both during the race to get here, but now that I was standing there and it was time, I had second thoughts.

Did I really want him to stay if he was only staying because he learned his soulmate was here? I wanted him here because he had enough to be happy. Maybe knowing I was his would make him happy, but maybe it was just giving in to the very convention I had been resisting my entire life. Was it worth risking that he stay for my soulmark instead of love?

I fixed my eyes on him desperately. _Tell me what to do,_ I pleaded hopelessly. Was I so insane about him that I could settle for not knowing the real reason he would stay? Was it fair to either of us to keep it to myself when it was the one thing that could stop him from making a terrible mistake?

I had never been one for altruism. I had an ulterior motive for almost everything I ever did. I arrested people for personal satisfaction, not because I was seriously personally offended by white-collar crime. Before Neal, I had entertained sexual partners for self-gratification, not because I loved to make other people feel good. I went into a dangerous career not because the public needed people who would defend them, but because I wanted to spite my parents. Katie – and now Neal – were the only people who had ever been able to influence me to act entirely for someone else's benefit, especially when those actions would prove harmful to myself.

That was Neal, though – convincing me to do things I never would've done otherwise.

I realized that selfishness be damned, I had to show him. Regardless of whether or not he would leave, he had the right to know. Even if it left me smarting with the sting of rejection, he deserved to know that if he left, he wouldn't find his soulmate out there waiting for him, because she was already there, praying that he would stay.

The thing was, I would have to spend the rest of my life knowing that McKenna wasn't enough to get him to give up on this crazy fantasy, but the flaming wing on my wrist was. I'd have to live knowing that an ideal was more important to him than the real person. I'd thought a soulmate was someone you could love wholly, but apparently Neal needed a soulmark to give himself to someone.

I blinked, and resigned tears started to roll down my face. Neal gently smiled at me in reassurance. He pulled open his overcoat and reached into the inner breast pocket, then took out what looked like a thin black billfold. I recognized it immediately, of course; I had carried my own for years. He handed me his ID and credentials with a comforting look as he promised me with his eyes and the loving ghost of his fingers over my knuckles that I would be okay.

The artist misinterpreted my physical response. "Thank you for this," he told me, closing my resistant hand around his consultant's badge. "Thank you for everything." He dropped his hands from mine and took a step back, reaching for his suitcase. "I have to go."

It was like everything happened in slow motion. My hand fell and his credentials slipped out of my grasp, falling at a painfully slow pace to the ground. _Don't give them to me. Keep them._ He jerked his suitcase around so he could pull it on its wheels and tilted it up to one side, stepping ahead of it to drag it behind. His back was to me and he was walking away, his hair fluttering, his coat blowing back – his suitcase caught on a rock and one of the sides bounced up –

"It does!" I shouted to him, covering my mouth in shock after I'd spoken. _I have to do this,_ my heart pounded. _I don't have a choice._

Neal stilled, suitcase still tilted to roll behind his heel. One foot was still in front of the other. His back was still to me. He made no move to face me. While I had his attention, it felt like the other things faded away. What wind? What engine? I could feel the breeze still buffeting my face – a good thing, since it was keeping me from sweating, what with my face being so red and hot – but it didn't register as something to pay attention to.

I dropped my hands to my sides, compulsively clenching and loosening my fists beside my thighs. "Stand still, I mean." I called demurely, timidly. My throat closed when I tried to swallow, so I just stood there for a few seconds, remembering how to breathe and speak. "… You asked me in the Howser if the world stood still when we kissed, and I never answered you."

As though the very universe was lobbying for two of its mates to reconcile, the wind softened. It died down to a mere occasional gust. I had no idea what was causing the surreal lull, but I wasn't going to question it. It meant I could just talk and he would hear me. Neal kept his back to me, but lowered his head, looking down.

"There were a lot of questions you had in that clinic that I never answered," I softly reminded, with the implication that I was about to.

Neal sighed, his shoulders falling with stress, and then he sat his suitcase up and turned back around to face me. Over ten feet separated us, but I could make out the reluctant permission on his face as clearly as I could see the adoration when he kissed me. He made a gesture with one hand to keep going.

There was no turning back now.

"The thing is, I didn't answer because I was afraid." Of a lot of things, that was true, but one of my biggest fears had always been that he wouldn't give himself to me the way I would give myself to him. The idea of having such an unbalanced relationship frightened me. "And honestly, I still am." Bemusement shown on his face, alongside curiosity and concern. "I've done a lot of really dangerous things since last year," I laughed nervously, holding out a hand indicatively. "I was bait for Ghovat, and then I risked my career for you… many times… and the fire suppression system… and half a dozen other instances I could list, just off the top of my head."

I swallowed hard, frowning. Why was this so hard to say? It could've already been over with if I could just spit it out. To my horror, the pressure behind my eyes started to build again. The tears were welling up and returning with a fervent vengeance.

"I have risked my job, and my _life,_ and my _safety_ for you over and over, and I have no idea where I last saw my sense of self-preservation-" If I was being truthful, Neal had probably had nothing to do with that, but surely if I still possessed any small scrap of it, I would've been able to avoid giving my heart away to a man notorious for disappearing like smoke. "-But none of that – do you understand me, _none of that_ – was comparatively anything, because the most dangerous thing I've ever done is falling in love with you."

 _There._ It was out, in the open, no longer just stuck in my head or dying on my tongue. I had imagined that when I finally told him, I would feel light, secure, sensuous, serene. Instead, the circumstances made me feel tight-chested, heavy-hearted, and grimly relieved that it was over. I felt like I'd had some golden memory stolen. _But it's my fault for waiting so long._

I ducked my head and gasped. Tears fell as I finally couldn't stop myself from weeping. This was truly a tragic romance, especially if it wasn't enough, if he left. Not only would I lose the ability to know if he wanted me or a tattoo, but I hadn't gotten to keep what should've been an intimate moment from souring with bitterness and grief.

I'd known for the majority of our time together that Neal was the kind of person I'd fall for, hard and fast, and I had been terrified when I'd come to that conclusion. Even now, as it fulfilled itself, I couldn't force myself to feel any regrets. If this was where it ended, then at least I'd have the memories. I'd gotten to have a couple of months to pretend like everything was fine, and that was more than a lot of people had.

 _"_ _J'adore toi,"_ I whined, slipping into French. My crying spell overwhelmed me just long enough for me to start speaking in the other language I'd grown up with. I was glad that Neal was fluent, because I was baring my soul, regardless of which sounds I was making to do it. _"S'il vous plait, ne pars pas."_ A quiet little sob broke and I hunched over, covering my face with my hands. _"S'il vous plait. Je me bats pour ta liberté, mais du ici. Tu ne dois pas courir pour elle. Tu peux avoir nous deux, je vais protéger vous. J'adore toi._ "

I made all of these promises desperately, hardly aware of what I was saying as they passed my lips, yet I knew without a doubt that if he would hold me to them, then I wouldn't hesitate to honor them.

Shuddering, I wiped my eyes and dropped my hands, trying to make eye contact with him again without being a sobbing mess. "I love you, Neal Caffrey," I declared insistently, trying to force myself to feel pride or happiness or exaltation. I couldn't. "I don't know if that's enough… I'm not even sure that that's what you wanted to hear…"

Across the divide, Neal made a hurt, halfhearted sound like he meant to say something but aborted just in time. His bright blues were wide and stricken. There was more conflict on his face than I had ever seen as I forsook my pride and my trepidations and just begged for him to stay in New York.

"Whether or not it is," my chest heaved as I fought to keep my voice coherent. "I still can't let you leave without showing you something else, too."

Neal's feet remained planted firmly where they were on the asphalt. "I'm not leaving this hangar," he warned me defensively before I could get my hopes up. "No matter what it's for, I'm not going anywhere so you can show me something."

_Which means you still intend to leave. I was right. I'm not enough._

I don't think I had really expected for him to want to leave after I offered him the commitment he had been wanting, so hearing it confirmed that it wasn't enough, that _I_ wasn't enough for him, drove into my chest like a bullet and lodged in my heart. It took an extraordinary amount of willpower not to just break down. It certainly didn't help that he wasn't the first person I hadn't been enough for, but failing to meet expectations had never left me feeling like I'd disappointed the one person who mattered.

_But his soulmate might be, and yes, I'm so pathetic that I'll take you even if I'm only good enough according to our marks._

I put one foot in front of the other, slowly closing the treacherous gap. I picked up both hands and found the string laces of my right glove. Giving them a tug, I started to work them out of their ties and loosen them up over my wrist.

"You don't have to," I promised him defeatedly. "This is something I've been carrying with me for a long time."

My inner wrist still felt all tingly and hot. I liked to imagine it was because it knew how much I wished it didn't exist. _If he didn't have the promise of another person's love, maybe he would be happy with mine._ As the strings loosened, air slipped up between skin and fabric. It was only another few pulls before the silken material was sliding over the heel of my hand, dragging like expensive cloth over my fingers.

With only inches between us, my feet stopped. I stood in his shadow and felt his eyes on my forehead. "I didn't know this when it started, I swear," I promised hastily. "It completely blindsided me. Then I was afraid and rebellious and pretending that I didn't have to feel anything that I didn't want to feel. By the time I realized I was being stupid, I was really afraid to tell you after keeping it a secret." I crumpled up my glove in my hand and tossed it straight down at the ground disdainfully. "Katie knew this would come back to get me at some point," I reflected, snorting derisively. "I guess she was right."

I turned my hand palm-up and presented my arm to Neal. The chained angel's wing had an ethereal quality to it, and when the shadow of something overhead danced rapidly across my wrist, it made the wing look like it flexed. It was the first time in far too long that I had let sunlight grace my soulmark. There were tan lines on my forearm from where I was constantly wearing gloves, and maybe in another time and place, it would have looked silly enough to laugh at.

Neal was instantly captivated. A soft gasp left his pink lips like he'd been hit, and he took my wrist in his hand a little too roughly in his enthusiasm. Before I could steal it back or hide it away, he laid the back of my hand in an open palm and held the soulmark between us. The fingertips of his other hand hovered over it, treating it like it was breakable.

He glanced up at me, so many questions in his sensitive eyes that I didn't know how I would answer. Neal's fingers brushed over the outline of our soulmark and caressed down the arch of the wing in a shaky sweep. A shiver went up my arm at his touch – just enough to sense, not enough to be entirely sure it was real.

He covered up the soulmark with a trembling hand. The expert conman was shaking, but I couldn't tell why. I hoped the reason was a good one.

"How… Why didn't you ever tell me?" He asked, cradling my hand. He looked utterly wounded and I saw tears of his own threatening to rise. I could almost hear his follow-up questions and assumptions. _Were you ashamed? Didn't you want me?_

"I already said," I murmured to his cheek. It was easier not to meet his eyes. "Loving you feels really dangerous, in that giving you the power of knowing it also gives you the power to destroy me."

Neal clasped his hand tighter over my wrist. "I love you," he whispered, staring intently into my eyes. I hesitantly looked back to his. He looked so delighted and happy and amazed and while I was glad he felt content, I was still left in ruins. _This isn't how I wanted you to tell me you love me._

But it was better than nothing, and I was selfish enough to take what I could get.

Still holding tight to my wrist, Neal leaned in and wrapped his left arm tightly around my waist. He gave me a pull and dragged me into his embrace, getting my hips snugly against his and bending his neck to rest his forehead against mine. He let go of my arm only once it was pinned against his chest, and with a passionate hand on my cheek, he pressed our mouths together in a fierily intense lip lock.

Against my will, a startled moan left my throat. I pressed my hand flat to his chest and felt the thudding of his racing heart. His lips worked furiously on mine, encouraging me to play, to reciprocate with the same feverish heat and love. I pushed my left hand up into his hair from the back of his neck, holding his head down to me while I returned his gestures in full. I knew that he wasn't kissing me because of the reason I was kissing him, but if I only got to have one moment of respite, then I would take it and hold onto it while I worked through whatever came next.

He broke our kiss, panting out endearments. "I love you," he swore vehemently, cradling my face in his palm and kissing me again, determined to make me feel his sincerity. I tasted the salt of his skin and some wine on his tongue that he'd no doubt had before departing for his getaway. He pulled back again, and I was the one who tried to follow, eager for just another few seconds of an escape where the motives didn't matter. "Gods, I love you," he repeated in awe.

I smiled my agreement, but sank my teeth into my lip. My lover held me in his arms and seemed to forget the entire reason that we were both here. "So…" I ran my tongue over my teeth and shored myself up for whatever was going to hit me. "What now?"

_Are you still leaving?_

Neal nuzzled his nose against mine sweetly. _"Kenna,"_ he breathed my name like a prayer.

Then everything stopped and went to hell.

Behind him, a huge flash of white preceded an explosive outburst of orange and red. Yellow plumes outlined the larger fires bursting outwards from the private jet. The light burned itself into my eyes and made it difficult to see anything else. There was a **_boom_** that resounded in my ears for a few seconds, but then I couldn't hear anything.

Temporarily blinded, temporarily deafened – temporarily entirely out of commission, except for my sense of taste. There was the coppery, metallic tang of blood when my teeth pierced my lip and made blood spill into my mouth.

I lost my senses in less than a second, and they all came back with an intensity that made me scream before I even had the chance to realize I was reacting to being unable to hear or see or feel. My head slammed into the asphalt ground, suddenly lying on my back with a crushing weight sprawled half on top of me. My terrified scream cut itself short when my skull bounced. Nausea nearly made me throw up right after, but it was chased away by the heat.

The temperature was unbearable. Roiling and propelling heat waves crashed, one after the other, right into me. In seconds, I was sweating and pink-faced and felt kind of sore and itchy, like I did before I started feeling the pain of a sunburn. Having Neal on top of me made it worse.

Things pieced themselves together swiftly. I had always had a good reaction time – slightly better than Neal's, apparently, because I heard his shouting in my ear even as my eardrums rang from the initial explosion. The sky was already growing cloudy with smoke. I wasn't very surprised, since it had been a big enough blast to literally knock two fully-grown adults off of their feet and a noticeable distance away.

Secondary booms and bangs went off like smaller bombs, but the first one had sparked a fire that encompassed and swarmed around the jet. The doorway and the boarding stairs weren't even discernible anymore. Neal's screams stopped as he rolled off of me, shocked, and started to get up to his feet, staggering, off-balanced, and panicked.

I'd have stayed down, but I was worried about what he would do. I got up shakily, already trying to anticipate the next threat. What if there was another explosion that sent debris flying towards us? What if the next rapid-succession blast found the fuel tank?

My equilibrium was off and my head was woozy. Blood dripped from my face and down to the ground, splattering on the asphalt. If Neal hadn't been so shaken, or if I hadn't been so determined, I might not have been able to stand before he could run. I grabbed at him, held on tightly from the side, and then let my knees give out, vision blurring. Blood coated my throat when I swallowed. Neal stumbled with my additional weight.

 _"_ _No!"_ He shrieked, horrified, watching as the airplane went up in flames. Smoke made me cough into his overcoat and polluted the sky in its own ominous sign. _"No! No!"_

I remembered belatedly that his sister had been waiting for him on the jet.

He fought me. An elbow slammed into my ribs and my nausea returned forcefully. Groaning, I pushed my head into his shoulder.

"You have to stay back!" I argued, unsure if he could hear me at all over his repeated mantra. It would have been impossible for someone to survive that; trying to rescue her would only get him killed, which I would never permit. "Neal!"

_"_ _**No!** _ _"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end of "Lie a Little Better!" I'm sad that this is the final chapter, but I'm proud of how it turned out, and I'm glad I stuck with it until the end.
> 
> I don't know how long it will take to write, but the sequel is already underway.
> 
> For updates, previews, and more, please visit and follow liealittlebetter-mckenna . tumblr . com. I'll be using the Tumblr page to promote my story and interact with my readers more. You can ask about the story, the characters (OCs included), the creation process, ideas, and more. I might even use the page to host polls or challenges in the future.
> 
> Please bookmark the "Lie a Little Better" series for notifications on not just when I publish the sequel, but for when I publish oneshots and short stories that take place within the LALB 'verse.
> 
> Thank you all for reading! Finally... love it? Hate it? Let me know!

**Author's Note:**

> All recognizable content does not belong to me, and is copyrighted by USA network. I make no profit nor do I lay any claim to the property borrowed.  
> McKenna Anderson, Katherine Anderson, Derek Johnson, and any other unrecognizable characters are my intellectual properties.


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